mooth tangled
threads for me. He was forever protesting against the habit I had
contracted in Richmond, and never afterwards relinquished, of
remaining late by the bedside of dying patients, or going to the wards
whenever summoned at night. He would say, "Daughter, it is not right,
it is not safe; not only do you risk contagion by breathing the foul
air of the wards at night, but some of these soldiers are mighty rough
and might not always justify your confidence in them." But I would not
listen. My firm belief in the honor of "my boys" and in their true and
chivalrous devotion towards myself caused me to trust them utterly at
all times and places. I can truly say that never during the whole four
years of the war was that trust disturbed by even the roughest man of
them all, although I was often placed in very trying circumstances,
many times being entirely dependent upon their protection and care,
_which never failed me_. So I used to set at naught the well-meant
counsels of my kindly old friend, to laugh at his lugubrious
countenance and the portentous shaking of his silvery head. We
remained firm friends, however, and, though my dear old mentor has
long since passed away, I still revere his memory. Dr. Yates was an
ideal Texan, brave, determined, plain, and straightforward, either a
warm, true friend or an uncompromising enemy. He wished to be at the
front, and was never satisfied with hospital duties. Mrs. Yates was a
favorite with all. Dr. Jackson, of Alabama, in charge of the officers'
quarters, performed some miracles in the way of surgical operation. He
was a great favorite with his patients, who complained bitterly
because they were so often deprived of his services for a time, when
his skilful surgery was needed at the front. Besides these were Drs.
Devine, Ruell, Estell, Baruch, Frost, Carmichael, Welford, and
Griffith, none of whom I know particularly well.

Meantime, the wounded of several battles had filled and crowded the
wards. As before, every train came in freighted with human misery. In
the Buckner Hospital alone there were nearly a thousand beds, tenanted
by every conceivable form of suffering.

An ambulance-train arrived one night, bringing an unusually large
number of sick and wounded men, whose piteous moans filled the air as
they were brought up the hill on "stretchers" or alighted at the door
of the hospital from ambulances, which, jolting over the rough,
country road, had tortured them inex