Captain ——, —— ——, selfishness incarnate. It takes all sorts of men to make up a world, but let us hope that it takes few such as he.
Thursday, September 25.—Great news in yesterday’s paper. It seems Pope’s officers have been paroled. That is a glimmer of daylight, and looks as if the winter might not be passed in shop ward No. 7, or the Libby. General Prince is courteously alluded to as “the ringleader of the gang.” For pure malignity of venom, these Richmond editors would beat even the witches’ toad that was stewed after his month’s nap under the stone.
Sunday, 28th.—Away with visions of home and ease! Wilder Dwight has been killed, and I am Major, I suppose.... Now to play the man and be prepared to go to the majority in either sense, when God’s will is.
Just had a visit from Joshua Munroe,—and a cheering visit, indeed,—a descendant of Israel Munroe of Lexington fight, and here an Israelite among the Philistines. Rebel soldier, just leaving for his regiment, shakes hands all round with our men, who enjoin him to take care of himself. And how soon these men may be putting daylight through each other! Note: I have experienced from rebel privates almost uniform kindness, good-fellowship, camaraderie; they treat one as fellow-soldier. And as for our men, they fraternize as though the strawberry mark of brotherhood was on every arm. All the insult, all the bitterness and ill-treatment, have come from officers and citizens of high position in society, and from the women, whose envenomed tongues are let loose upon the wounded prisoner without mercy. This space [referring to the space in the diary under the printed date of Saturday, May 24] is the date of our midnight fight on the dark road; and this [Sunday 25] of our fight and flight to the Potomac, when hell broke loose in Winchester town; and this Sunday is just such another, cool and bright; and this morning [Monday, May 26] A, B, E, and K, were left on picket at the fence and in woods, with a section of Cothran, under Lieutenant Peabody. That was the work that tried our souls. Ned and Dick, brave fellows, both gone before. “We a little longer wait, but how little who can know!”
Two men have died on this floor within the last twelve hours,—the old man Carter with the consumption, and the lieutenant with the typhoid, the former last night and the latter just now. This afternoon [Wednesday, May 28], we crossed the river; and how good camp was!
Monday, October 6.—Got letters from home last night, through Jim Savage, who still lives,—God be praised!—though with one leg off, and a shattered shoulder. Add to that that we are promised the parole of the yard; add to that orders expected for Richmond in a few days. I’ll bet my knapsack will be packed when the assembly beats. However, we’ll not count this chicken before he chips the shell, as old —— has tried to addle the egg all he could.
Tuesday, October 7.—One chicken incubated and made his appearance. Hay, yesterday afternoon, in the intervals of carving below (the hospital operating room was immediately beneath us), sends up word that, if we will write out our parole of the yard, he will sign it. And old —— not being on hand to botch the thing, I cooked up a document, got it signed and sent down, to which the illustrious chief then affixed his sign-manual, and we are henceforward free of yard and grounds. Bully for that! [I remember now, I was the first to test the document’s efficacy, for we could hardly believe that it would really pass us out. The guard stopped me, of course, called the corporal, and finally decided that it was a genuine thing; and I hobbled painfully down four steep flights and out,—looked up and saw the rest all crowding to the window and waving hands and hats to see me actually emerge, like a rat, from the trap which had held us through long weary months.] I find that the art of crutch progression is quite a science, and has its outside edges and its backward rolls, etc., which are not to be learned without much practice and balancing. Up and down stairs with ease, confidence, and grace, is somewhat of an attainment.
Thursday, 9th.—Struggled out to pond and washed; first decent wash for three months. Had to steal a piece of black soap, and push out a board over the mud,—hard work for a cripple. Stopped in at carpenter’s shop and saw Dr. Hay slice an arm off, secundum artem.
October 13.—Suffering with the first cold snap. The sergeant’s wound keeps every window open, and we might as well or better be sub Jove frigido. Rumors of small-pox pervade the air.
Tuesday, 14th.—An alarm of small-pox yesterday afternoon in our ward turned out false, I believe, but has scared everybody most out of their wits. It seems, however, there were cases elsewhere; for, endeavoring to visit the pond again, I was stopped by a guard, and told that some tents just pitched by the shore contained the small-pox patients, whom no one was allowed to approach within one hundred yards. After they had recovered or died, the tents were set on fire as they stood.