He thought a moment, and then, his eyes filling with tears, he said: "Oh, for God's sake, Captain, don't tell sister how sick I am!"
It was affecting indeed to see the heroism with which that dear boy suffered, and his affectionate and tender regard for his sister; was unwilling that she should know the extent of his sufferings lest she should worry about him.
"Brave boy! he has gone at his country's call."
The first mail after we left him brought the sad intelligence that Frank was dead.
Wounded soldiers generally manifest a cheerful resignation to their lot that is astonishing to those who have never witnessed it. Sometimes, however, exceptions occur. I often think of an incident that I witnessed in which two extremes met.
After the battle of Matamora, where General Hurlbut's command routed General Price's army, on its retreat after having been repulsed in its assault upon Corinth, I assisted in taking care of the wounded as they were brought in. Among the sufferers on that day was a Captain, with a flesh wound in the arm, and a private, with a leg dreadfully shattered below the knee. The Captain—though his wound was not of a serious nature—gave way to his feelings, and took on dreadfully, and frequently called upon the doctor to come and dress his wound or he should die. The private, then on the table, preparatory to an amputation of his limb, was heroically cool, and scarce a groan escaped his lips. At length his nerves could no longer stand the ridiculous clamor of the Captain, and he called out, "Captain, if you don't hush your gab until the doctor gets my leg off I'll throw it at you."
The soldier endured the operation manfully, and the Captain took the hint and "dried up" his noise. It is not hard to tell which of the two was the bravest man.
I was once very much amused by the mistake of a very old man. It happened in this way. I had been sent out on a scout, and was returning to camp, when I called at a plantation-house to get breakfast for myself and squad. Sitting upon the porch in front of the house was a very old man—a secesh—engaged in twisting up tobacco. He had a large pile of it before him already twisted. He had never seen any soldiers from either army. As we came up to the porch he kept on at his work, without being in the least alarmed at our appearance. We procured what breakfast we wanted, and was about to leave, when, addressing the old man, I said: "How do you do, daddy?"
"Speak a little louder," said the old man; "I'm hard of hearing."
"How do you do, daddy?" said I again, louder than before.