Sent to the Hospital—The Convalescent's Vision—The Name on the Head-board—Killed July 28, 1864—Hom Taylor Died—Shot with his Harness On.

HAD stood the fatigues of the campaign thus far without once answering sick call, but in the latter part of July I began to feel “de misery in de bowels,” as the contrabands described the disease that attacked the soldiers when in camp, and sent so many of them to the cemeteries. I fought against it as long as I could, but I was finally compelled to give in, and allow the first sergeant to put my name on the sick book. I was very weak, and Taylor assisted me over to the surgeon's tent. The doctor marked me “sick in quarters” the first day, and I swallowed medicine every two hours all night. The next morning I was unable to get out of the dog tent Taylor had arranged for me.

Along in the middle of the day I fell asleep. Taylor had insisted that I should “take a nap between drinks,” as he called it.

“I 'll wake you up in time for your toddy,” he said.

I was awakened by the sounding of “boots and saddles” all through the camps.

“What's up?” I asked Taylor.

“Got to move right away; guess the Johnnies have broke in on us somewhere. But I'll ask the major to let me stay and take care of you.”

And my faithful nurse ran over to the commanding officer's tent and made the request.

“We ran away and enlisted together, Major, and the doctor says the chances are against him unless he's tended with great care. I don't want to shirk duty, but I'd like to stay and see my towny through.”

“I'll speak to the doctor about it,” replied the officer. “Tell the doctor to come here.”

When the surgeon appeared, he stated that the sick were to be sent to the hospital, and so it was decided that Taylor could not be spared to remain with me, as the movement was to be a reconnaissance in force on the north bank of the James, and every man would be needed. Taylor had to hustle to pack his traps and saddle up. After he had “buckled on his harness,” as he called it, he came back to me, and assisted the hospital steward and the driver in lifting me into an ambulance. I had just strength enough to raise my head and thank my comrade, who stood with a canteen of fresh water he had brought for me, beside a trooper who had been wounded in the arm while on picket, and who was to go with me in the ambulance.

“Thank you, Giles. Write and tell my folks about me the first chance you get.”

“I'm sorry to leave you, but I'll come over to City Point and see you in a few days. Keep up your courage; you'll pull through all right. But the company's leading out. I must go. Good-by.”

“Good-by, Giles.”.

I did not have strength enough to sit up in the ambulance and see the boys as they rode by, but Taylor had told them I was in the vehicle, and I could hear them say, “Good-by, Allen,” as they passed along.

Then I was “all shook up” as the ambulance driver cracked his whip and shouted to his mules to “git out o' hyar!” I do not remember how long we were on the road. I did not know then, for I was unconscious part of the time. Now and then we struck a long stretch of corduroy road. Oh! how it tortured me. Only old soldiers who “have been there” have any idea of the agony experienced in a ride over a corduroy road in an ambulance, particularly when the passenger is so weak that he cannot help himself at all.

“Drive around to the third tent there!”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many men have you?”

“One wounded, and one sick or dead boy, I don't know which. He's been fainting like, all the afternoon.” The above is what I heard upon regaining consciousness. We had arrived at the cavalry corps hospital on the bank of the Appomattox, just above City Point. I was taken from the ambulance and placed on a cot in one of the tents. Then I became unconscious again, but restoratives were given me, and I was able, when the attendants came around with supper, to swallow one spoonful of tea, after which I was given an anodyne which put me to sleep.

The cavalry corps hospital was separate from the general hospital of the Army of the Potomac at City Point, and was used exclusively for sick and wounded troopers. The best possible care was taken of the patients, and delicacies in the shape of corn starch, farina, beef tea, canned fruit, jellies and other articles not included in the regular rations were supplied. It was several days after my arrival before I was considered to have one chance in twenty of pulling through, but I had a strong constitution, and nature and the surgeon's prescriptions won after a hard struggle.

What a luxury I found the cot with its mattress, clean sheets and a pillow—just think of it!

After I had passed the critical point, hovering between life and death for several days, and began to mend, I took as deep an interest in my surroundings as was possible under the circumstances. Part of the time I was in a sort of semi-unconscious state, the quinine and other drugs causing my brain to be fired up so that the incidents from the campaign of the Wilderness to the crossing of the James were all jumbled together with recollections of home and the events of my boyhood.

My cot was near the open fly of the tent, and one day, early in August, I was bolstered up so that I could get a view of the grounds sloping away toward the Appomattox. The tents were on a little knoll, and the ground fell away toward the river for a short distance, and then there was quite a stretch of open land sloping upward to a ridge, on the other side of which was the Appomattox.

