After daylight we gathered around our new companions. They were still handcuffed together. It was a pitiful sight to look at them, dirty and ragged, with their ankles swollen up by scurvy. The face of one of them was badly swollen, and covered with pustules. The surgeon was at once sent for. He pronounced it to be small-pox. The sick man was sent to the pest-house; his companion was isolated in the barracks. The first one finally recovered, but his companion caught the infection and died. In a few days Brayton showed symptoms of small-pox, was removed to the pest-house, and also died. William Brayton was a sail-maker in the United States navy; his rank was that of warrant officer, a distinct grade from the line or staff officers. He was wounded and taken prisoner during the midnight surprise attack on Fort Sumter by the navy. A bullet had shattered his right forearm, and also went through the fleshy part of his right leg. Fortunately Captain Sennes realized the danger of having the officers and privates confined together. Besides, it was not a customary thing on either side, and, consequently, the privates were returned to the barracks in the yard, much to our satisfaction. They had the freedom of the yard nearly all day, which made them satisfied with the change.
I commenced to feel sick and discouraged, and had an inclination to lie on the floor continually. The surgeon examined me and gave me some quinine pills, saying that I probably had malarial fever. For several mornings he visited me, and was very particular about looking at my tongue. Finally a peculiar white mark showed on the tip end. There was no mistaking that mark. I had typhoid fever. Orders were given to send for the ambulance, and have me taken to the hospital. A large church on the outskirts of the town was to be my future abode. It was called the Second North Carolina Hospital. Why it received that name I could never find out. Opposite to it was the beautiful mansion and grounds belonging to General Wade Hampton, the pride of South Carolina. That misguided hero went through the war all right, only to lose a leg afterward, most unromantically, by a kick from a mule.
CHAPTER XXIV
A CRACKER BEAUTY
A parole was made out for me to sign, but it was very difficult for me to sign my name. I managed to keep on my feet for a few hours, and the change and novelty seemed to give me strength. Early in the evening I undressed and got into bed, and there I remained for six weeks. Surgeon Thompson told me I had the "slow" typhoid fever, that I would have to be very patient, and not to worry. Most of the time I was in a stupor, but had a dim consciousness of what was passing around me. One of the privates from the yard had the fever. He arrived a few days after myself. Milk punch was given to him; within a week he died. My treatment was different. The medicine tasted like turpentine and camphor. But no milk punch was given me at any time. At last the fever broke and I slowly recovered. Large bed-sores made their appearance on both hips. In fact I was sore all over from lying in bed such a long time. At a distance of twenty-five feet every object would quadruple to my vision. If there was one man, I would see four. Any object hanging on the wall especially strengthened the optical delusion.
When able to sit up on my bed I would talk to Peter Keefe. His cot was just across the passage-way from my own. The amputation was skilfully done, but it took a long time for the stump to heal up. He did not care so much for the loss of the leg as he did for the failure of the plan to escape.
Two "Cracker" girls swept the basement floor and brought us our food. They may have been styled nurses on the pay-rolls for all I know. However, I made a great mistake in not making love to both, comparing them to angels, and trying to make them believe that they had saved me from an early grave. Instead I would make critical remarks about their lack of charms to Keefe, in their presence. The younger one was about twenty years of age. She wore low calfskin shoes and white stockings which needed a good washing. Many of my remarks referred to their soiled condition. While manipulating the broom she displayed wonderful talent for going to sleep. About every tenth movement she would stand still, resting on the broom-handle, and take a short nap. Then would follow another few strokes and more nap, the same routine continuing until the job was finished.
The hospital steward was also of the "Cracker" type, and a most devout Methodist. Somehow we were not bosom friends. He was very much afraid I would say something to shock the "sweeping beauty." Finally I got tired of his infernal canting and tersely told him to go to the devil, advising him at the same time to marry the girl with the dirty stockings, as I was very certain he was the right man for the husband. Events were quiet for a couple of days. Hostilities soon broke out. The doctor had ordered a soft-boiled egg to be given me. Beauty brought it to me in a glass tumbler and skipped away in a hurry. There was more salt than egg. Fortunately, she had not stirred it up, so I skimmed off the egg carefully and ate it. Then I gazed at the tumbler. There was at least one inch of solid salt in the bottom. Keefe had been watching me and was highly amused. But Beauty discreetly kept out of my way for the remainder of the day. I informed the surgeon that I was very dainty about eating eggs and preferred them served in the shell; so that salt racket was stopped. I will always believe that Beauty and her acting husband put up a job on me.
A very angular woman with sanctimonious visage and a huge Bible in her hand squatted herself by my bed. The way she read the Scriptures to me would make a dead man turn over in his coffin. In about five minutes there was war in earnest. The surgeon happened to come in just then and ordered her out of the hospital. The next episode was through a friendly German. He was a sailor, and, being in one of the Southern ports during the early of the Rebellion, he, like many other sailors, was forced into the rebel army. In one of the battles he had been wounded by a piece of shell. As he was now convalescent, he was at leisure to go where he pleased. He spoke about the large quantities of blackberries that were to be found in the woods. I asked him to bring me some the next time he gathered any. While taking a morning nap a plate of nice, large blackberries had been left on the table at my bedside. When I awoke I was perfectly delighted at the sight. I had been craving for fruit for some days past. They seemed too nice to eat. Temptation was strong, however, and I picked up a single berry and put it in my mouth. My intention was to eat the whole plateful—one at a time. The surgeon just then passed near me.
"Well, surgeon, this is a great treat," I said to him. He seemed quite nervous when he saw the berries.