The darkened room on Church Hill was opened. Miss Van Lew had watched
the glass rattle under the thunder of McClellan's guns, and then with
sinking heart heard their roar fade in the distance until only the
rumble of the ambulances through the streets told that he had been
there. She burned the flag. It was too dangerous a piece of bunting to
risk in her house now. It would be many weary months before she would
need another.
Through every hour of the day and night since Lee sprang on McClellan,
those never-ending lines of ambulances had wound their way through the
streets. Every store and every home and every public building had been
converted into a hospital. The counters of trade were moved aside and
through the plate glass along the crowded streets could be seen the long
rows of pallets on which the mangled bodies of the wounded lay. Every
home set aside at least one room for the wounded boys of the South.
The heart-rending cries of the men from the wagons as they jolted over
the cobble stones rose day and night--a sad, weird requiem of agony,
half-groan, half-chant, to which the ear of pity could never grow
indifferent.
Death was the one figure now with which every man, woman and child was
familiar. The rattle of the dead-wagons could be heard at every turn.
Pages:
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426