For ten days past I have been at the bedside of my patient
in Richmond. The physicians for the third time despaired of his life; by the
goodness of God he is again convalescent. Our wounded are suffering excessively
for tonics, and I believe that many valuable lives are lost for the want of a
few bottles of porter. One day a surgeon standing by B's bedside said to me, “He
must sink in a day or two; he retains neither brandy nor milk, and his life is
passing away for want of nourishment.” In a state bordering on despair, I went
out to houses and stores, to beg or buy porter; not a bottle was in town. At
last a lady told me that a blockade-runner, it was said, had brought ale, and
it was at the medical purveyor's. I went back to Mr. P's instantly, and told my
brother (B's father) of the rumour. To get a surgeon's requisition and go off
to the purveyor's was the work of a moment. In a short time he returned, with a
dozen bottles of India ale. It was administered cautiously at first, and when I
found that he retained it, and feebly asked for more, tears of joy and thankfulness
ran down my cheeks. “Give him as much as he will take during the night,” was
the order of the physician. The order was obeyed, and life seemed to return to
his system; in twenty-four hours he had drank four bottles; he began
then to take milk, and I never witnessed any thing like the reanimation of the
whole man, physical and mental. The hospitals are now supplied with this
life-giving beverage, and all have it who “absolutely require it,” though great
care is taken of it, for the supply is limited. Oh, how cruel it is that the
Northern Government should have made medicines, and the necessaries of life to
the sick and wounded, contraband articles!
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 187-8
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