As one of my chums said to me: "Wirz is the most even-tempered man I ever knew; he's always foaming mad." This was nearly the truth.

I never saw Wirz when he was not angry; if not violently abusive, he was cynical and sardonic.

Never, in my little experience with him did I detect a glint of kindly, generous humanity; if he ever was moved by any sight of suffering its exhibition in his face escaped my eye.

If he ever had even a wish to mitigate the pain or hardship of any man the expression of such wish never fell on my ear.

How a man could move daily through such misery as he encountered, and never be moved by it except to scorn and mocking is beyond my limited understanding.
Davis vapored a great deal, swearing big round oaths in the broadest of Southern patois; he was perpetually threatening to: "Open on ye wid de ahtillery," but the only death that I knew him to directly cause or sanction was that I have described in the previous chapter.