left me there to have fly-blowed had they not feared the
temper of the crowd. It was a painful surprise to me to meet such
indifference, if not hostility, in Central New York, when I had just
experienced such helpful kindness in Baltimore, Philadelphia, and even
in New York, a place that usually cares for nothing and no one, except
commercially. From Utica I was taken in an ambulance to Unadilla Forks,
N. Y.

At the end of a week my shoulder was operated on, and three inches of
the humerus taken out from the shoulder joint down. The operation was
performed by Dr. King, and was an excellent one. A week after that
operation, an incision was made into the stump and the bullet that broke
the leg was taken out. That it was in the stump was, of course, a
surprise, and when the surgeons of my regiment were informed what had
been done, they claimed to be much surprised, and said that they traced
out the bullet that they amputated for, and that the bullet extracted by
Dr. King must have been a second one. I have always had the impression
that I was hit in the leg lower down, and before the one came that broke
the leg, but of that I am not certain.

With two such wounds as I had, and one poisoned for six weeks with a
Minnie bullet, it was a slow process to recover, but I made steady
progress with, of course, occasional pull backs.

I think it was in September, 1863, and after I reached my home, that
George Jacobs, a sergeant in my company of New Berlin, called on me.
George was _one_ of the best soldiers in the regiment. In a fight no one
could be better. He was home on a ten days furlough. Of course, the best
in the land was free to him, and he was feasted by parents and friends.
As he was about ready to start back, he was taken violently sick with a
stomach trouble and died in a few hours.

In December, 1863, I was ordered to report at a hospital at Annapolis,
Md. I started alone with one crutch, and my arm in a sling. At Albany I
stopped over night with my cousin Stewart Campbell, and well remember
that evening reading in the _Atlantic Monthly_ that wonderful story, "A
Man Without a Country," by Edward Everett Hale. It made a deep
impression on my mind and it confirmed the sentiment I had cherished
that it was well worth hardship, wounds, loss of limbs, or life even, to
have a hand in preserving in its integrity such a country as ours. I
reached Annapolis all right. In about a week I was ordered to
Washington, and mustere