"And, spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile."--SHAKESPEARE.
I am running for life--a mass of fugitives around me--disorderly mob ...
I look behind--nothing but smoke ... I begin to walk.
The army was lost; it was no longer an army. As soon as the men had run
beyond gunshot they began to march, very deliberately, each one for
himself, away from the field. Companies, regiments, and brigades were
intermingled. If the rebels had been in condition to pursue us, many
thousands of our men would have fallen into their hands.
In vain I tried to find some group of Company D. Suddenly I felt
exhausted--sick from hunger and fatigue--and was compelled to stop and
rest. The line of the enemy did not seem to advance, and firing in our
rear had ceased.
A man of our company passed me--Edmonds. I called to him, "Where is the
company?"
"All gone," said he; "and you'd better get out of that, too, as quick as
you can."
"Tell me who is hurt," said I.
But he was gone, and I felt that it would not do for me to remain where
I was. I remembered Dr. Khayme's encouraging words as to my will, and by
great effort resolved to rise and run.
At length, as I was going down the slope toward the creek, I heard my
name called. I looked round, and saw a man waving his hand, and heard
him call me again. I went toward him. It was Willis; he was limping;
his hat was gone; everything was gone; in fact, he was hardly able
to march.
"Where are you hit?" I asked.
"The knee," he replied.
"Bad?"
"I don't think it is serious; it seems to me that it don't pain me as it
did awhile ago."
"Can you hold out till we find an ambulance?" I asked.
"Well, that depends; I guess all the ambulances are needed for men worse
off than I am."
Just then an officer rode along, endeavouring to effect some order, but
the men gave no attention to him at all. They had taken it into their
heads to go. By this time the routed troops before us were packed
between the high banks of the roadway which went down toward the creek.
I was desperately hungry, having eaten nothing since five o'clock in
the morning.
"Let's stay here and eat something," said I to Willis, "and let the
crowd scatter before we go on."
"No, not yet," said he; "we need water first. I couldn't swallow a
mouthful without water. Whiskey wouldn't hurt either. Got any water in
your canteen?"
"Not a drop," said I.
Although Willis was limping badly, the slow progress of the troops at
this point allowed him to keep up. At the bottom of the hill, where the
road strikes the low ground, the troops had greater space; some of them
followed their leaders straight ahead on the road; others went to the
right and left, seeking to avoid the crowd.
"Let's go up the creek," said Willis.
"What for?"
"To get water; I'm dying of thirst."
"Do you think you can stand it awhile longer?"
"Yes; at any rate, I'll keep a-goin' as long as God lets me, and I can
stand it better if I can get water and something to eat."
"Well, then, come on, and I'll help you as long as I can."
He leaned on me, hobbling along as best he could, and bravely too,
although, at every step he groaned with pain.
I had become somewhat attached to Willis. He was egotistic--just a
little--but harmlessly so, and his senses were sound and his will was
good; I had, too, abundant evidence of his liking for me. He was a
strapping fellow, more than six feet tall and as strong as a bullock.
So, while I fully understood the danger in tying myself to a wounded
comrade, I could not find it in my heart to desert him, especially since
he showed such determination to save himself. Besides, I knew that he
was quick-witted and country-bred; and I had great hope that he would
prove more of a help than a hindrance.
We followed a few stragglers who had passed us and were now running up
the creek seeking a crossing. The stream was shallow, but the banks were
high, and in most places steep. Men were crossing at almost all points.
Slowly following the hurrying groups of twos and threes who had
outstripped us, we found at length, a place that seemed fordable for
Willis. It was where a small branch emptied into the creek; and by
getting into the branch, above its mouth, and following its course, we
should be able to cross the creek.
"Lord! I am thirsty," said Willis; "but look how they have muddied the
branch; it's as bad as the creek."
"That water wouldn't do us any good," I replied.
"No," said he; "it would make us sick."
"But what else can we do?"
"Let's go up the branch, a little," said he.
All sounds in our rear had long since died away. The sun was yet
shining, but in the thick forest it was cool and almost dark. I hoped
that water, food, and a little rest would do us more good than
harm--that time would be saved, in effect.
A hundred yards above the mouth of the branch, we found the water clear.
I still had my canteen, my haversack with a cup in it, and food. Willis
lay on the ground near the stream, while I filled my canteen; I handed
it to him, and then knelt in the wet sand and drank.
The spot might have been well chosen for secrecy; indeed, we might have
remained there for days were it not for fear. A giant poplar had been
uprooted by some storm and had crushed in its fall an opening in, the
undergrowth. The trunk spanned the little brook, and the boughs,
intermingling with the copse, made a complete hiding-place.
I helped Willis to cross the branch; then we lay with the log at our
backs and completely screened from view.
Willis drank another great draught of water. I filled the canteen again,
and examined his wound. His knee was stiff and much swollen; just under
the knee-cap was a mass of clotted blood; this I washed away, using all
the gentle care at my command, but giving him, nevertheless, great pain.
A small round hole was now sean, and by gently pressing on its walls, I
thought I detected the presence of the ball.
"Sergeant," said I, "it's in there; I don't believe it's more than half
an inch, deep."
"Then pull it out," said Willis,
That was more easily said than done. Willis was lying flat on his back,
eating ravenously. From moment to moment I stuffed my mouth with
hardtack and pork.
