My Varied Experiences in the Hospital--The Doctor Seems Sure
of My Death--I Suggest the Postponement of My Funeral--I Get
Very Sick of Gruel--I Go Back to my Regiment.
Let's see, last week I wound up in the hospital. When Jim, my old
comrade, and the rebel angel, left me, I to all intents and purposes. I
supposed I was going to sleep, but after I got well enough to know what
was going on, I found that for about ten days I had been out of my
head. It was not much of a head to get out of, but however small and
insignificant a man's head is, he had rather have it with him, keeping
good time, than to have it wandering around out of his reach. When I
“come to,” as the saying is, it only seemed as though I had been asleep
over night, but I dreamed more than any able-bodied man could have done
in one night. I was what they call un-. conscious, but I did a great
deal of work during that period of unconsciousness. One thing I did,
which I was proud of, was to wind up the war. I arranged it so that all
of the bullets that were fired on each side, were made of India-rubber,
like those little toy balloons, and war was just fun. The boys on both
sides would fire at each other and watch the rubber balloons hit the
mark, and explode, and nobody was hurt, and everybody laughed. There was
no more blood. Everything was rubber and wind. There was no one killed,
no legs shot off, and the men on each side; when not fighting with
the harmless missiles, were gathered together, blue and gray, having
a regular picnic, and every evening there was a dance, the rebels
furnishing the girls. In my delirium I could see that my rebel angel was
dancing a good deal with the boys, and frequently with my comrade, Jim,
and I was pretty jealous. I made up my mind that I wouldn't speak to
either of them again. I would watch my balloon battles with a good deal
of interest, and think how much better and safer it was to fight that
way. Every day, when the battle was over, and the two sides would get
together for fun, I noticed when the bugle sounded for battle again,
that on each side the boys were terribly mixed, there being about as
many blue-coated Yankees among the gray rebels as there were rebels
among the Yankees, and after awhile it seemed as though all were dressed
alike, in a sort of “blue-gray,” and then they disappeared, and I
recovered my senses. Frequently, during my delerium and unconsciousness,
I would feel my mouth pulled open, and hear a spoon chink against my
teeth, and I would taste something bad going down my neck, and then my
head would buzz as though a swarm of bees had taken up their abode where
my brain used to be. Sometimes I would hear the clanking of a saber and
a pair of Mexican spurs, and feel a great big hand on my head, and I
knew that was Jim, but I couldn't move a muscle, or say a word. “I guess
he's dead, ain't he doc?” I would hear in Jim's voice, and the doc would
say there was a little life left, but not enough, to swear by. Then the
doc would say, “You better come in about 10:30 tomorrow, as we bury
them all at that hour, and I guess he'll croak by that time.” I tried to
speak and tell them that I was alive, and that I was going to get well,
but it, wasn't any use. I was tongue-tied. Again I would hear the sweet
rustle of a dress, and feel a warm hand on my head, and I knew that the
rebel angel had rode her mule to town to see me. Then I would try
hard to tell her that I was going to write a letter to the governor of
Wisconsin, and ask him to look out particularly for her brother, who was
a rebel prisoner at Madison, and take care of him if he was sick, but
I couldn't say a word, and after smoothing my hair a little while, she
would give my cheek three or four pats, just as a mother pats her child,
and she would go away.
One morning, a little after daylight, I woke up and looked around the
ward of the hospital. My eyes were weak, and I was hungry as a bear. I
had to try two or three times before I could raise my hand to my head,
and when I felt of my head it seemed awfully small. I could feel my
cheek bones stick out so that you could hang your hat on them. My cheeks
were sunken, and my fingers were like pipe-stems. I wondered how a man
could change so in one night. I saw two or three fellows over at the
other end of the room, and I thought I would get up and go over there
and have some fun with them. I wanted to know where my horse was, and
where I was. I tried to raise up and couldn't get any further than on my
elbow. From that position I looked around to see what was going on, and
tried to attract the attention of some attendant. Finally, I saw four
fellows bringing a stretcher along towards my cot. They had evidently
been told by the doctor that I would be dead in the morning, and having
confidence in the word of the professional man, had come to take me to
the dead house, before the other sick man was awake. As they came up to
the foot of my cot and sat the stretcher down, I thought I would play
a joke on them. I pulled the sheet over my face, and laid still. One of
the men said, “Two of us can lift it, as it is thinner than a lathe.” To
be considered dead, when I was alive, was bad enough, but to be called
“it” was too much. I felt one of the men take hold of my feet, and then
I threw the sheet off my face and in a hoarse voice I said, “Say, Mr.
Body-snotcher, you can postpone the funeral and bring me a porter-house
steak and some fried potatoes.” Well, nobody ever saw a couple of men
fall over themselves and turn pale, as those fellows did. Before I
had given my order for breakfast, the two men had fallen back over
the stretcher and the two others were backing on as though a ghost had
appeared. But finally they came toward me and I convinced them that I
was not dead. They seemed hurt to know that I was still alive, and one
of them went off after the doctor, to enter a complaint, I supposed.
