The wounded boy had a gun, and Don lost no time in taking possession of it. After seeing that the owner was cared for by some of the unarmed students, Don went back to his place in line, where he remained just long enough to fire one round, when the company was ordered off the track behind the embankment, and an inspection of boxes was held. To their great astonishment the young soldiers found that they had not more than two or three cartridges remaining. As it was impossible for them to hold their ground with so small a supply of ammunition, Mr. Kellogg thought it best to draw off while he could. The wounded were sent to the rear in charge of the boys who had lost their guns in the car, after which the company climbed the fence and struck off through an oat-field toward the road. Seeing this retrograde movement the mob made another charge, but one volley sufficed to check it. If the boys were whipped (as a Hamilton paper, which was cowardly enough to pander to the mob and to extol its heroism afterward declared they were) they did not know it, and neither did the rioters, who took pains after that to keep out of sight. They remained by the car, which they afterward used to carry their wounded to the city, and the students saw them no more that night.
It was during this short halt that Don Gordon, after firing his single round, was approached by Curtis and Egan, one of whom held a musket in each hand, while the other had his fingers tightly clasped around his wrist. The latter was Egan, and his left hand was covered with blood.
“Have you got a spare handkerchief about you, Gordon?” said he. “I’m hit.”
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Don. “When did you get it?”
“Just now. Curtis had a loud call too,” said Egan, nodding toward his friend. “His plume was shot out of his cap.”
“Let me look at your hand,” said Don, drawing a couple of handkerchiefs from his pocket.
“Oh, there’s no artery cut, for the blood comes out in drops and not in jets,” answered Egan. “But I am afraid my little finger has gone up. I have bled for my country and you haven’t.”
“And what’s more, I don’t want to,” said Don.
The latter bandaged the wounded hand as well as he could, and the line moved on across the oat-field. On the way the boy who had been shot through the leg, gave out and had to be carried. The other held up bravely, making frequent and clamorous demands for his gun, and announcing his readiness, severely wounded as he was, to whip the boy who stole it from him. Don kept a still tongue in his head. He had the gun, and being in a better condition to use it than the owner was, he determined to hold fast to it.
When they reached the road they tore a panel or two of the fence to pieces to make a litter for the boy who had given out, and here they were joined by ten or a dozen of their comrades who had left the car by the rear door. By some extraordinary streak of good luck, such as might not have fallen to them again in a thousand years, they had succeeded in escaping the mob and finding refuge in a culvert under the railroad. They brought two wounded boys with them, one of whom had been struck in the eye with a buck-shot, while the other had had his scalp laid open by a vicious blow from the butt of a musket as he was jumping from the car.