They had a case of instruments captured from some of our field hospitals, which were dull and fearfully out of order.  With poor instruments and unskilled hands the operations became mangling.

In the Hospital I saw an admirable illustration of the affection which a sailor will lavish on a ship’s boy, whom he takes a fancy to, and makes his “chicken,” as the phrase is.  The United States sloop “Water Witch” had recently been captured in Ossabaw Sound, and her crew brought into prison.  One of her boys—­a bright, handsome little fellow of about fifteen—­had lost one of his arms in the fight.  He was brought into the Hospital, and the old fellow whose “chicken” he was, was allowed to accompany and nurse him.  This “old barnacle-back” was as surly a growler as ever went aloft, but to his “chicken” he was as tender and thoughtful as a woman.  They found a shady nook in one corner, and any moment one looked in that direction he could see the old tar hard at work at something for the comfort and pleasure of his pet.  Now he was dressing the wound as deftly and gently as a mother caring for a new-born babe; now he was trying to concoct some relish out of the slender materials he could beg or steal from the Quartermaster; now trying to arrange the shade of the bed of pine leaves in a more comfortable manner; now repairing or washing his clothes, and so on.

All the sailors were particularly favored by being allowed to bring their bags in untouched by the guards.  This “chicken” had a wonderful supply of clothes, the handiwork of his protector who, like most good sailors, was very skillful with the needle.  He had suits of fine white duck, embroidered with blue in a way that would ravish the heart of a fine lady, and blue suits similarly embroidered with white.  No belle ever kept her clothes in better order than these were.  When the duck came up from the old sailor’s patient washing it was as spotless as new-fallen snow.

I found my chum in a very bad condition.  His appetite was entirely gone, but he had an inordinate craving for tobacco—­for strong, black plug —­which he smoked in a pipe.  He had already traded off all his brass buttons to the guards for this.  I had accumulated a few buttons to bribe the guard to take me out for wood, and I gave these also for tobacco for him.  When I awoke one morning the man who laid next to me on the right was dead, having died sometime during the night.  I searched his pockets and took what was in them.  These were a silk pocket handkerchief, a gutta percha finger-ring, a comb, a pencil, and a leather pocket-book, making in all quite a nice little “find.”  I hied over to the guard, and succeeded in trading the personal estate which I had inherited from the intestate deceased, for a handful of peaches, a handful of hardly ripe figs, and a long plug of tobacco.  I hastened back to Watts, expecting that the figs and peaches would do him a world of good.  At first I did not show him the tobacco, as I was strongly opposed to his using it, thinking that it was making him much worse.  But he looked at the tempting peaches and figs with lack-luster eyes; he was too far gone to care for them.  He pushed them back to me, saying faintly: