For an hour he followed her with faithful dog step in her ministry of
love. His orderly Northern mind shuddered at the sight of the confusion
incident to the sudden organization of this hospital work. He had heard
it was equally bad in the North. Two armed mobs had rushed into battle
with scarcely a thought of what might be done with the mangled men who
would be borne from the field.
Jennie bent low over the cot of a dying boy from her home county. He
clung to her hand piteously. The waters were too swift and deep for
speech. Before she could slip her hand from his and pass on the man on
the next cot died in convulsions.
Socola watched his agonized face with a strange sense of exaltation. It
was the law of progress--this way of death and suffering. The voice
within kept repeating the one big faith of his life:
"Not one drop of human blood shed in defense of truth and right is ever
spilled in vain!"
Through all the scenes of death and suffering beautiful Southern women
moved with soft tread and eager hands.
A pretty girl of sixteen, with wistful blue eyes, approached a rough,
wounded soldier. She carried a towel and tin basin of water.
"Can't I do something for you?" she asked the man in gray.
He smiled through his black beard into her sweet young face:
"No'm, I reckon not--"
"Can't I wash your face?" the girl pleaded.
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