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I caught him m their arms, and gently j seated him on the ground against a bush.| His trousers reddened. They stripped off his clothes. The blood was gushing from his side in a torrent. The ball hail passed through the body just below the ribs, and lodged just under the skin above the opposite hip. All the doctors in Christendom could not have saved his life. Gen. Overton went forward and looked at him. A glance was suffi-cient. He rejoined Jackson, saying: “He’ll want no more of you, General.” They walked to where the horses were, tethered. Gen. Overton was on one side of Jackson and the surgeon on the other. Neither spoke a word. The surgeon saw one of Jackson’s shoes was full of blood. “ My God, General, you are hit 1” he exclaimed, pointing to the blood.“Yes, I believe he has sprinkled me j a little,” Jackson replied. “ Let’s look at it, but say nothing about it. ”He opened his coat. Dickinson’s aim had been perfect. He had sent the ball precisely where he supposed Jackson’s heart was beating. The thinness of his body and the looseness of his coat deceived him. It was a bad-looking wound. Two ribs were broken and the breas -bone was raked. Jackson mounted his horse and rode to the tavern. Upon approaching the house he went up to a negro woman, who was churning, and asked whether the butter had come. She said it was just coining. Ho asked for some buttermilk. While she was getting it for him he furtively opened his coat. She saw that his shirt was covered w’ith blood. While she was gazing at the sight, dipper in hand, he caught her eye, and hastily buttoned his coat. She dipped out a quart of buttermilk and gave it to him. He drank it off at a draught, and then went into the house and had his wound dressed. He sent a friend to inquire concerning Dickinson’s condition, and to offer the services of his surgeon. Dr. Catlet replied that Dickinson’s case was past all surgery. Gen. Jackson then sent a bottle of wine to the physician for the use of his patient. Dickinson bled to death. The flow of blood could not be stopped. He suffered extreme agony, and uttered distressing cries all day long. At 9 o’clock that night he asked why they had put out the lights. The end was at hand. Five minutes afterward he died, cursing with his last breath the ball that had entered his body. His wife had been summoned. Ou the way j to Hanison’s mills she met a procession j ! of silent horsemen escorting a rough emigrant wagon that contained her husband’s remains.Jackson gave as a reason for concealing his wound that, as Dickinson considered himself the best shot in the world, and was certain oi killing him at the first tire, ho did not want him to have the gratification of knowing that ho had touched him. “I should have hit him,” he said, “if he had shot me through the brain.”Jackson was taken to the Hermitage. His wound proved to be even more severe that was at first anticipated. It was a month before he could leave theMilieu peeieu on ins tupucit uuin, put down his hat, and took the gloves from the one who hail been worsted. The other man was the best boxer in the regiment, and there was intense excitement as the two squared off. Not a pass was made for a minute, and then the Senator found an opening and sent i a left-hander so straight and solid that I his opponent went down like a log. He j got up slowly and in a dazed condition, and, removing the gloves from his hands, approached the Senator and asked :“ Say, did you hit mo with a brick hospital ? ”“No, I struck with this,” replied Zach, as he held out his left.The man surveyed it, felt of it, run his j hand up and down the Senator’s arm, ! and turned to the boys and observed : “That settles me. I prefer the brick hospital! ”—Detroit Free Press.Donlevy's Door.“ I want a piece av a board sawed off, planed on the outside,” said Mr. Don-levy; “ we’d a few friends in at the house last night to a christenin’, and the lower part av the dure got kicked i out iu the merriment.”“How wide do you want the piece cut?” askod the carpenter.“ The width av the dure, av course,” replied Mr. Donlevy.“ And how wide is the door ?”“ Well, it’s as wide as a chair is long, jist. Ye kin jist lay a chair across it to keep the cliilder in an’ the pigs out, an’ it fits as though it war matched fur it.”“ But all chairs are not the same size,” said the carpenter.“Aw, thundher an’ turf! yer thiker-headed nor a railroad spike ; the chair comes up jist even wid the edge of the wiudy-siil.”“ But how high is the window-sill?” asked Mr. Chips.“Bother the badgerin’ tongue o’ ye,”J growled Mr. Doulevy; “ it’s only the ! widness av me hand, barrin’ the thumb, higher than the raiu-wather that sthauds outside; an’ av ye eau’t make it from that ye can lave the job, an’ I’ll take it to some carpiuther that uudersthaiids his business and knows the measure av a dure in his head widout making a cliatychism uv himself. Say, can ye cut me a piece aff’ the size av that, ye ! leather-headed wood butcher, ye, or will j I go liud a mau av ver craft that has half the sinse he wur born wid ?”And ho had to go find one.A Lumber Famine.Now the papers are predieting a lumber famine. Good gracious, have we got to go through that horror, too. Have we got to sit idly by and suffer, with no sixteen foot board to till an empty stomach, no bunch of shingles to cool our parched tongue, no cedar posts to till a want long felt, and no bundles of lath to press to our fevered lips. This is too much. We could stand the famine in lox cars, but to cut off our supply of lumber, just as we have got a new bottle of stomach bitters for an appetizer, is piling the agony on too thick.—Peck's Sun.
Newspaper Details
Fairfield Evening Journal
Fairfield, Iowa, US
Mon, Sep 12, 1881
Page 3
Full Page
Clipped by
Anonymous
TN, USA 04 Aug 2024
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