The doctor soon came and he was the only one that seemed pleased at my
recovery. He ordered some sort of gruel for me, but wouldn't let me have
meat and things. I took the gruel under protest but it did strengthen
me. I told the doctor I wanted him to send for my horse, because I
wanted to go out with the boys, but he said he guessed I wouldn't go out
with the boys very soon. He said I might sit up in bed a little while,
and when I did so I found that I did not have my clothes on, but was
clothed in a hospital night-gown, which was also used for a shroud for
burial when a fellow died. He said Jim and the girl would be in about 10
o clock, as he had sent for them, and some of my comrades. I told him
if I was going to entertain company, and give a reception, I wanted my
pants on, as I was sure no gentleman could give a reception successfully
without pants. The doctor seemed sort of glad to see me taking an
interest in human affairs again, and so he let me put my pants and
jacket on. I got a butcher to shave me, and when ten o clock came I
looked quite presentable for a skeleton. I was sitting up in bed, with a
little round zinc frame looking-glass, noting the changes in my personal
appearance, when a door opened and Jim entered, dressed up in his best,
with the rebel angel on his arm, and followed by six boys from the
regiment. They came in as solemn as any party I ever saw. The angel
looked as sad as I ever saw anybody, and I thought she had probably
heard that her brother was dead. It did not occur to me that they
had come to attend my funeral. They stood there by the door, in that
helpless manner that people always stand around at a funeral, waiting
for the master of ceremonies to tell them that they can now pass in the
other room and view the remains. I finally caught Jim looking my way,
and I waved a handkerchief at him. He gave me one look, and jumped over
two cots and came up to me with tears in his eyes, and a package in his
hand, and said, “Pard, you ain't dead worth a cent,” and then he hugged
me, and added, “but there ain't enough left of you for a full size
funeral.” Then he unrolled the package he had in his hand, and dropped
on the bed four silver-plated coffin handles. By that time the girl,
and the six boys had seen me, and they came over, and we had a regular
visit. They were all surprised to find me alive, as they had been
notified that I was on my last legs, and would be buried in the morning,
and the captain had detailed the six boys to act as pall-bearers and
fire a salute over the grave, while Jim and the girl were to act as
mourners.
“Well, it saves ammunition,” said Jim. “But how be I going to get these
coffin handles off my hands. There is no dependence to be placed on
doctors, anyway. When that doctor appointed this funeral, we thought he
knew his business, and I told the angel, say I, 'My pard ain't going
to be buried without any style, in one of those pine boxes that ain't
planed, and has got slivers on.' So I hired the hospital coffin-maker
to sand-paper the inside and outside of a box, and black it with
shoe-blacking, and I went to a store down town and bought these handles.
Of course, pard, I am glad you pulled through, and all that, but I want
to say to you, if you had croaked in the night, and been ready to bury
this A. m., you would have had a more stylish outfit than anybody,
except officers, usually get in this army, and the angel and I would
have been a pair of mourners that would have slung grief so your folks
to home would have felt proud of you.”
The angel was tickled to see me alive, and suggested to Jim and the
boys, that it was easy to talk a fellow to death after he had been so
sick, and told them to go back to camp, and she would stay with me all
day. So the boys shook hands with me, and Jim had an attendant to roll
my cot up to a window, so I could see my horse when they rode away. The
boys got on their horses and Jim led my horse, and I could see that my
pet had been fixed up for the occasion. He had the saddle on, and it was
draped with black, a pair of boots were fastened in the stirrups, and
my carbine was in the socket. The idea was to have my horse, with empty
boot and saddle tied behind the wagon that took me to the cemetery where
soldiers wind up their career. It was not a cheerful thing to look at,
and to think of, but it did me good to see the old horse, and the boys
ride away in good health, and happy at my escape, and it encouraged me
to make every effort to get well, so I could ride with the gang. The
rebel angel re-mained with me till almost night, and superintended my
eating. No person who has never had a fever, can appreciate the appetite
of a person when the fever “turns.” I wanted everything that was ever
eaten, and roast beef or turkey was constantly in my mind. As anything
of that kind would have made use for Jim's coffin-handles, I had to put
up with soups and gruels. The doctor thought that this thin gruel was
good enough, but it didn't seem to hit the spot, and so the girl asked
the doctor if he thought nice gumbo soup and a weak milk punch wouldn't
be pretty good for me. He said it would, but nobody in the hospital
could make gumbo soup, or milk punch. She said she could, and she told
me not to eat a thing until she came back, and she would bring me a dish
fit for the gods. She said she knew an old colored woman in town, who
cooked for a lady friend of hers, who had some gumbo, and the lady had
a little brandy that was seventy years old, but she said the lady was a
rebel, and I must overlook that. I told her I didn't care, as I had got
considerably mashed on all the rebels I had met personally. She went out
with a smile that would have knocked a stronger man than I was silly,
and I turned over and took a nap, the first real sleep I had had in a
week. I woke up finally smelling something that was not gruel. O, I had
got so sick of gruel. The angel handed me a glass of milk punch,
and told me to drink a swallow and a half. I have drank a great many
beverages in my lifetime, but I never swallowed anything that was as
good as the milk punch that rebel girl made for me. It seemed to go
clear to my toes, and I felt strong. Then she gave me a small soup plate
and told me to taste of the gumbo. I had never tasted gumbo soup before,
but I had no difficulty in mastering it. No description can do gumbo
soup justice, or explain to a person who has never tasted it the rich
odor, and palatable taste. The little that I ate seemed to make a man of
me again, instead of the weak invalid. Since then I have been loyal
to southern gumbo soup, and have always eaten it wherever it could be
obtained, and I never put a spoonful of it to my lips without thinking
of the rebel girl in the hospital, who prepared that dish for me. If
I ever become a glutton, it will be on gumbo soup, and if I am ever a
drunkard, it will be a milk-punch drunkard, and the soup and the punch
must be prepared in the South.
