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In one bed a young man,
Company K, Seventh Maine.
Sick with dysentery and typhoid fever,
pretty critical case.
I talk with him often,
he thinks he will die,
looks like it too.
I let him talk to me a little, but not much.
Advise him to keep very quiet,
do most of the talking myself.
Stay quite awhile with him,
as he holds on to my hand,
talk to him in a cheering, but
slow, low and measured manner.
Talk about his furlough,
and going home as soon
as he is able to travel.
He suffers horribly,
has to be constantly dosed with morphine,
his face ashy and glazed,
bright young eyes.
He asked me to read him a chapter in the new testament
how Christ rose again.
I read very slowly,
for he was feeble.
It pleased him very much,
yet there were tears in his eyes.
Heasked me if I enjoyed religion.
I said, "Perhaps not in the way you mean."
He said, "It is my chief reliance."
He talked of death and said he did not fear it.
I said, "Don't you think you will get well?"
He said, "I may, but it is not likely."
And he turned his face away from me, and died.
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