LETTER XXIV.
Benton Barracks Hospital.
June 21, 1863.
Yesterday we received a number of men from
Memphis—poor, sick, and wounded fellows. We are
booked for a thousand more, I suppose, from down the
river. I went from man to man, to see that they were
provided for, had something to eat, &c. One poor
fellow was utterly forlorn, too sober and sick to eat;
I got for him a mug of milk, crumbed a cracker in it,
fixed him up in bed on a rest, and got him to eat.
When he was all arranged, he looked up and said,
"This is the best place I have seen since I left home."
And he was but one of many I had to go to in the
same way. Two poor fellows had their jaws shattered
by shot; they could not eat, and I had some mutton
soup for them; they were so glad of it: and so on
from one to another. As I went my rounds among
them this morning, I stopped to ask one man how he
did; he wanted to show me the picture of his wife.
"Ah!" said he, "money would not buy that of me!"
Then he told me he had something more to show me,
and took out a card with eight braided rings of hair,
his wife's and seven children. I told him I guessed he
was glad when they sent him that. "Was n't I!" and
such a look at it.
I wish you could see the hospital now, it is lovely;
there is a pretty fountain playing before the entrance,
and such trees, and hardly any caterpillars. I told
the Doctor I did not care for the thermometer as long
as the latter did not appear.
You have no idea of the difficulty of keeping discipline
in this place with all these women. I think sometimes
of—I won't say what. I am obliged to keep a
firm hand everywhere, and a quiet one too. It is
sometimes the most wearisome part of the work, and I
shall probably have between thirty and forty soon.
I have hitherto found it as much as I could do to
manage one woman.
Please write me more and oftener, it is all I have.
Love to all.
