February 4th, 1864.
Fred Byron has given up the fight and sought repose in the bosom of his Mother Earth. His wound was not considered dangerous at first, but the shock was too great for his delicate constitution. He pined away gradually, almost imperceptibly, until I could carry him in my arms, like a child. Poor boy; my heart went out to him from the first, and his countenance always brightened when I entered the room. He lived about six weeks and—slept. He had neither father or mother on earth—no relatives but a brother and sister, both married. And so they have gone, the young, the brave, our country’s choicest spirits. Death has reaped a rich harvest.
Austin Draper is quite sick of a low form of fever. He is quite discouraged, poor fellow, but I do all I can to inspire him with hope, knowing this to be better than medicine. I do not know that I will be able to join the regiment before they go over the mountains. The Doctor and the men press me to stay. From choice, I would much rather be with the boys. Dr. Bevere has returned. It seems the Rebels did not think him worth his keep. He was with them three days and says they treated him well. The men are still on “tip-toe,” momentarily expecting orders to pack up and be off. They say, however, like the true heroes they are, they are willing to stay as long as they are needed.
