The Atlantic Monthly | Page 3

so happened, to my cost, as it turned out, that I was the only officer
fit to make the journey, and I was accordingly ordered to proceed to
Block House No. 3, and make the required arrangements. I started
alone just after dusk the next night, and during the darkness succeeded
in getting within three miles of my destination. At this time I found that
I had lost my way, and, although aware of the danger of my act, was
forced to turn aside and ask at a log-cabin for directions. The house
contained a dried-up old woman, and four white-headed, half-naked
children. The woman was either stone-deaf, or pretended to be so; but
at all events she gave me no satisfaction, and I remounted and rode
away. On coming to the end of a lane, into which I had turned to seek
the cabin, I found to my surprise that the bars had been put up during
my brief parley. They were too high to leap, and I therefore dismounted

to pull them down. As I touched the top rail, I heard a rifle, and at the
same instant felt a blow on both arms, which fell helpless. I staggered
to my horse and tried to mount; but, as I could use neither arm, the
effort was vain, and I therefore stood still, awaiting my fate. I am only
conscious that I saw about me several Graybacks, for I must have fallen
fainting almost immediately.
When I awoke, I was lying in the cabin near by, upon a pile of rubbish.
Ten or twelve guerillas were gathered about the fire, apparently
drawing lots for my watch, boots, hat, etc. I now made an effort to find
out how far I was hurt. I discovered that I could use the left forearm
and hand pretty well, and with this hand I felt the right limb all over
until I touched the wound. The ball had passed from left to right
through the left biceps, and directly through the right arm just below
the shoulder, emerging behind. The right hand and forearm were cold
and perfectly insensible. I pinched them as well as I could, to test the
amount of sensation remaining; but the hand might as well have been
that of a dead man. I began to understand that the nerves had been
wounded, and that the part was utterly powerless. By this time my
friends had pretty well divided the spoils, and, rising together, went out.
The old woman then came to me and said, "Reckon you'd best git up.
Theyuns is agoin' to take you away." To this I only answered, "Water,
water." I had a grim sense of amusement on finding that the old woman
was not deaf, for she went out, and presently came back with a gourdful,
which I eagerly drank. An hour later the Graybacks returned, and,
finding that I was too weak to walk, carried me out, and laid me on the
bottom of a common cart, with which they set off on a trot. The jolting
was horrible, but within an hour I began to have in my dead right hand
a strange burning, which was rather a relief to me. It increased as the
sun rose and the day grew warm, until I felt as if the hand was caught
and pinched in a red-hot vice. Then in my agony I begged my guard for
water to wet it with, but for some reason they desired silence, and at
every noise threatened me with a revolver. At length the pain became
absolutely unendurable, and I grew what it is the fashion to call
demoralized. I screamed, cried, and yelled in my torture, until, as I
suppose, my captors became alarmed, and, stopping, gave me a
handkerchief,--my own, I fancy,--and a canteen of water, with which I

wetted the hand, to my unspeakable relief.
It is unnecessary to detail the events by which, finally, I found myself
in one of the Rebel hospitals near Atlanta. Here, for the first time, my
wounds were properly cleansed and dressed by a Dr. Oliver Wilson,
who treated me throughout with great kindness. I told him I had been a
doctor; which, perhaps, may have been in part the cause of the unusual
tenderness with which I was managed. The left arm was now quite easy;
although, as will be seen, it never entirely healed. The right arm was
worse than ever,--the humerus broken, the nerves wounded, and the
hand only alive to pain. I use this phrase because it is connected in my
mind with a visit from a local visitor,--I am not sure he was a
preacher,--who used to go daily through the wards, and talk to us, or
write our letters. One morning he stopped