He was badly wounded. The great ball had been put accurately, but his loose coat had saved his life. The bullet struck his breast bone an inch too far to the left, shattered it, two ribs, ploughed around his ribs and came out at his back. His boot was nearly filled with blood.
Later, he sent his own surgeon with a bottle of wine to Dickinson with instructions to do all he could for him. But Dickinson was past help. He lingered all the afternoon in agony, cursing his fate, the ball that killed him and begging for his wife to come. About nine o’clock he suddenly raised up in bed and exclaimed: “Why—why—have—you—put—out—the lights?”
But the lights were not out.
Photo by Julie Royster, Raleigh, N. C.
“ORTERMOBULL”
Say, white folks, wid yo’ stench on steel,
Look twell yo’ h’arts am full;