With a sob Fred turned away, sick—sick at heart. He was choking with the horror that he saw.
Fred's gallant act in leading the charge had been noticed by General Cruft, and at the first opportunity he highly complimented his youthful aid. But to Fred it now all seemed like a dream—something not real. Could it be that only yesterday he was in that hell of fire, eager only to kill and maim! He sickened at the thought.
In the afternoon he went to see the prisoners mustered. As they marched along with downcast eyes, Fred saw a well-known form among the officers which sent every particle of blood from his face. Quickly recovering himself, he sprang forward, exclaiming, "Uncle Charles!"
Major Shackelford looked up in surprise, a frown came over his face, but he held out his hand, and said, "Fred, you here?"
"Is—is father—a—prisoner—or—killed?" Fred's voice trembled, then broke; he could not articulate another word.
"Your father is not here, thank God!" replied his uncle. "He is with Johnston at Bowling Green."
"Thank God!" echoed Fred.
He now noticed for the first time a young lieutenant, his neat uniform soiled and torn, and his eyes red with watching.
"Why, Cousin George, you here, too?" exclaimed Fred, holding out his hand.