Sent up here Monday night,
14th. Seem'd to be doing pretty well till Wednesday noon, 16th,
when he took a turn for the worse, and a strangely rapid and fatal
termination ensued. Though I had much to do, I staid and saw all. It
was a death-picture characteristic of these soldiers' hospitals--
the perfect specimen of physique, one of the most magnificent I ever
saw--the convulsive spasms and working of muscles, mouth, and throat.
There are two good women nurses, one on each side. The doctor comes in
and gives him a little chloroform. One of the nurses constantly fans
him, for it is fearfully hot. He asks to be rais'd up, and they put
him in a half-sitting posture. He call'd for "Mark" repeatedly,
half-deliriously, all day. Life ebbs, runs now with the speed of
a mill race; his splendid neck, as it lays all open, works still,
slightly; his eyes turn back. A religious person coming in offers a
prayer, in subdued tones, bent at the foot of the bed; and in the
space of the aisle, a crowd, including two or three doctors, several
students, and many soldiers, has silently gather'd. It is very still
and warm, as the struggle goes on, and dwindles, a little more, and a
little more--and then welcome oblivion, painlessness, death. A pause,
the crowd drops away, a white bandage is bound around and under the
jaw, the propping pillows are removed, the limpsy head falls down, the
arms are softly placed by the side, all composed, all still,--and the
broad white sheet is thrown over everything.
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