Evans was in both attacks on Fort Fisher, and in the second fight he was
shot twice. The wounds were severe, and he was sent into hospital. His
leg was shattered badly, and after examining it carefully the doctors told
the young sufferer bluntly that they would be obliged to amputate it.
When they went out Evans made a resolution that his leg was not to be cut
off. He came to the conclusion that he would rather quit right there than
to go through life one-legged. It was his own leg anyhow, and nobody had
a better right to decide the question than himself.
By some means he got hold of one of the big navy revolvers, and had
it secreted under his pillow when the surgeons, with a blood-curdling
array of knives and saws, made their appearance on the scene and began
preparations to carry their threat into execution. But when the chief
surgeon turned to the bed to examine the wounds he found himself looking
into the black barrel of young Evans’s navy revolver.
[Illustration: THEY DID NOT TOUCH HIM AND HIS LEG WAS SAVED]
“Now, see here,” said Evans, as the doctor retired in some alarm; “I want
that leg to stay on. I need it. I will get well with that where it is, or
not at all, and that’s the end of it. That leg does not come off. Do you
understand what I mean?”
The doctor was dismayed. But he understood perfectly, and Evans carried
the day. The wounds were dressed and healed rapidly. In several months he
was out again. But he limped then, and will as long as he lives.