The Scene at the Surgeon's Quarters—Our Little Dutch Doctor—Incidents of his Practice.—His Messmate the Chaplain—The Western Virginia Captain's account of a Western Virginia Chaplain—His Solitary oath—How he Preached, how he Prayed, and how he Bush-whacked—His revenge of Snowden's death—How the little Dutch doctor applied the Captain's Story.
Taps had already been sounded before the detail arrived at the Surgeon's tent. The only Surgeon present had retired to his blankets. Aroused by the blustering, he soon lit a candle, and sticking the camp candlestick into the ground, invited them in.
And here we must introduce the Assistant-Surgeon, or rather the little Dutch Doctor as he was familiarly called by the men. Considering his character and early connexion with the regiment, we are at fault in not giving him an earlier place in these pages.
The Doctor was about five feet two in height, hardly less in circumference about the waist, of an active habit of body and turn of mind, eyes that winked rapidly when he was excited, and a movable scalp which threw his forehead into multiform wrinkles as cogitations beneath it might demand. A Tyrolese by birth, he was fond of his Father-land, its mountain songs, and the customs of its people. Topics kindred
to these were an unfailing fund of conversation with him. Thoroughly educated, his conversation in badly-broken English, for he made little progress in acquiring the language, at once amused and instructed. Among his fellow surgeons and officers of his acquaintance, he ranked high as a skilful surgeon on account of superior attainments, acquired partly through the German Universities and partly in the Austrian service, during the campaign of Magenta, Solferino, and the siege of Mantua. With a German's fondness for music, he beguiled the tedium of many a long winter evening. With his German education he had imbibed radicalism to its full extent. Thoroughly conversant with the Sacred Scriptures he was a doubter, if not a positive unbeliever, from the Pentateuch to Revelation. In addition to this, his flings at the Chaplain, his messmate, made him unpopular with the religiously inclined of the regiment. He had besides, the stolidity of the German, and their cool calculating practicalism. This did not always please the men. They thought him unfeeling.
"What for you shrug your shoulders?' said he on one occasion to a man from whose shoulders he was removing a large fly blister.
"It hurts."
"Bah, wait till I cuts your leg off—and you know what hurts."
"Here, you sick man, here goot place," said he, addressing a man just taken to the hospital with fever, in charge of an orderly sergeant, at surgeon's call, "goot place, nice, warm, dead man shust left." Remarks such as these did not, of course, tend to increase the comfort of the men; they soon circulated among the regiment, were discussed in quarters, and as may be supposed greatly exaggerated, and all at the Doctor's
cost. But the Doctor pursued the even tenor of his way, entirely unmindful of them.