CHAPTER VI
THE REBEL SHARPSHOOTERS
“Lieutenant Somers, I don’t think I can stand it much longer,” said Phineas Deane, a private, who had joined the regiment a few days before the battle, as he saluted his officer.
“Can’t stand what?”
“The fact on’t is, lieutenant, I’m sick. I haven’t felt well for two or three days. I come out here to fight for my country, and I want to do some good. I might help take them prisoners back, if you say so.”
“Sick, are you? What’s the matter?”
“I’ve got a bad pain in the bowels,” replied Phineas, as he placed himself on the right side of a tree, and glanced uneasily in the direction of the rebel skirmish line. “I’m subject to sich turns, but allus git over ’em if I have a chance to lay down for a few hours.”
“Oh, well, you can lie down here!” added Somers, who understood the case pretty well.
“What! down here in the mud and water? Wal, that would be rather steep for a sick man,” said Phineas, with a ghastly smile, as he glanced again towards the enemy.
“I will get some medicine for you. Here, uncle, let me have one of your powders,” continued the lieutenant, addressing old Hapgood.