This ambulance stopped on the crest of the hill, when the Christian Commission man stepped to its side and said to the writer, “My boy, you will get out here.” Seeing I was too weak to rise from the seat, he said, “Just lie across my shoulder.” This I did and he carried me into a near-by country church building which sheltered the sick until they could be conveyed by boat to Wilmington.
Meanwhile the straggling column of paroled prisoners had crossed the bridge. An officer undertook to form them into ranks so as to march in form under the arch and between the lines which stood at “Present arms.” Their feet sank in the soft sand of the cut, and after taking a few steps they were utterly exhausted. The officer in charge thus addressed the two lines: “Shoulder arms!” “Order arms!” “Stack arms!” “Break ranks and carry these men up the hill!” With a mighty cheer the athletic colored soldiers sprang forward and each picked up an emaciated, wilted prisoner, carried him up the hill, and tenderly placed him on the ground. In due time, the sick were taken by boat to the Wright House Hospital, Wilmington, and the stronger ones were placed in a camp waiting transportation by steamer to the north.
In the winter of 1875-76, the partially regained health of the writer collapsed, and he was advised to consult his former regimental surgeon, Dr. Wells B. Fox. The Doctor said, “You may live a good while, and you may not. Prepare to leave your family in as good shape as possible. If you have unsettled accounts fix them up.”
Pursuant to this advice, and needing the benefit of a climate warmer than a Michigan winter, he went to Washington to close up some army matters. Here he was received very kindly by Surgeon General Barnes, and by him ordered to have a thorough examination by experts of the medical department. The diagnosis was more favorable than was deemed possible, and its correctness has been verified by the subsequent years.
On the journey from Cheboygan to Washington, a stop was made at Greenville. With his host, a call was made on the Rev. James L. Patton, pastor of the Congregational Church of that place. As the evening passed, conversation turned to army happenings. After reciting some experiences in the service of the United States Christian Commission, with an aroused manner, Dr. Patton said, “I must tell you of an occasion that I shall never forget. I was in the Christian Commission service outside Wilmington, North Carolina, near the close of the war, with General Terry, when he received the first installment of old Andersonville prisoners as they were sent into our lines. Terry was all broken up over their condition.” “Could the prisoners walk?” asked the writer. “Yes,” he replied; “some of them could, but many had to be brought in on ambulances.” He was asked, “Where did you put those who were sick?” “We laid them on the floor of a little church that was close by,” Dr. Patton replied. Extending his hand the writer said, “Dr. Patton, thank you.” “Why, why,” he replied hesitatingly, “you need not thank me for the story; it is true and you are welcome to it.” “Yes,” was the response, “I have no doubt the story is true. I do not thank you for it, but for helping me out of the ambulance at that time.” Need it be said that these two men found themselves comrades, indeed?
CHAPTER IX.
AN INCIDENT BY THE WAY.
A steamboat on the northeast branch of the Cape Fear river carried our paroled men from the station held by General Terry to the city of Wilmington.