A short time after I was taken to Cliffburne hospital, the battle of Fredericksburg was fought, and thousands of wounded were sent to Washington, to the different hospitals. Cliffburne received its full share, and the Sisters had all that they could attend to. They had but few sick men in their care, at that time, their patients being generally wounded men. There were men with legs off; men with arms off; men with, I might almost say, their heads off; at least, they were minus a large part of them. The wounds were made by every kind of missile known to the science of gunnery, as well as saber cuts, and bayonet thrusts. There were patients who had suffered two and even three, amputations, and these wounded men represented almost every State in the Union; indeed, I might say, every nation of the earth. There were Americans, Irishmen, Germans, Frenchmen, Spaniards, Italians, Austrians, and I believe Danes and Norwegians; but they were all groaning under grievous wounds—suffering in a common cause; all were Yankees now. There were men there, who had scarcely been in the country long enough to know how to ask for a drink of water in English; yet whose first act on landing in America, was to volunteer in the United States Army, to battle for the maintenance of the Government that had always been an "asylum for the oppressed of all nations;" and whose first initiation into the American service, was to be hurried into a terrible battle, and stricken down in death or with painful wounds, to pine away months of patient suffering in hospitals. But all that I saw here bore their sufferings with heroic fortitude. The wounded veterans would spend their time in telling stories of battles and adventures; in reading books and papers left for them by charitable or religious persons; in dressing their own wounds, if they were able; or in recounting the circumstances under which they received them. Letters from home formed their greatest solace. When one got a letter from home, he would appear like a new man—it would make him so cheerful. It was astonishing with what devotion the Sisters would nurse, and watch over them. Here, in this bunk, would be a patient, feeble little boy—a drummer, perhaps, who had left his mother and sisters to join the army, and by the stirring notes of his drum, to cheer the war-worn soldier, now stretched on a bed of suffering, with no mother near to nurse or care for him—perhaps, even she did not know where her darling was; but he was faring just as well as he would with her, for the Sisters of Charity were hovering over and nursing him, supplying every want, and soothing, as far as possible, every pain; there, in that bunk, is a brawny man, wounded by a shell; his injuries are terrible; perhaps he is fearfully wicked, and as he writhes in pain, upon his bunk, cursing his cruel fate, at every breath, a Sister's hand smooths down his hardened pillow, and a Sister's voice speaks words of comfort to his soul. Perhaps she is repelled with fearful oaths—but only to return to him when he is calmer, with redoubled kindness. Here, in this ward, is a poor soldier dying. All their loving labors and pious prayers have been in vain; the hand of death is on their patient. Perhaps they have watched and cared for months over him, and have had great hopes of his recovery; but now, alas! they are called upon to perform the last kind offices for him, and consign him to the grave. It is a sad trial to them; and as they cluster around the dying man, they tell him of a better world, and their prayers ascend to the throne of grace, for the welfare of his soul.

For weeks, they watched my almost hopeless case; for some of the Surgeons said I would die; but under their kind treatment, I rapidly recovered, and was soon able to travel and wanted to go to my regiment; but to pass through the "Government mill,"—would be quite enough to kill me in my weak condition, so I applied for a special order.