There were ten thousand soldiers in Baton Rouge now though the
anticipated attack of the Confederates had not materialized. Perhaps
they had heard of the heavy reenforcements in time. The poor fellows
from the cool hills and mountains of the North were dying in hundreds in
the blistering July sun of the South. They didn't know how to take care
of themselves and their officers didn't seem to care. Butler was a
lawyer and a politician first--a general only when the navy had done his
work for him.
Jennie saw hundreds of these sick and dying men lying on their backs in
the broiling sun, waiting for wagons to carry them to the hospital. One
had died absolutely alone without a human being near to notice or to
care. The girl's heart was sick with anguish at the sight of scores too
weak to lift their hands to fight the ravenous flies swarming in their
eyes and months. All day and all night Baumstark, the little undertaker,
was working with half a dozen aides making coffins.
Day and night they died like dogs with no human help extended. The
Catholic priest who had not been arrested as yet, passing among them in
search of his own, bent for a moment over a dying soldier and spoke in
friendly tones. The poor fellow burst into tears and with his last gasp
cried:
"Thank God! I have heard _one_ kind word before I die!"
The Federal pickets were driven in at last, and the guard around the
house withdrawn.
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