“Yes, my son; the wound is fatal.”
“Can my head be raised?”
“Certainly. Here, boys! bring an overcoat or a blanket.”
The old doctor's voice was tremulous and his eyes were moist with tears. A dozen blue overcoats were offered, but only one was needed. This the surgeon folded so as to make a pillow for the wounded Confederate. Tenderly the doctor raided the boy's head and placed it on the overcoat. As he did so the blood flowed afresh from the wound in the breast.
“Doctor—picture—mother—pocket—let me see it.”
“Yes, my son.”
The surgeon took from the boy's butternut jacket a picture of a sweet-faced woman, and held it before the dying soldier's eyes.
“Closer, Doctor.”
The boy had attempted to take the picture in his hand, but his strength was gone—he could not use his arms. The doctor held the picture against the lips of the youth. It was stained with blood when taken away, but there was a smile on the face of the boy.