nearly all with terrible wounds. It is a hard sight to see them, and I feel desperate toward everything and everybody, and yet know not on whom to rest this dreadful suffering.
I have all I can do dressing wounds, and waiting upon them. I am so thankful (oh! selfish heart) that my brothers have escaped.
Still they come in, with about fifty more of the rebels. They look starved and wild, but here they will have enough to eat, and will be cared for as our own men. How strange it seems to see them lying so close to those whom they met so lately with bloody intent—now all powerless to harm them, even if rage had not died out in their hearts.
I have looked in upon them, and find one fine-looking lieutenant from a North Carolina regiment suffering great agony. How I pity him, and pity them all, and wish I could do something to comfort them. Strange that I should yearn toward those whose hands only a little while ago were turned toward my brothers, eager to slay them.
The day is lovely, but I hardly enjoy it, I am so worn with constant toil. I am hungry, too, for I have not had time to eat, and no one to relieve me for a moment. I have visited nearly all the tents, and done all I could to make the inmates comfortable.
