y died as they were
carried into the hospitals. A little later the wounded began to come in,
and the faithful, hard-worked surgeons and nurses had their hands full.
The retreating Union forces came pouring through the town, the rebels in
close pursuit. The shouts of the combatants, and the continued firing,
created great confusion. Fear was in every heart, pallor on every cheek,
anxiety in every eye, for they knew not what would be their fate, but
had heard that the wounded had been bayonetted at Front Royal the
previous day. Many dying men, in their fright and delirium, leaped from
their beds, and when laid down soon ceased to breathe.

Soon the rebels had possession of the town, and the ladies found
themselves prisoners with a rebel guard placed about their hospital.

Their supplies were now quite reduced, and it was not until personal
application had been made by the nurses to the rebel authorities, that
suitable food was furnished.

When the army left Winchester, enough men were ordered to remain to
guard the hospitals, and an order was read to all the inmates, that any
of them seen in the streets would be shot.

Miss Dada and her friend remained at this place until the months of June
and July were passed. In August they were assigned to Armory Square
Hospital, Washington.

Previous to the second battle of Bull Run, all the convalescent men were
sent further North, and empty beds were in readiness for the wounded,
who on the evening after the battle were brought in, in great numbers,
covered with the dust and gore of the field of conflict. Here the
ministering care of these ladies was most needed. They hastened with
basins and sponges, cold water and clean clothes, and soon the sufferers
felt the benefits of cleanliness, and were laid, as comfortably as their
wounds would admit, in those long rows of white beds that awaited them.
All were cheerful, and few regretted the sacrifices they had made. But
in a few days many of these heroes succumbed before the mighty
Conqueror. Their earthly homes they were never to see, but, one by one,
they passed silently to their last home of silence and peace, where the
war of battle and the pain of wounds never disturb. One poor fellow, a
Michigan soldier, wounded in the throat, could take no nourishment, nor
scarcely breathe. His sufferings were intense, and his restlessness kept
him constantly in motion as long as the strength for a movement
remained. But at last, he silently