death-wound in his noble breast. But the most entire confidence in General Burnside pervaded—a feeling that he cared for his soldiers as a father cares for his sons—and those who lay wounded and helpless were eager to rise, and rush again into the fray.
A sentiment of humanity seemed to deter him from making wild, reckless charges, even though by such, without any more danger to himself, he might have won a name at once high on the list of victorious generals—but he preferred rather the calm judgment of History, which weighs reckless onslaughts, and persistent pressing of the foe with the great loss of life, and which will award to him the victor's crown.
Our hospital soon numbered two thousand wounded and sick men. Dr. Johnson, head surgeon of our regiment, came down to give us his aid in the heavy work devolving upon us; but we were greatly favored by the cooks, who granted us favors for the sick in season and out of season.
They were sent from the front at the beginning of the campaign, belonging mostly to the Brigade Band, and not especially needed at the scene of conflict. They had been brought up by New England mothers, and knew that the mysteries of the kitchen were closely allied to the sick-room.
Years before, while the farmer boy sat listlessly by the wide open fire in the old home at the North, seeming to watch only the red-leaping flame with his unspeaking eye, he was learning lessons of the mother, as she kept up her round of toil, and when the green corn-fields of Virginia were trampled by thun-
