I felt disheartened
for the moment, but after a consultation with Dr. McAllister, surgeon
in charge,--than whom a better disciplinarian or a kinder-hearted man
never lived,--it was decided that Peter should be induced or compelled
to receive my ministrations. For several days, however, he remained
sullen and most unwilling to be nursed, but this mood softened, and
long before he was well enough to leave the ward the warm Irish heart
had melted, and I had secured a friend whose unalterable devotion
attended me through all the vicissitudes of the war.
Being permanently disabled, by reason of his wound, from service in
the field, Peter was detailed for hospital service, and by his own
request attached to my special corps of assistants. He could and did
in a hundred ways help me and contribute to my comfort. No matter how
many times I met him during the day, he never passed without giving me
a military salute. If I was detained by the bedside of one very ill or
dying, hoping to save life, or at least to receive and treasure "for
the loved ones at home" some word or message, I was sure to hear
Peter's limping step and his loud whisper, "Sure it's dying he is;
can't ye lave him in the hands av God, an' go to your bed?" He
constituted himself, in many cases, my mentor, and deeply resented any
seeming disrespect towards me.
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