rrived late at night,
and, as it was dark, we could not see what they looked like. The
lieutenant of the guard asked us to find a place for them to lie down.
Brayton slept on the table. Calling the men, he said they could find
room enough underneath.

After daylight we gathered around our new companions. They were still
handcuffed together. It was a pitiful sight to look at them, dirty and
ragged, with their ankles swollen up by scurvy. The face of one of them
was badly swollen, and covered with pustules. The surgeon was at once
sent for. He pronounced it to be small-pox. The sick man was sent to the
pest-house; his companion was isolated in the barracks. The first one
finally recovered, but his companion caught the infection and died. In a
few days Brayton showed symptoms of small-pox, was removed to the
pest-house, and also died. William Brayton was a sail-maker in the
United States navy; his rank was that of warrant officer, a distinct
grade from the line or staff officers. He was wounded and taken prisoner
during the midnight surprise attack on Fort Sumter by the navy. A bullet
had shattered his right forearm, and also went through the fleshy part
of his right leg. Fortunately Captain Sennes realized the danger of
having the officers and privates confined together. Besides, it was not
a customary thing on either side, and, consequently, the privates were
returned to the barracks in the yard, much to our satisfaction. They had
the freedom of the yard nearly all day, which made them satisfied with
the change.

I commenced to feel sick and discouraged, and had an inclination to lie
on the floor continually. The surgeon examined me and gave me some
quinine pills, saying that I probably had malarial fever. For several
mornings he visited me, and was very particular about looking at my
tongue. Finally a peculiar white mark showed on the tip end. There was
no mistaking that mark. I had typhoid fever. Orders were given to send
for the ambulance, and have me taken to the hospital. A large church on
the outskirts of the town was to be my future abode. It was called the
Second North Carolina Hospital. Why it received that name I could never
find out. Opposite to it was the beautiful mansion and grounds belonging
to General Wade Hampton, the pride of South Carolina. That misguided
hero went through the war all right, only to lose a leg afterward, most
unromantically, by a kick from a mule.

CHAPTER XXIV

A CRACKER BE