One of the principal mansions was owned by a Dr. Wright who had fled with his family on the approach of the Union troops. His fine residence was converted into a hospital for the arrivals who were sick.
During the ride from Goldsboro on top of a freight car, the writer was taken ill and was barely able to walk the steamer plank at the point of transfer. After resting in the little country church he was taken to the Wright House Hospital and assigned a straw bed on the floor of a room in the third story. Soldier nurses proceeded to take off his infested prison rags and to give him a sponge rub. He fainted under the process and had a run of fever during which he was delirious.
When the point of death was apparently reached his vitality took a turn for the better and he rapidly improved.
On the floor of his room were twelve narrow straw beds having a succession of occupants who, with a few exceptions, were soon transferred to their final resting places.
Many of the ex-prisoners having died from the effects of the too early use of solid food, the physicians became extremely cautious and limited the sick to small quantities of the most simple preparations.
During the writer’s convalescence, his ravenous hunger was unsatisfied by the slender allowance. It happened that his bed ended up to a window, and his favorite occupation was to sit on his pillow and watch the proceedings in the yard below. Here was a servant’s cottage occupied by two colored women who evidently had excused themselves from flight with their master. The older one moved about with quiet dignity and doubtless had been the “mamma” of the family. With evident pleasure she watched the new life and movement around her, and held in restraint her young and vivacious companion.
In the yard soldier cooks prepared in large kettles great quantities of beef soup, which was ladled into pails, carried to the kitchen and served to the patients throughout the building.
A young artilleryman from Olean, New York, lay on a straw pallet alongside that of the writer. The one was called “Olean” and the other “Michigan.” From his post of observation at the window the latter, one morning, watched the handling of the soup below with an interest that could not be concealed. “Say, Michigan, what are you looking at?” inquired Olean. “I am looking at them pouring out the soup,” was the reply, “and say, Olean, I wish I could have a good smell of it.”
“Smell of the soup,” said Olean contemptuously; “if I was a wishing I’d wish I had some and not just a smell.” Upon this sagacious remark, a number of the occupants of the other beds passed the wink or laugh with a feeble, hacking sound; their pinched faces brightening with a sense of mirth.
The practical wisdom of the suggestion was not lost upon “Michigan,” who said, “If I was a little stronger I would take my cup, go down the stairs and into the yard and I would say, ‘Boys, I’m awfully hungry; please give me some soup.’” Ah-ah-ah, laughed “Olean.” “Say, Michigan, I’ll bet you five cents you can’t walk the length of your bed and touch the door knob.” Upon this challenge, the other patients from their pillows exchanged glances, several braced up on the elbow and discussed the possibility of one of their number leaving his room without permission to forage for refreshments. The concensus of opinion was that he could not succeed.