“Come with me, Pennington,” said Colonel Winchester, “and you, too, Sergeant Whitley.”
The two men and the boy led the way upon the field, and the two women came close behind. They soon entered upon the area of conflict. The colonel had said that it would be terrible, but Mrs. Mason scarcely dreamed of the reality. It was one vast scene of frightful destruction, of torn and trampled earth and of dead men lying in all directions. The black of her faithful servant's face turned to an ashen gray, and she trembled more than her mistress.
Colonel Winchester had a very clear idea of the line along which his regiment had advanced and retreated, and he followed it. But the lantern did not enable them to see far. As happened so often after the great battles of the Civil War, the signs began to portend rain. The long drouth would be broken, but whether by natural change or so much firing Colonel Winchester did not know. Despite the lateness of the season dim lightning was seen on the horizon. The great heat was broken by a cool wind that began to blow from the northwest.
The five advanced in silence, the two men and the boy still leading and the two women following close behind. Colonel Winchester's heart began to sink yet farther. He had not felt much hope at first, and now he felt scarcely any at all. A few moments later, however, the sergeant suddenly held up his hand.
“What is it?” asked the colonel.
“I think I hear somebody calling.”
“Like as not. Plenty of wounded men may be calling in delirium.”
“But, colonel, I've been on battlefields before, and this sounds like the voice of some one calling for help.”
“Which way do you think it is?”
“To the left and not far off. It's a weak voice.”