Immediately after the wounded from the second
battle of Bull Run were assigned to the different wards in the various
hospitals, I was going my rounds in the "Douglas," and after bestowing
the wines, jellies, custards and books to my old friends, I began to
look up the new patients.
"Sister," I said to the kind Sister of Mercy, whose sweet, patient and
motherly face was bending over a soldier to speak her words of
comfort, "are there any Massachusetts boys in the new arrivals?"
"No, dear; I think not, in this ward." Then she bent lower to catch
the whisper from her patient, and he pointed to the card at the head
of his little bed. She looked, and answered again: "Oh, yes, here is
one: Paul Ashton, 16th Mass., Co. B."
I approached the bed, and saw one of the noblest faces I had ever
beheld, but not that of a Northern boy, I thought; so proud and
dark--no, a true Southern face.
"You from Massachusetts?" I exclaimed.
A wan smile played around his pale lips for a moment. He saw my
surprise, and answered:
"No, from Mississippi; but in that regiment," pointing again to the
little card.
Here was a mystery, and one I could not solve just then. He was too
weak to converse, but I made up my mind to devote myself to Paul
Ashton from that time until he was convalescent, or, if God's will,
relieved from his sufferings.
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