“Which way?” he thundered.
The young lady shrunk from the muzzle, and said: “How do I know?”
“Move on!” resounded from the lips of the officer in command, and the column rushed by, nearly trampling upon the ladies, who ran into the house.
Here a new incident greeted them, and one sufficiently tragic. Before the door, sitting on his horse, was a trooper, clad in blue—and at sight of him the ladies 230 shrunk back. A second glance showed them that he was bleeding to death from a mortal wound. The bullet had entered his side, traversed the body, issued from the opposite side, inflicting a wound which rendered death almost certain.
“Take me from my horse!” murmured the wounded man, stretching out his arms and tottering.
The young girls ran to him.
“Who are you—one of the Yankees?” they exclaimed.
“Oh, no!” was the faint reply. “I am one of Mountjoy’s men. Tell him, when you see him, that I said, ‘Captain, this is the first time I have gone out with you, and the last!’”
As they assisted him from the saddle, he murmured: “My name is William Armistead Braxton. I have a wife and three little children living in Hanover—you must let them know—”
The poor fellow fainted; and the young ladies were compelled to carry him in their arms into the house, where he was laid upon a couch, writhing in agony.