His Reasons for Leaving — 403
On our trip up the river once we had on board a tall, gaunt-looking volunteer. His appearance not only indicated that he was lately from the hospital, but that it would perhaps have been better for him to have remained there still, for he certainly did not seem to be in a fit condition to travel. He was from Eastern Ohio, and by some strange whim of his comrades (soldiers have odd notions as to name), he had won the cognomen of “Beauregard.” He was full of dry humour, and it had a peculiar zest, coming from such a dilapidated specimen of the human kind. I asked him: “How long were you in the hospital at ——?” “I stayed just five days; I couldn’t stand it any longer.” “Why so? Were you not well treated?” “Well, you see, when I went in there were six patients. The first day they buried one.” “Well, what of that?” “Nothing—only the very next day they buried another.” “They must have been severe cases, and made it very unpleasant for you.” “Unpleasant! I knew my turn would come in time. I went in on Monday, and if I stayed I would be carried out on Saturday. So I made my calculation, and on Friday I packed my knapsack and went away. If I had not, I’d surely been buried on Saturday. Six days—one man each day—could’t stand that.”