And laid his body at the South Gate, beside some scores of others that were awaiting the arrival of the six-mule wagon that hauled them to the Potter’s Field, which was to be their last resting-place.

John Emerson and John Stiggall, of my company, were two Norwegian boys, and fine specimens of their race—­intelligent, faithful, and always ready for duty.  They had an affection for each other that reminded one of the stories told of the sworn attachment and the unfailing devotion that were common between two Gothic warrior youths.  Coming into Andersonville some little time after the rest of us, they found all the desirable ground taken up, and they established their quarters at the base of the hill, near the Swamp.  There they dug a little hole to lie in, and put in a layer of pine leaves.  Between them they had an overcoat and a blanket.  At night they lay upon the coat and covered themselves with the blanket.  By day the blanket served as a tent.  The hardships and annoyances that we endured made everybody else cross and irritable.  At times it seemed impossible to say or listen to pleasant words, and nobody was ever allowed to go any length of time spoiling for a fight.  He could usually be accommodated upon the spot to any extent he desired, by simply making his wishes known.  Even the best of chums would have sharp quarrels and brisk fights, and this disposition increased as disease made greater inroads upon them.  I saw in one instance two brothers-both of whom died the next day of scurvy—­and who were so helpless as to be unable to rise, pull themselves up on their knees by clenching the poles of their tents —­in order to strike each other with clubs, and they kept striking until the bystanders interfered and took their weapons away from them.

But Stiggall and Emerson never quarreled with each other.  Their tenderness and affection were remarkable to witness.  They began to go the way that so many were going; diarrhea and scurvy set in; they wasted away till their muscles and tissues almost disappeared, leaving the skin lying fiat upon the bones; but their principal solicitude was for each other, and each seemed actually jealous of any person else doing anything for the other.  I met Emerson one day, with one leg drawn clear out of shape, and rendered almost useless by the scurvy.  He was very weak, but was hobbling down towards the Creek with a bucket made from a boot leg.  I said: 

“Johnny, just give me your bucket.  I’ll fill it for you, and bring it up to your tent.”

“No; much obliged, M ——­” he wheezed out; “my pardner wants a cool drink, and I guess I’d better get it for him.”