Well, my experience after that, in the hospital, was about the same as a
hundred thousand other boys in blue, only few of the boys had such care,
and such food. The girl kept me supplied with gumbo soup and milk punch
until I could eat heartier food, and in a couple of days I got so I
could walk around the hospital. At home I had never been much of a hand
to be around with the sick, but experience had been a good teacher, and
I found that going around among the boys, and talking cheerfully did
them good and me too. I found men from my own regiment, that I did not
know had been sick. The custom was to make just as little show about
sending sick men to the hospital, as possible, hence they were often
packed off in the night, and the first their comrades would know of
their illness would be a detail to bury them, or a boy would suddenly
appear in his company, looking pale and sick, having been discharged
from the hospital. If the men had known how many of their comrades were
sent to the hospital, it would have demoralized the well ones. For ten
days I visited around among the sick men, telling a funny story to
a group here and and cheering them up, and writing letters home for
fellows that were too weak to write. I learned to lie a little bit in
writing letters for the boys. One young fellow who had his leg taken
off, wanted me to write to his intended, and tell her all about it, how
the leg was taken off, and how he was sick and discouraged, and would
always be a cripple and a burden on his friends, etc. I wrote the letter
entirely different from the way he told me. I spoke of his being wounded
in the leg but that the care he received had made him all right, and
that he would probably soon have a discharge, and be home, and make them
all happy. I thought to myself that if she loved him as a girl ought to,
that a leg or two short wouldn't make any difference to her, and there
was no use of harrowing up her feelings in advance, and that he could
buy a cork leg before he got home, and may be she would never find it
out. I might have been wrong, but when he got an answer from that letter
he was the happiest fellow I ever saw in this world, and he arranged
at my suggestion, to stop over in New York and get a cork leg before he
went home. I have never learned whether the girl ever found out that he
had a cork leg, but if she did, and blames anybody, she can lay it to
me. Lots of the boys that wrote letters for wanted to detail all of
their calamities to their mothers and sisters and sweet-hearts, but I
worded the letters in a funny sort of way, so that the friends at home
would not be worried, and the answers the boys got would please them
very much. The hardest work I had was a couple of days writing letters
for a doctor, to relatives of boys who had died, detailing the sickness,
death and burial, and notifying friends that they could obtain the
personal effects of the deceased, clothing, money, pipes, knives, etc.,
by sending express charges. It always seemed to me that if I had been
running the government I would have paid the express charges on the
clothing of the boys who had died, if I didn't lay up a cent. Finally I
got well enough to go back to my regiment, and one day I showed up at
my company, and the first man I met saluted me and said, “Hello,
Lieutenant.” I told him he did wrong to joke a sick man that way, and
I went on to find Jim. He was in our tent, greasing his shoes, and
he looked up with a queer expression on his face and said, “Hello,
Lieutenant.”
“Look a here.” I said, as I grasped his greasy hand, “what do you fellows
mean by calling me names, I have never done anything to deserve to be
made a fool of. Pard, what ails you anyway?”
“Didn't they tell you,” said Jim, as he scraped the mud on his other
shoe with a stick. “The colonel has sent your name to the governor of
Wisconsin to be commissioned as second Lieutenant of the company. All
the boys are tickled to death, and they are going to whoop it up for you
when your commission comes. But this pup tent will not be good enough
for you then, and old Jim will have to pick up another pard. You won't
have to cook your bacon on a stick when you get your commsssion, and you
can drink out of a leather covered flask instead of a flannel covered
canteen. But by the great horn spoons I shall love you if you get to be
a Jigadier Brindle,” and the old pard looked as though he wanted to cry
like a baby.
“Jim,” I said, “I think the fellows are giving us taffy, and that there
is nothing in this Lieutenant business. But if there is, you will be my
pard till this cruel war is over, and don't you forget it,” and I went
along the company street towards the colonel's tent, leaning on a cane,
and all the boys congratulated me, and I felt like a fool.
“Lieutenant, I am glad to see you back,” said the Colonel, as I entered
his tent, and he showed it in his face. “What is the foolishness,
colonel? I asked. The boys are all guying me. Can't I stay a private?”