"I cannot tell
What heaven hath given him; let some graver eye
Pierce unto that."--SHAKESPEARE.
For a time I was dumb. I knew not what to say or ask or think. The
happenings of this terrible day, which had wrought the defeat of the
Union army, had been too much for me. Vanquished, exhausted, despairing,
heart-sore from enforced desertion of my wounded friend, still far from
safety myself, with no physical desire remaining except the wish to lie
down and be at rest forever, and with no moral feeling in my
consciousness except that of shame,--which will forever rise uppermost
in me when I think of that ignominious day,--to be suddenly accosted by
the man whom I held in the most peculiar veneration and who, I had
believed, was never again to enter into my life--accosted by him on the
verge of the lost battlefield--in the midst of darkness and the débris
of the rout, while groping, as it were, on my lone way to security
scarcely hoped for--it was too much; I sank down on the road.
How long I lay there I have never known--probably but few moments.
The Doctor took my hand in his. "Be consoled, my friend," said he; "you
are in safety; this is my ambulance; we will take you with us."
Then, he called to some one in the ambulance, "Reed, bring me the flask
of brandy."
When I had revived, the Doctor urged me to climb in before him.
"No," I cried, "I cannot do it; I cannot leave Willis; we must get
Willis."
"I heard that Willis was shot," said he; "but I had supposed, from the
direction you two wore taking when last seen, that he had reached the
field hospital. Where is Willis now?"
I told him as accurately as I could, and in half an hour we were in the
stubble-field. For fear the sergeant should be unnecessarily alarmed on
hearing persons approach, I called him softly by name; then, hearing no
answering call, I raised my voice--"Willis! It is Jones, with help!" But
there was no response.
We found the sergeant fast asleep. It was more difficult to get him
awake than to get him into the ambulance. Reed and I picked him up
bodily and laid him down on a mattress in the bottom of the vehicle.
And now, with my load of personal duty gone, I also sank back and
slumbered through a troubled night, and when I fully awoke it was six in
the morning and we were crossing Long Bridge in the midst of a driving
rain. There were two seats in the ambulance, besides a double-deck, that
is to say, two floors for wounded to lie upon. I scrambled to the
rear seat.
We were making but slow progress. The bridge ahead of us was crowded.
There were frequent stoppages. Many civilians, on horseback or in
carriages, were before and behind us. Soldiers single and in groups
swelled the procession, some of them with their arms in slings; how they
had achieved the long night march I cannot yet comprehend.
Willis was yet lying on the mattress; his eyes were not open, but he was
awake, I thought, for his motions were restless.
Reed appeared to be exhausted; he said nothing and nodded sleepily,
although holding the lines. The Doctor, on the contrary, looked fresh
and vigorous; indeed, as I closely studied his face, I could almost have
believed that he had become younger than he had been when I parted with
him in Charleston, more than three years before. He knew that I was
observing him, for he said, without turning his face toward me, "You
have not slept well, Jones; but you did not know when we stopped at
Fairfax; we rested the horses there for an hour."
"Yes," I said, "I feel stupid, and my spirits are wofully down."
"Why so?" he asked, with a smile.
"Oh, the bitter disappointment!" I cried; "what will become of the
country?"
"What do you mean by the country?" asked the Doctor.