“Bickford! Bickford!! How do you feel?”
The eyes did not unclose, but the lips opened slowly, and said with a painful effort:
“F-i-r-s-t R-a-t-e!”
This scene was repeated every morning for over a week. Every day the Rebel Surgeon would insist that the man should betaken out, and every morning Bickford would gasp out with troublesome exertion that he felt:
“F-i-r-s-t R-a-t-e!”
It ended one morning by his inability, to make his usual answer, and then he was carried out to join the two score others being loaded into the wagon.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
NEW YEAR'S DAY—DEATH OF JOHN H. WINDER—HE DIES ON HIS WAY TO A DINNER —SOMETHING AS TO CHARACTER AND CAREER—ONE OF THE WORST MEN THAT EVER LIVED.
On New Year's Day we were startled by the information that our old-time enemy—General John H. Winder—was dead. It seemed that the Rebel Sutler of the Post had prepared in his tent a grand New Year's dinner to which all the officers were invited. Just as Winder bent his head to enter the tent he fell, and expired shortly after. The boys said it was a clear case of Death by Visitation of the Devil, and it was always insisted that his last words were:
“My faith is in Christ; I expect to be saved. Be sure and cut down the prisoners' rations.”