“Yes; an hour ago.”
“How did he seem?” I asked.
“Said it hurt him a deal, just as if his ribs were broken. Ah! he doesn’t know what pain is.”
“Do you?” I said.
“Rather!” said the man. “One of their bullets went right through my thigh just about six inches below my hip. That is pain. It’s just as if a red-hot iron was being pushed through.”
“Can I get anything for you?” I said.
“No,” was the gruff reply; “unless you can get me a heap of patience to bear all this pain.”
I tried to say a few comforting words to him, but they only seemed to irritate.
“Don’t,” he said peevishly. “I know you want to be kind, my lad; but I’m not myself now, and it only makes me feel mad. There, thank ye for it all; but please go before I say something ungrateful.”
I crept away and tried to find the doctor who was with the corps; but he was busy with his wounded men, of whom he had about twenty. Giving up the satisfaction of getting his report about the young Lieutenant, I went to where Sandho was picketed with the rest, and stood by his head for about half-an-hour, petting and caressing him, before going back towards the rough breastwork—partly natural, partly artificial—which served as a shelter from the bullets.