There are corpses lying about now; there are men, slowly breathing out
their last of life, with no dying bed, no pillow save the hard ground, no
mother, wife, sister, daughter near, to weep over, or to comfort them as
they enter the dark valley.
Others there are, wasted and worn till scarce more than living skeletons,
creeping about on hands and feet, lying or sitting in every attitude of
despair and suffering; a dull, hopeless misery in their sunken eyes, a
pathetic patience fit to touch a heart of stone; while others still have
grown frantic with that terrible pain, the hunger gnawing at their very
vitals, and go staggering about, wildly raving in their helpless agony.
And on them all the scorching sun beats pitilessly down. Hard, cruel fate!
scorched with heat, with the cool shelter of the pine forests on every
side; perishing with hunger in a land of plenty.
In one corner, but a yard or so within the dead line, a group of officers
in the Federal uniform--evidently men of culture and refinement, spite of
their hatless and shoeless condition, ragged, soiled raiment, unkempt
hair, and unshaven faces--sit on the ground, like their comrades in
misfortune, sweltering in the sun.
"When will this end?" sighs one. "I'd sooner die a hundred deaths on the
battle-field.
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