These accidents became so much a matter-of-course that when anything unusual occurred in the company our first impulse was to go and help Seitz out.

When the bugle sounded “boots and saddles,” the rest of us would pack up, mount, “count off by fours from the right,” and be ready to move out before the last notes of the call had fairly died away.  Just then we would notice an unsaddled horse still tied to the hitching place.  It was Seitz’s, and that worthy would be seen approaching, pipe in mouth, and bridle in hand, with calm, equable steps, as if any time before the expiration of his enlistment would be soon enough to accomplish the saddling of his steed.  A chorus of impatient and derisive remarks would go up from his impatient comrades: 

“For heaven’s sake, Seitz, hurry up!”

“Seitz! you are like a cow’s tail—­always behind!”

“Seitz, you are slower than the second coming of the Savior!”

“Christmas is a railroad train alongside of you, Seitz!”

“If you ain’t on that horse in half a second, Seitz, we’ll go off and leave you, and the Johnnies will skin you alive!” etc., etc.

Not a ripple of emotion would roll over Seitz’s placid features under the sharpest of these objurgations.  At last, losing all patience, two or three boys would dismount, run to Seitz’s horse, pack, saddle and bridle him, as if he were struck with a whirlwind.  Then Seitz would mount, and we would move ’off.

For all this, we liked him.  His good nature was boundless, and his disposition to oblige equal to the severest test.  He did not lack a grain of his full share of the calm, steadfast courage of his race, and would stay where he was put, though Erebus yawned and bade him fly.  He was very useful, despite his unfitness for many of the duties of a cavalryman.  He was a good guard, and always ready to take charge of prisoners, or be sentry around wagons or a forage pile-duties that most of the boys cordially hated.

But he came into the last trouble at Andersonville.  He stood up pretty well under the hardships of Belle Isle, but lost his cheerfulness—­his unrepining calmness—­after a few weeks in the Stockade.  One day we remembered that none of us had seen him for several days, and we started in search of him.  We found him in a distant part of the camp, lying near the Dead Line.  His long fair hair was matted together, his blue eyes had the flush of fever.  Every part of his clothing was gray with the lice that were hastening his death with their torments.  He uttered the first complaint I ever heard him make, as I came up to him: 

“My Gott, M ——­, dis is worse dun a dog’s det!”

In a few days we gave him all the funeral in our power; tied his big toes together, folded his hands across his breast, pinned to his shirt a slip of paper, upon which was written: 

               VictorE. Seitz,
          Co.  L, Sixteenth Illinois Cavalry.