started.

About a half a mile from my regiment I came to one of those Virginia
fences, got up on top of it, and sat thinking, and while sitting there the
shells began to fly pretty thick. I thought I had better be moving, jumped
down, and as I did so a shell struck one of the rails of the fence. A
piece of the rail struck me and was harder than I was, for when I came to
my senses I found I was in the hospital. I didn't think I was hurt very
badly, but when I tried to get up, found I couldn't. From there they moved
me to "Balfour Hospital" at Portsmouth, Virginia. I never will forget the
shame and mortification I felt at the sight I must have presented when the
boat that conveyed us to Portsmouth arrived.

An old negro came to my bunk and took me on his back, and with a boot in
each hand dangling over his shoulder he carried me pickaback through the
streets to the hospital, a large, fine building, formerly the "Balfour
Hotel," and converted into a hospital after Portsmouth was captured. They
took me up stairs into what was formerly the dining-room but now filled
with over two hundred little iron beds, and each bed occupied by a wounded
soldier. Everything in and about the place was as neat as wax. They
carried me to a vacant bed near the center of the room, and I noticed the
next bed to mine had several tin dishes hanging over it, suspended from
the ceiling. These were filled with water, and from a small hole punctured
in the bottom the water would slowly but constantly drip upon some poor
fellow's wound to keep it moist. I had just sat down on the side of my
bed, when I was startled by the sound of a familiar voice. "Hello, cully!
What you been doin', playing with one of those d--d shells, too?"

No, I replied, the shells were playing with me. Then I recognized the
occupant of the next bed as my drummer boy acquaintance who had his hands
blown off a week ago. What a strange thing that we should be brought
together side by side again, both wounded with a shell and nearly on the
same spot.

He had changed wonderfully; his little white pinched face told too plainly
the suffering he had endured. I asked him how he was getting along.

"Oh I'm getting along pretty d--d fast. I guess I'll croak in a few days."

"Oh you musn't talk that way, you'll be all right in a little while."

"Oh, no, cully, I know better. I'm a goner; I know it. I don't want to
live, anyhow. What in h--l is the good of a man without hands?" Then
tu