Who Goes There?. B. K. Benson
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.
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.
IV
A PERSONAGE
"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