“You shall have enough the next time,” he responded. And the government, recognizing the value of her service, gave her ten wagons and sixty mules and drivers. Her work succeeded because she had initiative and practical judgment and rare executive ability and the power of managing men. When her drivers were rebellious and sulky, showing little respect for orders that put them under a woman, she controlled them just as she had the rough boys in her school. Once she prepared a hot dinner and asked them to share it. After she had cleared away the dishes and was sitting alone by the fire, awkward and self-conscious they came up to her. “Come and get warm,” she welcomed them. “No’m, we didn’t come for that,” said the leader. “We come to tell you we’re ashamed. Truth is, lady, we didn’t want to come. We knew there was fightin’ ahead, an’ we ain’t never seen a train with a woman in charge. Now we’ve been mean and contrary all day long, and here you’ve treated us like we was the general and his staff, and it’s the best meal we’ve had in two years and we shan’t trouble you again.” The next morning they brought her a steaming hot breakfast and for six months remained with her, through battles and camps and marches, through frost and snow and heat, a devoted corps of assistants, always ready for her orders. They helped her nurse the sick and dress the wounded and soothe the dying, and day by day they themselves grew gentler and kinder and more tender. Once Clara Barton worked for five days and nights with three hours of sleep. Once she had a narrow escape from capture. Often in danger it seemed as though she had a special protection that she might save the lives of others. Stooping to give a wounded soldier a drink of water, a bullet whizzed between them, tearing a hole in her sleeve and ending the boy’s life. She gave her help to men who had fought on either side. They were suffering, they needed her, that was enough. No man is your enemy when he is wounded. She leaned over a dying officer in a hospital; a Confederate looked up into her kind face and whispered: “You have been so very good to me. Do not cross the river, our men are leading you into an ambush. You must save yourself.” But his warning was unheeded when later that day the hero-surgeon who was opening an emergency dressing-station across the river, asked her help. She went over to Fredericksburg where every stone wall was a blazing line of battle. A regiment came marching down the street. She stepped aside. Thinking she must be a terrified southerner, left behind in their hurried flight, the general leaned from his saddle to ask: “You’re alone and in great danger, madam. Do you want protection?” “Thank you, but I think”--Clara Barton looked up at the ranks of soldiers marching past--“I think, sir, I’m the best protected woman in the United States!”