Finally, he called Wing and Hay (who had succeeded in making his escape from Monck’s camp) to attend him, and rode off to inspect in person a certain locality in the neighborhood, where he proposed that his regiment should bivouac for the night.
They followed the old turnpike road down the hill, until they came to the open plain, across which Goldsborough’s men had marched that day.
Straight before them, under the dark eastern horizon, was dimly seen a grove, or piece of woods.
“There is the place where we shall halt to-night, Wing. As we have no tents, the trees must give us shelter. And I am told that there is a fine spring of water. Our tired and hungry men will be comfortable there,” said Colonel Rosenthal, pointing to the grove.
“And the wounded, my Colonel?” inquired Wing, gently.
“You always remember the wounded, my boy. Well, they will be taken care of. Captain Hopkins and Surgeon Sharpe are in charge of the wounded. And lest you should also think the dead may be neglected, I will inform you that Lieutenant Barnwell and Chaplain Jones are entrusted with the arrangements for their Christian burial. Are you satisfied now, Wing?”
“Thanks, my Colonel, for your information, and also for your kind indulgence of what might be called impertinence in me,” said Wing, respectfully raising his cap.
Colonel Rosenthal smiled wistfully, but did not reply.
The sun had long set, and the moon had not yet risen. But it was a clear, bright, starlight night, and they continued their way across the plain, strangely soothed by the sweet stillness and peacefulness of the scene.
They rode along, drawing nearer and nearer to the grove, until at length, when they were within a few hundred yards of it, they were startled by screams issuing from its shadows, a woman’s piercing screams, mingled with cries of—