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"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.

BULL RUN, July 21, 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.