_Washington, March 29, 1864._ DEAREST MOTHER--I have written to George
again to Knoxville. Things seem to be quiet down there so far. We think
here that our forces are going to be made strongest here in Virginia this
spring, and every thing bent to take Richmond. Grant is here; he is now
down at headquarters in the field, Brandy station. We expect fighting
before long; there are many indications. I believe I told you they had
sent up all the sick from front. [_The letter is here mutilated so as to
be illegible; from the few remaining words, however, it is possible to
gather that the writer is describing the arrival of a_ train of wounded,
over 600, _in Washington during_ a terribly rainy afternoon. _The letter
continues_:] I could not keep the tears out of my eyes. Many of the poor
young men had to be moved on stretchers, with blankets over them, which
soon soaked as wet as water in the rain. Most were sick cases, but some
badly wounded. I came up to the nearest hospital and helped. Mother, it
was a dreadful night (last Friday night)--pretty dark, the wind gusty, and
the rain fell in torrents. One poor boy--this is a sample of one case out
of the 600--he seemed to be quite young, he was quite small (I looked at
his body afterwards), he groaned some as the stretcher bearers were
carrying him along, and again as they carried him through the hospital
gate. They set down the stretcher and examined him, and the poor boy was
dead. They took him into the ward, and the doctor came immediately, but it
was all of no use. The worst of it is, too, that he is entirely
unknown--there was nothing on his clothes, or any one with him to identity
him, and he is altogether unknown. Mother, it is enough to rack one's
heart--such things. Very likely his folks will never know in the world
what has become of him. Poor, poor child, for he appeared as though he
could be but 18. I feel lately as though I must have some intermission. I
feel well and hearty enough, and was never better, but my feelings are
kept in a painful condition a great part of the time. Things get worse and
worse, as to the amount and sufferings of the sick, and as I have said
before, those who have to do with them are getting more and more callous
and indifferent. Mother, when I see the common soldiers, what they go
through, and how everybody seems to try to pick upon them, and what
humbug there is over them every how, even the dying soldier's money stolen
from his body by some scoundrel attendant, or from [the] sick one, even
from under his head, which is a common thing, and then the agony I see
every day, I get almost frightened at the world. Mother, I will try to
write more cheerfully next time--but I see so much. Well, good-bye for
present, dear mother.