He had
been often wounded, and had just had a leg amputated for an old wound,
received in the war of 1812, I believe. Liquor brought him to that.
The reader will remember that the night the Scourge went down I received a
severe blow from her jib-sheet blocks. A lump soon formed on the spot
where the injury had been inflicted, and it had continued to increase
until it was now as large as my fist, or even larger. I showed this lump
to James, one day, and he mentioned it to Dr. Foltz, the surgeon who
attended the house. The doctor took a look at my arm, and recommended an
operation, as the lump would continue to increase, and was already so
large as to be inconvenient. I cannot say that it hurt me any, though it
was an awkward sort of swab to be carrying on a fellow's shoulder. I had
no great relish for being carved, and think I should have refused to
submit to the operation, were it not for James, who told me he would not
be carrying Bunker Hill about on _his_ arm, and would show me his own
stump by way of encouragement. This man seemed to think an old sailor
ought to have a wooden leg, or something of the sort, after he had reached
a certain time of life. At all events, he persuaded me to let the doctor
go to work, and I am now glad I did, as everything turned out well. Doctor
Foltz operated, after I had been about a week under medicine, doing the
job as neatly as man could wish.
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