“Read the date,” said he.

“FRIDAY, May 23, 1862.”

“Now write.”

The Doctor dictated; I wrote:—­

“Arrived after furlough.  Drilled A.M. and P.M.  Weather clear.”

* * * * *

“SATURDAY, May 24, 1862. 
“On camp guard.  Letters from home.  Showers. 
Marched at night.”

* * * * *

“SUNDAY, May 25, 1862. 
“Marched all day.  Bivouacked in woods at night.”

* * * * *

“MONDAY, May 26, 1862. 
“Marched but a few miles.  Day very hot.  Weather
bad.  Heavy rain at night.”

* * * * *

“TUESDAY, May 27, 1862.  “Rain.  Heard a battle ahead.  Marched past—­”

“What brigade was that you saw at Hanover Court-House?” the Doctor asked.

“Branch’s.”

“Yes, Branch’s; write, ’Marched past Branch’s brigade, that had been fighting.’”

Then the Doctor said:  “Now turn to the fly-leaf of the book and write”—­he paused a moment—­“simply write Jones.  Here—­turn the book lengthwise, and write Jones.”

I wrote Jones—­lengthwise the book.

“Wait,” said he; “put a capital B.”

I put a capital B after Jones.

“Let me see,” said he.

I showed him the book.

“No,” said he; “erase that B and put another one before Jones.”

“Have you an eraser?”

“I’ll get one.”

The B after Jones was erased, leaving a dark splotch.  I wrote B. before Jones.

“We must get that dark spot out,” said he.

He took the book and very carefully tore out part of the leaf, so that there remained only B. Jones and the part of the fly-leaf above the writing.

“Now,” said he, “put that in your pocket.”

“What is all this for, Doctor?”

“For a purpose.  Keep it in your pocket; it may serve to protect you.”

“What time is it, Doctor?”

“Ten minutes to eleven.”

“I must go.”

He said no word; but he put up his hands to my face, and made me bend to him, and kissed me.

* * * * *

Before midnight one of General Morell’s orderlies had passed me through our cavalry pickets beyond Mechanicsville.

The Doctor’s stimulant, or something else, gave me strength, My mind was clear and my will firm.  True, I felt indifferent to life; but the lesson which the Doctor had given me I had clearly understood, and I had voluntarily turned the die for duty after it had been cast for ease.  All my hesitation had gone, leaving in its place disgust kept down by effort, but kept down.  I wanted nothing in life.  Nothing?  Yes, nothing; I had desire, but knew it unattainable, and renounced its object.  I would not hope for a happiness that might bring ruin on another.

To die in the work begun this night seemed to me appropriate; life at the present rate was worse than worthless.  Yet I had not yielded to this feeling even; I would be prudent and would accomplish what was hoped for, if my strength should serve.