I sharpened a reed and introduced its point into the wound; an obstacle
was met at once--but how to get it out? The hole was so small that I
conjectured the wound had been made by a buck-shot, the rebels using,
as we ourselves, many smooth-bore muskets, loaded with buck-and-ball
cartridges.
"Willis," said I, "I think I'd better not undertake this job; suppose I
get the ball out, who knows that that will be better for you? Maybe
you'd lose too much blood."
"I want it out," said Willis.
"But suppose I can't got it out; we might lose an hour and do no good.
Besides, I must insist that I don't like it. I think my business is to
let your leg alone; I'm no surgeon."
"Take your knife," said Willis, "and cut the hole bigger."
The wound was bleeding afresh, but I did not tell him so.
"No," said I; "your leg is too valuable for me to risk anything of that
kind."
"You refuse?"
"I positively refuse," said I.
We had eaten enough. The sun was almost down. Far away a low rumbling
was heard, a noise like the rolling of cars or of a wagon train.
Willis reluctantly consented to start. I went to the brook and kneaded
some clay into the consistency of plaster; I took off my shirt, and tore
it into strips. Against the naked limb, stiffened out, I applied a
handful of wet clay and smoothed it over; then I wrapped the cloths
around the knee, at every fold smearing the bandage with clay. I hardly
knew why I did this, unless with the purpose of keeping the knee-joint
from bending; when the clay should become dry and hard the joint would
be incased in a stiff setting which I hoped would serve for splints.
Willis approved the treatment, saying that clay was good for sprains,
and might be good for wounds.
I helped the sergeant to his feet. He could stand, but could hardly
move.
"Take my gun," said I, "and use it as a crutch."
He did as I said, but the barrel of the gun sank into the soft earth;
after two strides he said, "Here! I can get along better without it."
Meanwhile I had been sustaining part of his weight.
I saw now that I must abandon my gun--a smooth-bore, on the stock of
which, with a soldier's vanity, I had carved the letters J.B. I broke
the stock with one blow of the barrel against the poplar log.
I was now free to help Willis. Slowly and painfully we made our way
through the bottom. The cool water of the creek rose above our knees and
seemed to cheer the wounded man. The ascent of the further bank was
achieved, but with great difficulty.
[Illustration: BULL RUN, July 2l, 1861]
We rested a little while. Here, in the swamp, night was falling. We saw
no one, neither pursuers nor pursued. At length, after much and painful
toil, we got through the wood. The last light of day showed us a small
field in front. Willis leaned against a tree, his blanched face showing
his agony. I let down a gap in the fence.
It was clearly to be seen that the sergeant could do no more, and I
decided to settle matters without consulting him. In the field I had
seen some straw stacks. We succeeded in reaching them. At the bottom of
the smallest, I hollowed out a sort of cave. The work took but a minute.
Willis was looking on dully; he was on the bare ground, utterly done for
with pain and weariness. At length, he asked, "What's that for?"
"For you," I replied.
He said no more; evidently he appreciated the situation and at the same
time was too far gone to protest. I made him a bed and pulled the
overhanging straw thinly around him, so as effectually to conceal him
from any chance passer-by; I took off my canteen and haversack and
placed them within his reach. Then, with a lump in my throat, I bade
him good-by.
"Jones," said he, "God bless you."
"Sergeant," I said, "go to sleep if you can. I shall try to return and
get you; I am going to find help; if I can possibly get help, I will
come back for you to-night; but if by noon to-morrow you do not see me,
you must act for the best. It may become necessary for you to show
yourself and surrender, in order to get your wound properly treated; all
this country will be ransacked by the rebel cavalry before
to-morrow night."
"Yes, I know that," said Willis; "I will do the best I can. God bless
you, Jones."
Alone and lightened, I made my way in the darkness to the road which we
had left when we began to seek the ford. I struck the road a mile or
more to the north of Bull Run. There was no moon; thick clouds gave
warning of rain. I knew that to follow this road--the same circuitous
road by which we had advanced in the morning--was not to take the
nearest way to Centreville. I wanted to find the Warrenton turnpike, but
all I knew was that it was somewhere to my right. I determined to make
my way as rapidly as I could in that direction through the fields
and thickets.
For an hour or more I had blundered on through brush and brake, when
suddenly I seemed to hear the noise of a moving wagon. I went cautiously
in the direction of the sound, which soon ceased.
By dint of straining my eyes I could see an oblong form outlined against
the sky.
I went toward it; I could hear horses stamping and harness rattling;
still, I could see no one. The rear of the wagon, if it was a wagon, was
toward me.
I reasoned: "This cannot be a rebel ambulance; there would be no need
for it here; it must be one of ours, or else it is a private carriage;
it certainly is not an army wagon."
I advanced a little nearer, I had made up my mind to halloo, and had
opened my lips, when a voice came from the ambulance--a voice which I
had heard before, and which, stupefied me with astonishment.
"Is that you, Jones?"
I stood fixed. I seemed to recognize the voice, but surely my
supposition must be impossible.
A man got out of the ambulance, and approached; he had a pipe in his
mouth; he was a small man, not more than five feet tall. I felt as
though in the presence of a miracle.
"I have been seeking you," he said.