The intervening space, beginning at the foot of the slope and extending nearly to the rising ground toward the river, had been converted into a cemetery. Here were buried the troopers of Sheridan's command, whose bodies had been brought from the battlefields, and also those who had died in hospital. I soon tired of looking at the rows of head-boards, and asked to be laid back on my cot. Just as the attendant was removing the bolster which had supported me in a sitting posture, I fancied I saw the name “Taylor” on one of the slabs out there in the field.

As the nurse laid me back on my cot I was so fatigued that I could not collect my thoughts for some time. Then I began to think about the regiment. Why had not Taylor been to the hospital to see me? Was the cavalry on the north bank of the James? Had there been another raid? Was Giles sick? I went to sleep, and my dreams were of the kind that causes one to wake with his mind more confused than when he goes to sleep. The real and the unreal were so linked together that it was difficult to separate them.

The next day I was permitted to sit up in bed again. Then I began to search for that head-board that had made such an impression on me the day before.

After a time I located the one which had “Taylor” on it. But I was so weak that my eyes gave out before I could make out the rest of the inscription.

“Taylor?” said I to myself, “Taylor? Why, there are hundreds of Taylors in the army. This Taylor could be nothing to me.

“But where is my Taylor? Why hasn't he been to see me? Of course if anything had happened to Giles the boys would have sent me word.”

The ward master came along, and as he seemed to be a good-natured fellow, I said to him:

“Will you do me a favor?”

“Certainly, my boy, if I can. What is it?”

“Tell me what the inscription is on that head-board out there—the one with 'Taylor' on it?”

“Taylor is all I can make out from here, as the board is a little obliqued from this point; but if it'll be any accommodation to you, I'll go down there and see what it is.”

“I would be so thankful if you would.”

The ward master went down the slope and to the grave in which I had come to be so deeply interested. I was confident, or thought I was, that nothing could have happened to Giles, but at the same time I could not rest until I found out the full name of the trooper who slumbered in that particular grave. In a few minutes the ward master returned.

“It's Taylor,” he said.

“Yes; but what's the other name?”

“Giles Taylor.”

“What regiment?”

“First Massachusetts Cavalry.”

“What company?”

“Company I.”

“What else?”

“Killed, July 28, 1864.”

“Where?”

“Near Malvern Hill.”

“Lay me down, please.”

“All right, my boy; did you know the trooper buried out there?”

“Yes; we ran away together to enlist. He nursed me in camp when I was stricken, and helped put me in the ambulance when I was sent to the hospital; he was my bunkey, and the best friend I had in the company.”

“It's too bad; but war is a terrible thing.”

The day that I started for the hospital Sheridan crossed to the north bank of the James, to support a movement intended to cause Lee to withdraw the bulk of his army from the works in front of Petersburg. There was some lively fighting out near Malvern Hill, and during one of the attacks of the enemy Taylor was shot. The bullet entered his groin, severing the main arteries.

Daniel Booth, a bugler who was near Taylor when the latter was struck, assisted in getting the wounded man back out of range. Booth told me that Giles did not flinch—he was in the front rank when he was shot. He did not fall from his horse, but fired one or two shots after he was struck. Then he said to Booth:

“I'm hit—the blood's running into my boot; guess I'm hurt bad.”

Booth hastened to Taylor's assistance. The latter was growing weak from loss of blood. Just then Gen. Davies's headquarters ambulance came along, and the general who was near at hand and had seen Booth and another soldier supporting Taylor in the saddle, directed them to put him in the ambulance.

“No; don't let them put me in the ambulance, it'll kill me if they lay me down. Let me stay in the saddle, boys.”

Booth remained with Taylor till they reached the landing where the wounded men were being loaded on boats to be taken to City Point. A surgeon examined Taylor's wound.

“It's fatal,” the doctor whispered to Booth. “But he can't stay here; help him on board the boat.”

The boy bugler and others raised the dying trooper and bore him tenderly on board the steamer. They laid him down on a blanket among other wounded soldiers. Then the whistle blew, and the command was given, “All ashore that's going!” Taylor was sinking fast, but he pressed Booth's hand and said:

“Good-by, Booth; I'm dying. Send word to my folks at home—tell them I faced the music, and was shot with my harness on. Remember me to the boys.”

“Good-by, Giles.”

Booth jumped ashore as the gang plank was being pulled on board, and hastened back to the regiment. Poor Taylor was a corpse before the boat reached City Point. His body was taken to the cavalry corps hospital, and buried in the grave the head-board of which attracted my attention.