Well, Poor John Mahay is dead. He died yesterday. His was a painful and
long-lingering case (see p. 24 _ante_.) I have been with him at times
for the past fifteen months. He belonged to company A, 101st New York,
and was shot through the lower region of the abdomen at second Bull Run,
August, '62. One scene at his bedside will suffice for the agonies of
nearly two years. The bladder had been perforated by a bullet going
entirely through him. Not long since I sat a good part of the morning by
his bedside, ward E, Armory square. The water ran out of his eyes from
the intense pain, and the muscles of his face were distorted, but he
utter'd nothing except a low groan now and then. Hot moist cloths were
applied, and reliev'd him somewhat. Poor Mahay, a mere boy in age, but
old in misfortune. He never knew the love of parents, was placed in
infancy in one of the New York charitable institutions, and subsequently
bound out to a tyrannical master in Sullivan county, (the scars of whose
cowhide and club remain'd yet on his back.) His wound here was a most
disagreeable one, for he was a gentle, cleanly, and affectionate boy.
He found friends in his hospital life, and, indeed, was a universal
favorite. He had quite a funeral ceremony.