s! many come back to me
mutilated, bleeding, dying, yet with ardor unquenched, repressing
moans of anguish that they may listen for the shout of victory:
wrestling fiercely with the King of Terrors, not that they fear to
die, but because his chill grasp palsies the arm that would fain
strike another blow for the right.

I stood among the sick and wounded lying in a hospital in Richmond,
Virginia, while the magnificent Army of Northern Virginia was passing
from the scene of their late glorious victory at Manassas to meet the
invaders under McClellan, who were marching upon the Peninsula. Around
me lay many sick and wounded men, gathered under the immense roof of a
tobacco factory, which covered nearly a whole square. Its windows
commanded a full view of the legions passing on both sides.

The scene I can never forget. As the strains of martial music fell
upon the summer air, pale, gaunt forms struggled to their feet, feebly
but eagerly donned clothes and accoutrements, and, staggering under
their weight, crept to the office of the surgeon in charge, piteously
begging that they might "get to go on with the boys." Many, too weak
to rise, broke into bitter sobs: tears poured from eyes bright with
fever or dim with the shadow of death. Passing among these, I was
startled to see a patient, whom all had supposed to be dying, sitting
up in bed. Stretching his arms toward me, he cried out, "Lady, lady,
come here!" He was a boy of sixteen years, one of the glorious Third
Alabama, and he begged so hard to be allowed to see "the boys" that I
had his bunk drawn up to an open window, supporting him in my arms so
that he _could_ see. When his own regiment passed, he tried with
faltering breath to cheer, but, failing, waved his feeble hand,
gasping out, "_God knows_, I wish I could be with you, boys, but
'pears like the heavenly Master ain't willing."

His comrades passed on. The boy was borne back to his place, whence,
in a few hours, he passed beyond all pain and disappointment.

I need not mention here the magnificent record of the army that passed
that day the streets of Richmond. The pages of history are ablaze with
the glory of it. Not less glorious to me are the records written in my
heart of heroic fortitude, patient endurance, sublime resignation.
Alas for my poor, worn, shattered, suffering, dying boys! how their
souls were tried, _yet never found wanting!_

The fortunes of war led me from the scenes of my first service