This town, with its ten thousand soldiers, is more quiet
than it was with the old population of seven thousand citizens. With this
tremendous addition, it is like a graveyard in its quiet, at times. These poor
soldiers are dying awfully. Thirteen went yesterday. On Sunday the boats
discharged hundreds of sick at our landing. Some lay there all the afternoon in
the hot sun, waiting for the wagon to carry them to the hospital, which task
occupied the whole evening. In the mean time these poor wretches lay uncovered
on the ground, in every stage of sickness. Cousin Will saw one lying dead
without a creature by to notice when he died. Another was dying, and muttering
to himself as he lay too far gone to brush the flies out of his eyes and mouth,
while no one was able to do it for him. Cousin Will helped him, though.
Another, a mere skeleton, lay in the agonies of death, too; but he evidently
had kind friends, for several were gathered around holding him up, and fanning
him, while his son leaned over him crying aloud. Tiche says it was dreadful to
hear the poor boy's sobs. All day our vis-à-vis, Baumstark, with his several aids, plies
his hammer; all day Sunday he made coffins, and says he can't make them fast
enough. Think, too, he is by no means the only undertaker here! Oh, I wish
these poor men were safe in their own land! It is heartbreaking to see them die
here like dogs, with no one to say Godspeed. The Catholic priest went to see
some, sometime ago, and going near one who lay in bed, said some kind thing,
when the man burst into tears and cried, “Thank God, I have heard one kind
word before I die!” In a few minutes the poor wretch was dead.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 136
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