The Federal surgeon who took charge of us in the field hospital at Gettysburg made an examination of my wound and gave instructions that I should receive no solid food, but be fed lemonade and spirits. Up to this time and for days subsequent I wanted no food, having no desire for it. A Union soldier from Ohio was my nurse, who treated me with kindness. This soldier would get the daily Philadelphia newspapers and read to me the war news. Among other things, that Lee's army, badly broken, was making rapid retreat for Virginia; that the loyal Potomac was at high tide, could not be crossed; that General Meade's army was pushing the Confederates, would soon be up with them; then the following day he read that Lee's army was around Williamsport, could not get away; that Meade's army was now up and preparing for attack, only waiting the arrival of food supplies and ammunition. When receiving these papers and reading to me, the soldier's face was all aglow with joyous expression, to which he gave voice by saying: "The rebels will all be captured and that will end the war." To this I could only smile inwardly. July 13 my nurse, with his paper and a smile, came to read me the news. I was prepared for the worst—but when he read, it was that General Meade was now up, fully ready, and the attack would be made tomorrow, when Lee and his army would be captured, or driven into the river. Morning came, and the nurse and his paper, but as he approached I noted quite a change in his expression; he read, when General Meade moved out to attack the rebel army, behold! "the old fox had gone," having crossed the river the night before!

July 20 we were ordered to be removed from the field hospital, but to what place we did not know. A Union captain of Pennsylvania, with a squad of soldiers, conducted us to the railway station at Gettysburg nearly a mile away. I should not have gone, as the journey came near finishing me up. The captain was exceedingly kind, affording me all the help in his power. The whole of the wounded squad was put aboard box cars at night, landing in Baltimore at dawn, I more dead than alive. I felt sure, as the rough train rolled along, that I was near death. John H. Peck, of the 24th Virginia, who had a wound in the head, was with us, and by encouragement and otherwise rendered me much assistance.

In Baltimore the cars were run up far into the city, where we left the train, being immediately surrounded by a cordon of soldiers and police, with a number of ladies, men and boys, who endeavored to supply us with food, but were beaten off by the guards, who quickly landed us inside the high plank fence surrounding the grounds of West Building Hospital. The ladies again renewed their efforts to supply us with food by tossing it over the high fence, but were repulsed by the soldiers' bayonets—which we still think was a mean act. With James H. Fortner, of my company, who had a severe flesh wound in the thigh, I lay down beside the fence in the shade, unable to move further. In an hour or less an order came to get into ranks. Neither Fortner nor myself moved, being determined to remain and take chances. Fortunate for us that we remained, for the poor fellows who marched away landed in Point Lookout prison; the men seriously wounded, however, being sent to hospital at Chester, Pennsylvania, I among the number, with Fortner. I had requested Fortner to remain with me, for should I die he could inform my people. After comrades had marched away, Fortner and I dragged ourselves into the hospital building, lying down on the bare floor.

During the evening two ladies came in where we were, one of whom inquired: "Where are you from?" "Virginia," I answered. "Then you are not more than half rebels." Replying, I said: "Well, I am a full-blooded rebel, whatever the people of Virginia may be." From their constant glances at each other and toward the door, and from the expressions on their faces, I was well satisfied that at heart they were true Southern spirits, angels of mercy, and had used the above language to us fearing the walls had ears. Presently one inquired if we wanted anything to eat, and being told we would be glad to have milk, they furnished it and departed.

That night we were placed on cots near each other, in a clean, airy room. Fortner, in endeavoring to assist me to rise, fell on his wounded leg, which caused him great pain. The second night thereafter, we were placed in box cars, passing next day through Wilmington, Delaware, where a curious, motley crowd gathered to see us; they peeped and peered at us as if astonished that we did not have hoofs and horns. That evening we reached Chester, on the Delaware, where we were placed in hospital (now Crozer Theological Seminary). Here we met a number of the men we had parted from in Baltimore, among them John H. Peck and J. B. Young, the latter of Company D. The surgeon of our ward was Dr. Schafer of Philadelphia, who was kind to us. He, however, soon went away, being succeeded by a doctor from Franklin County—a Virginia renegade, who was insulting, mean and cowardly, and the wounded gave him many a hard thrust.

While in this hospital several ladies and gentlemen from the State of Connecticut came into the ward, engaging me in conversation about the war, saying among other things that the South in seceding was wrong and unjustifiable, that the proper course, or that which should have been pursued, was to fight in the Union. To which I replied that they were in some respects much like many of the Northern people who encouraged the South to take action, that they would be with us, but when the test came were found on the other side. Again, that I could not see well how we could remain in the Union and at the same time try to strangle and destroy the government of which we claimed to be a part; that it was certain, had we done so and been overthrown, we would have been traitors sure enough and most likely have gone to the gibbet.

After a stay at Chester of thirty days or less, all who desired to go South were paroled, I among the number, and were transported by boat to City Point, thence by rail to Richmond. The authorities ordered us to Camp Lee, a Confederate recruiting station near the city. This we did not like, and a few of us determined to go home, or to our commands, and we made the start, but were halted a little way out of the city by some local troops, who charged us with an effort to desert. We explained the situation, but this did not satisfy them. I met with a Confederate enrolling officer, who kindly took me home with him, giving me written pass to my command, then in camp on the Rapidan, whither I went, and was quite a surprise to Drs. Morton and Worthington and my comrades, who told me that they supposed me dead. Dr. Morton, who was wearing a soft felt black hat, said to me: "When I left you in the field hospital at Gettysburg I never expected to see you again in life. You were as black in the face as this hat." I soon had furlough and went home, where I remained until the first of November, when I learned I had been exchanged, and at once left to rejoin my command.

I forgot to relate an incident worthy of mention, at least to me. In the hospital at Chester, when Dr. Schafer already referred to examined me, he said: "Young man, do you know you are nearly dead?" I gasped for breath, saying: "I think it quite possible." Placing a small bottle of something within my reach, he charged me to take of this when inclined to cough, without waiting until the coughing began, for he said: "If you have a spell of coughing you would surely die of hemorrhage in ten minutes." He then procured for me a nurse, an Irishman, the father of two sons in the Union army, who had been in the Battle of Shiloh, Tenn. In speaking fondly of these boys he wept like a child. Fortunate it was that I fell into the hands of this kindly-hearted man, for a mother could not have cared more tenderly for her son than he did for me. Such cases confirm the fact that human sympathy asserts itself even in the rancors of war.

Chapter XX