In several places the dead are stripped of their clothing by the thieves, who do not always spare the wounded who are still living.
Besides these painful sights are others still more dramatic.
Here the old, retired General Le Breton wanders, seeking his son-in-law, the wounded General Douay, who has left his daughter, Madame Douay, in the midst of the tumult of war, in a state of the most cruel uneasiness. There, Colonel de Maleville, shot at Casa Nova, expires. Here, it is Colonel de Genlis, whose dangerous wound causes a burning fever. There, Lieutenant de Selve of the artillery, only a few weeks out of Saint Cyr, has his right arm amputated on the battle-field, where he was wounded.
I help care for a poor sergeant-major of the Vincennes Chasseurs, both of whose legs are pierced through with balls. I meet him again in the Brescia Hospital; but he will die crossing Mount Cenis.
Lieutenant de Guiseul, who was believed dead, is picked up on the spot, where, having fallen with his standard, he was lying in a swoon. The courageous sub-lieutenant Fournier, of the flying-guard, gravely wounded, finishes in his twentieth year a military career commenced in his tenth year by voluntarily enlisting in the foreign legion. They bury the Commander de Pontgibaud, who died during the night, and the young Count de Saint Paer, who had attained the rank of major hardly seven days before. General Auger, of the artillery, is carried to the field hospital of Casa Morino. His left shoulder has been shattered by a six-inch shell, part of which remained imbedded for twenty-four hours in the interior of the muscles of the armpit. Carried to Castiglione he is attacked with gangrene, and dies as a result of the disarticulation of the arm. General de Ladmirault and General Dieu, both gravely wounded, also arrived at Castiglione.
The lack of water becomes greater and greater. The sun is burning, the ditches are dried up. The soldiers have only brackish and unwholesome water to appease their thirst. Where even the least little stream or spring trickling drop by drop is found, guards with loaded guns have great difficulty in preserving this water for the most urgent needs.
Wounded horses, who have lost their riders, and have wandered during the whole night, drag themselves to their comrades, from whom they seem to beg for help. They are put out of their agony by a bullet. One of these noble chargers comes alone into the midst of a French company. The rich saddle-bag, fastened to the saddle, shows that it belongs to Prince von Isenberg. Afterwards, the wounded Prince himself is found; but careful nursing during a serious illness will allow him to return to Germany, where his family, in ignorance of the truth, have believed him dead and have mourned for him.
Among the dead some have peaceful faces; these are the men who were struck suddenly and died at once. But those who did not perish immediately have their limbs rigid and twisted in agony, their bodies are covered with dirt; their hands clutch the earth, their eyes are open and staring, a convulsive contraction has uncovered their clenched teeth.
Three days and three nights are passed in burying the dead who are left on the battle-field.
On so large a field, many of the corpses hidden in the ditches, covered by the thickets or by some uneveness of the ground are discovered very late. They, as well as the dead horses, emit a fetid stench.