of me at the Opéra Comique one night, and there was my brave friend
the sergeant, safe and almost sound through all.

At the hospital, the night after the sortie I have just been
telling you of, we worked with our wounded until nearly morning. Dr.
Swinburne, I think, did not go to bed at all. And right here I
ought to introduce you more particularly to the old doctor. Take the
portrait of General Grant, run a good many streaks of gray through
his hair and beard, a few more lines on his forehead and crows' feet
around his eyes, and you have an idea of the doctor's looks. He is a
man of great energy and few words--a surgical genius and a great
lover of horses. He could or would explain nothing. At last we got to
calling him "Old Compound Fracture," for he would say, when we were
starting for a fight likely to be serious, "Boys, don't mind those
slightly wounded fellows--let the Frenchmen pick them up: just bring
me along the compound fractures." These latter were his hobby. He
fairly doted on a man whom ordinary surgeons would have given up in
despair; and I believe he was the happiest man in Paris when the
first patient who had his leg shattered in a half dozen places began
hobbling about the camp on crutches. The soldiers got to hear of
him at last. More than one poor fellow lying on the field grievously
wounded swore he would be taken to no place but to the American
hospital.

Our next important sortie was at Champigny. That was the occasion
when Ducrot was surely going to push through the German lines. In his
proclamation he had announced that he would re-enter Paris victorious
or dead. Of course he did not keep his promise. We were all to
rendezvous at the Champs de Mars that morning at four o'clock. About
three of the same morning Mont Valérien opened fire, and then Issy,