had been laid in a row close to the wall, next to the late scene of
their suffering; and about midnight of the first night there, a nurse
asked me to go to a man who was dying. I found him in front of the
altar. The doors and front panels of the pews had been fastened V shape
to the floor, and he lay with one arm over this, and his head hanging
forward. He had been shot through the chest, was breathing loud and in
gasps, worn out for want of support, and to lay him down was to put out
his lamp of life instantly. What he needed was a high-backed chair, but
General Patrick's sense of duty to the citizens of Fredericksburg left
no hope of such a support. As the only substitute in my reach, I sat on
the edge of the pew door and its panel, drew his arm across my knee,
raised his head to my shoulder, and held it there by laying mine against
it. In this way I could talk in a low monotone to him, and the hopes to
which the soul turns when about to leave the tenement of clay. He gasped
acquiescence in these hopes, and his words led several men near to draw
their sleeves across their eyes; but they all knew he was dying, and a
little sympathy and sadness would not injure them.

He reached toward the floor, and, the man next handed up a daguerreotype
case, which he tried to open. I took and opened it; found the picture of
a young, handsome woman, and held it and a candle, so that he could see
it. His tears fell on it, as he looked, and he gasped,

"I shall never be where that has been."

I said:

"Is it your wife?" and he replied,

"No! but she would have been."

I always tried to avoid bringing sadness to the living on account of
death; but it must have been hard for men to sleep in sound of his
labored breathing; and to soften it I began singing "Shining Shore." He
took it up at once, in a whisper tone, keeping time, as if used to
singing. Soon one, then another and another joined, until all over the
church these prostrate men were singing that soft, sad melody. On the
altar burned a row of candles before a life-sized picture of the Virgin
and Child. The cocks crew the turn of the night outside, and when we had
sung the hymn through, some of the men began again, and we had sung it a
second time when I heard George call me. I knew that he, too, was dying,
and would probably not hear the next crowing of the cock. I must go to
him! how could I leave this head unsupported? Oh, death where is thy
sting? I think it was with me