_May '63_.--As I write this, the wounded have begun to arrive from
Hooker's command from bloody Chancellorsville. I was down among the
first arrivals. The men in charge told me the bad cases were yet to
come. If that is so I pity them, for these are bad enough. You ought to
see the scene of the wounded arriving at the landing here at the foot of
Sixth street, at night. Two boat loads came about half-past seven last
night. A little after eight it rain'd a long and violent shower. The
pale, helpless soldiers had been debark'd, and lay around on the wharf
and neighborhood anywhere. The rain was, probably, grateful to them;
at any rate they were exposed to it. The few torches light up the
spectacle. All around--on the wharf, on the ground, out on side
places--the men are lying on blankets, old quilts, &c., with bloody rags
bound round heads, arms, and legs. The attendants are few, and at
night few outsiders also--only a few hard-work'd transportation men
and drivers. (The wounded are getting to be common, and people grow
callous.) The men, whatever their condition, lie there, and patiently
wait till their turn comes to be taken up. Near by, the ambulances are
now arriving in clusters, and one after another is call'd to back up
and take its load. Extreme cases are sent off on stretchers. The men
generally make little or no ado, whatever their sufferings. A few groans
that cannot be suppress'd, and occasionally a scream of pain as they
lift a man into the ambulance. To-day, as I write, hundreds more are
expected, and to-morrow and the next day more, and so on for many days.
Quite often they arrive at the rate of 1000 a day.