The agreeable change in my surroundings that remains most grateful in my memory is, that the kind-hearted and motherly old landlady, seeing my wounded, bleeding arm, which had soiled the whole side of my already pretty dirty shirt, at once waddled off to fathom from the depths of some bureau drawer a nice, clean, white shirt, and with it across her arm she marched back to my room almost out of breath, because she was so stout, saying:
"My dear, you must take off that shirt, which seems to be soiled by your wound; here is some fresh linen that you will please use."
The old gentleman, who though not so rotund as his wife was fully as kind, approvingly observed: "Why, of course, mother, that's right;" addressing me courteously, "Is there anything else we can do to make you comfortable, sir?"
Thanking them profusely and perhaps tearfully, I asked only for a little warm water, before retiring, that I might bathe and dress my wounded arm—to which request the old lady called out:
"Chloe, have some warm water brought here at once—you hyar?" She "hyard." While I was yet telling these dear old people some of the most bare-faced lies about myself being a wounded refugee from Maryland, etc., Chloe waddled into the room with a bowl of water in one hand and a couple of towels across her black arm.
Her appearance interrupted for the time the flow of yarns, as both the old gentleman and lady excused themselves, first directing "Aunty" to help the "young gentleman to dress his wound."
Aunty stood up in front of me with both sleeves rolled up, as if ready for a fight, when I should strip off the old shirt, which was sticking closer than a brother to the sore spots. But Aunty very kindly helped me as tenderly as she could, and when my torn, inflamed arm was exposed she could not refrain from uttering a cry of sympathy, and wanted at once to go down to bring up the "Missus" to see it. I would not allow her to do that, and, with her aid, I washed as well as I could, and was about to pull the shirt on over it, when, without asking my consent, old Aunty marched out of the room, saying: "Ise gwine get Missus put sothin on dat arm," and disappeared. Very soon the old lady embarrassed me by walking boldly into the room; and, after a few motherly words of sympathy, she took hold of me, as if I were a half-naked baby, and turned me around for her inspection. Then giving a few words of direction to "Aunty" to bring certain articles, she took motherly control of me, and for the time I became as a child in her hands, and was put to bed after my wound had been carefully dressed and wrapped by her own kind hands.
The old gentleman made an appearance, too, with some medicine for the inner man, which I swallowed like an obedient child.
We had, previously, had some supper. I was, of course, profoundly thankful for their kind attention, but was at last ordered, in the same kindly way: "Don't talk another bit, but go to sleep!" and I did not require much inducement to court the drowsy goddess. That night no unpleasant dreams disturbed my heavy slumber. The ghost of the horrible, unburied soldier, on which I had stumbled the previous night, did not haunt me. I was dead to everything for the time, and slept as soundly as a child.
The sun was shining brightly through the windows of my bedroom, on a beautiful Sunday morning, in August, 1861, when I was roused from this refreshing slumber by the voice of the old "aunty"—