Sergeant, and the stripe at his cuff that he was a veteran.  Some kind-hearted boys had found him in a miserable condition on the North Side, and carried him over in a blanket to where the doctors could see him.  He had but little clothing on, save his blouse and cap.  Ulcers of some kind had formed in his abdomen, and these were now masses of squirming worms.  It was so much worse than the usual forms of suffering, that quite a little crowd of compassionate spectators gathered around and expressed their pity.  The sufferer turned to one who lay beside him with: 

“Comrade:  If we were only under the old Stars and Stripes, we wouldn’t care a G-d d—­n for a few worms, would we?”

This was not profane.  It was an utterance from the depths of a brave man’s heart, couched in the strongest language at his command.  It seemed terrible that so gallant a soul should depart from earth in this miserable fashion.  Some of us, much moved by the sight, went to the doctors and put the case as strongly as possible, begging them to do something to alleviate his suffering.  They declined to see the case, but got rid of us by giving us a bottle of turpentine, with directions to pour it upon the ulcers to kill the maggots.  We did so.  It must have been cruel torture, and as absurd remedially as cruel, but our hero set his teeth and endured, without a groan.  He was then carried out to the hospital to die.

I said the doctors made a pretense of affording medical relief.  It was hardly that, since about all the prescription for those inside the Stockade consisted in giving a handful of sumach berries to each of those complaining of scurvy.  The berries might have done some good, had there been enough of them, and had their action been assisted by proper food.  As it was, they were probably nearly, if not wholly, useless.  Nothing was given to arrest the ravages of dysentery.

A limited number of the worst cases were admitted to the Hospital each day.  As this only had capacity for about one-quarter of the sick in the Stockade, new patients could only be admitted as others died.  It seemed, anyway, like signing a man’s death warrant to send him to the Hospital, as three out of every four who went out there died.  The following from the official report of the Hospital shows this: 

Total number admitted .........................................12,900
Died ................................................. 8,663
Exchanged ............................................   828
Took the oath of allegiance ..........................    25
Sent elsewhere ....................................... 2,889

Total ................................................1

2,400

Average deaths, 76 per cent.

Early in August I made a successful effort to get out to the Hospital.  I had several reasons for this:  First, one of my chums, W. W. Watts, of my own company, had been sent out a little whale before very sick with scurvy and pneumonia, and I wanted to see if I could do anything for him, if he still lived:  I have mentioned before that for awhile after our entrance into Andersonville five of us slept on one overcoat and covered ourselves with one blanket.  Two of these had already died, leaving as possessors of-the blanket and overcoat, W. W. Watts, B. B. Andrews, and myself.