Marion, Alabama, but removed later to Philadelphia, whore he now
resides, still as a professor and teacher of music.

The cold increased, and the number of patients grew larger. Snow and
ice rendered it difficult for me to get to the wards, as they lay
quite far apart. The boarding-house at first occupied by the surgeons'
families was now vacated and fitted up for officers' wards, a room
being found for me in a log house, owned by an old lady, Mrs. Evans,
whose sons, except the youngest, a mere lad, were in the Confederate
army.

It was nearly a quarter of a mile from the courthouse. The road
thither, lying through a piece of piney woods, was almost always
blocked by drifted snow or what the Georgians called "slush" (a
mixture of mud and snow). I must confess that the freezing mornings
chilled my patriotism a little, but just because it _was_ so cold the
sick needed closer attention. One comfort never failed me: it was the
watchful devotion of a soldier whom I had nursed in Gainesville,
Alabama, and who, by his own request, was now permanently attached to
my special corps of "helpers." No matter how cold the morning or how
stormy, I never opened my door but there was "Old Peter" waiting to
attend me. When the blinding storms of winter made the roads almost
impassable by night, Peter would await my departure from the hospital
with his lantern, and generally on very stormy nights with an old
horse which he borrowed for the occasion, savagely cutting short my
remonstrances with a cross "Faith, is it now or in the mornin' ye'll
be lavin'?" He would limp beside me quite to the door of my room, and
with a rough "Be aisy, now," in reply to my thanks, would scramble
upon the horse and ride back.