LETTER XXXIV.
Benton Barracks Hospital,
September 10.
Dear Mother,—I thought you would like a letter
from me. They say they shall never let me go down
the river again. They seem to think I am worth keeping
alive. We have among our nurses one little woman
whose husband is at Vicksburg, and since she came here
her little child died. It was brought to the hospital
and she took care of it here; it died in her room. I
was with it when it died; the poor mother sat with her
head buried on my shoulder; she could not look on.
She was very much overcome. I repeated to her the
Lord's prayer, and that quieted her. I sent for the
chaplain, and we had the funeral service in the chapel.
I got a quantity of delicate flowers, and they perfectly
covered the little thing with them as it lay in its
coffin. I have been by many death-beds; but this was
the first by a little child. The mother is still here;
she wished to remain. I can hardly believe the summer
has gone, it seems to have flown by; the autumn begins
to show itself, leaves falling and autumn tints coming;
it is very warm here still; our warm weather lasts
till late. I suppose you have my copy of the rules. I
thought it would interest you.
The hospital is working on as usual; I am doing my
part steadily, and appear to suit; I use all my strength
and I can do no more. I may as well do this as anything
else; I cannot fight, but I can take care of the
fighters. There is a young man here who has been
through eleven battles and is now shot through the
chest. I am afraid his life will not be a long one.
These chest wounds are very dangerous things; I had
rather see a man wounded almost any where else,
Just a little hole, perhaps healed up and the hurt inside;
a little more pain, a little harder breathing, and
weaker and weaker day by day; so they go. I have
some curious experiences by their bedsides. I shall
never be able to settle down into a do-nothing life
again; I shall want to work while I live. I have not
been very well this summer, though the heat has not
troubled me. I have never been so well as I was in
the early cool days, but I feel better and I am evidently
getting acclimated, but it takes time. I can drink the
water, and have had neither the chills nor cholera. My
habit of cold water bathing is a great preservative
against disease.
I wish I was not deaf, I am afraid I shall never be
reconciled to it. Please tell me the news at home.
What is going on, who is in Cambridge and who has
left; whom do you see of the inhabitants? I had a
letter from Susan Dixwell with a charming photograph
of her club and her piazza; it made me homesick. Only
think; the seasons have come round, the flowers come
and gone, and I have not seen them. Please send me
a dandelion or clover from your lawn in your next letter.
How I should like to see some of my friends unless
they have forgotten me,—out of sight out of mind
is very apt to be true. My birds are lovely and a
great comfort to me. Do write soon; I am contented
to stay now, and thankful for the work.
Soon after this letter was written my daughter's
health began to fail. In autumn the malarial
diseases of that region are prevalent. She became
seriously ill, and at length it was determined
that she must return home. She left St. Louis in
October, and when she reached Cambridge, was
carried from car to carriage, and from the carriage
to the house. Her health was gradually restored,
and she thought herself well enough to resume
duties, and returned to St. Louis, reaching that city
on March 3, 1864.
