Without a doubt then she determined to persist until she received permission. At last she was able to put her request to Assistant-Quartermaster General Rucker and asked him for a pass to the battle front. “I have the stores, give me a way to reach the men.” “But you must think of the dangers this work will bring you. At any time you may be under the fire of the enemy’s guns.” “But,” was her answer, “I am the daughter of a soldier, I am not afraid of the battle-field.” She described to him the condition of many of the men when they reached Washington and added earnestly, “I must go to the front, to care for them quickly.” The passport was given her and through the weary years of the war she stayed at her post--giving medicine to the sick, stimulants to the wounded and dying, nourishing food to men faint from loss of blood. Working under no society or leader she was free to come and go. On sixteen battle-fields, during the hot, muggy summer days of the long siege of Charleston, all through the Wilderness campaign, in the Richmond hospitals, there was no limit to her service. And from her first day on the firing line she had the confidence of the officers and their help and encouragement. Wherever there were wounded soldiers who had been under her care, Clara Barton’s name was spoken with affection and with tears. In as far as was possible, word of coming engagements was sent her in advance, that she might be ready with her supplies. At Antietam while shot was whizzing thick around the group of workers, she ordered her wagons driven to an old farmhouse just back of the lines. Between the tall rows of corn, into the barnyard, the worst cases were carried. For lack of medical supplies the surgeons were using bandages of cornhusks. Her supplies quickly unloaded, Clara Barton hurried out to revive the wounded, giving them bread soaked in wine. The store of bread ran out, she had left only three cases of wine. “Open them,” she commanded, “give us that, and God help us all!” for faster and faster soldiers were coming in. She watched the men open the cases. What was that around the bottles? Cornmeal! She looked at it closely; yes, finely ground and sifted. It could not have been worth more if it had been gold dust. In the farmhouse they found kettles. She mixed the cornmeal with water and soon was making great quantities of gruel. All night long they carried this hot food up and down the rows of wounded soldiers. On one of these trips, in the twilight, she met a surgeon tired and disheartened. He had only one short candle left, and if men’s lives were to be saved, the doctors must work all night. “Heartless neglect and carelessness,” he stormed. But Miss Barton had four boxes of candles in her stores, ready for just such an emergency. Near that battle-field she remained until all her supplies were gone. “If we had had more wagons,” she reported to General Rucker, “there would have been enough for all the cases at Antietam.”