"I wish I could tell you," said the large man.
There were seven men in the group around the fire; the eyes of all were upon the large man called Doc. He seemed a man of character and influence, though but a private. He turned to me.
"You are tired," he said.
I merely nodded assent. His remark surprised and disconcerted me, so that I could not find my voice. In a moment my courage had returned. The look of the man was the opposite of suspicious--it was sympathetic. He was not baldly curious. His attitude toward me might shield me from the curiosity of the others, if, indeed, they were feeling interest of any sort in me. I had been fearing that some one would ask me my regiment.
"I want to go home to my mammy!" screamed a voice at the next fire.
Nobody gave this yell the least notice. I supposed it a common saying with homesick soldiers.
I wondered what Doc and the other men were thinking of me. Perhaps I was thought a friend of one of the men who had brought the water; perhaps nobody thought anything, or cared anything, about me. Although I felt helpless, I would remain.
A torn envelope was lying on the ground, within a few inches of my hand. The addressed side was next the ground. My fears fled; accident had helped me--had given me a plan.
I turned the letter over. The address was:--
PRIVATE D.W. ROBERTS,
Co. G, 7th N.C. Reg't,
Branch's Brigade,
Gordonsville, Va.