CAMP SAXTON, BEAUFORT, February 8, 1863.
I feel that it was a little cowardly in me to run away from camp yesterday, but I knew that three of our good soldiers must die within a few hours and I could do no more for them. It is just impossible for me to get used to losing patients. Such death is equivalent to losing some vital part of one's self. This comes from distrust of myself, rather than of God. Our sick list is rapidly lessening and all will soon be as usual. I have this afternoon conversed with a pro-slavery surgeon, who has had much to do with negroes. I thought he seemed rather pleased in making the statement that their power of endurance was not equal to that of the whites. I nevertheless gathered valuable information and hints relative to their treatment. If I am permitted to remain in this regiment a year I shall prove that, while the blacks are subject to quite different diseases from those of the whites, the mortality among them will average less and the available strength or efficiency will average more. This is the season for white soldiers to be well and blacks to be ill. . .
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