| The Life of Dr. J.R. Miller |
Chapter 2 |
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A vivid paragraph was written at Cold Harbour, where fifteen thousand men were cut down in fifteen minutes:
“Our delegates all went to work at once, and that right earnestly. I divided them off into several companies. One company was to carry water and wood, and keep up fires, another to prepare cornstarch, soup, lemonade, etc., another to carry these articles to the men, another to write letters and converse with the dying. And thus the work began and went on during the whole day. The next day was Sabbath, and it came upon the earth in all its beauty and sacredness. I rose early. The sun was just above the horizon, and the first beams of the morning were still struggling through the trees. The birds were singing sweetly, the air was moist and dewy, and everything was still and hushed, as it used to be at home on the blessed Sabbath. For once the deadly instruments of war were hushed, and it seemed like a Sabbath morn of peace. But a few rods from where I stood lay some two thousand mangled men, suffering, some of them dying, while almost at my feet was a big open trench, and at its edge lay eight or ten dead bodies ready for interment. Soon the shrill crack of the pickets’ rifle bursts on my ear, the cannon thunders off at the left, and all the illusions of a moment since are dispelled. It is still Sabbath morn, but a Sabbath morn of blood. And it rises upon us in the midst of a bloody battle field, with carnage, death and war all around.
“Monday afternoon, June 6, we had a brisk shelling. The villainous things shrieked and exploded over us and all around us. It was hot enough for an old soldier, and went rather roughly with certain newer ones. Two batteries were opened in the spot occupied by our hospital–one hurled its shot and shell from the right, another from the left. It was a serious enough matter that afternoon, but now in my quiet I can see the ridiculousness of some of the scenes I beheld. A chaplain had been stopping with us since we pitched there and had been quite sick, unable to leave his cot of fir boughs under our flag. As soon as the shells began to whiz and burst around our tent, he straightway brightened up, for the time forgetting his sickness, and was soon en route for a distant part of the woods where safety might be found. In his haste he left his coat and valuable books and papers. Next day he returned, but his memories were still vivid, and he tarried but briefly, saying nothing about being sick.
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