An exciting day. Trains have been constantly passing with
the wounded for the Richmond hospitals. Every lady, every child, every servant
in the village, has been engaged preparing and carrying food to the wounded as
the cars stopped at the depot — coffee, tea, soup, milk, and every thing we
could obtain. With eager eyes and beating hearts we watched for those most dear
to us. Sometimes they were so slightly injured as to sit at the windows and
answer our questions, which they were eager to do. They exult in the victory. I
saw several poor fellows shot through the mouth—they only wanted milk; it was
soothing and cooling to their lacerated flesh. One, whom I did not see, had
both eyes shot out. But I cannot write of the horrors of this day. Nothing but
an undying effort to administer to their comfort could have kept us up. The
Bishop was with us all day, and the few gentlemen who remained in the village.
When our gentlemen came home at five o'clock they joined us, and were enabled
to do what we could not — walk through each car, giving comfort as they went.
The gratitude of those who were able to express it was so touching! They said
that the ladies were at every depot with refreshments. As the cars would move
off, those who were able would shout their blessings on the ladies of
Virginia: “We will fight, we will protect the ladies of Virginia.” Ah, poor
fellows, what can the ladies of Virginia ever do to compensate them for all
they have done and suffered for us? As a train approached late this evening, we
saw comparatively very few sitting up. It was immediately surmised that it
contained the desperately wounded — perhaps many of the dead. With eager eyes
we watched, and before it stopped I saw Surgeon J. P. Smith (my connection)
spring from the platform, and come towards me; my heart stood still. “What is
it, Doctor? Tell me at once.” "Your nephews, Major B. and Captain C., are
both on the train, dangerously wounded.” “Mortally?” “We hope not. You will not
be allowed to enter the car; come to Richmond to-morrow morning; B. will be
there for you to nurse. I shall carry W. C. on the morning cars to his mother
at the University. We will do our best for both.” In a moment he was gone. Of
course I shall go down in the early cars, and devote my life to B. until his
parents arrive. I am writing now because I can't sleep, and must be occupied.
The cars passed on, and we filled our pitchers, bowls and baskets, to be ready
for others. We cannot yield to private feelings now; they may surge up and rush
through our hearts until they almost burst them, but they must not overwhelm
us. We must do our duty to our country, and it can't be done by nursing our own
sorrows.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 176-7
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