A boy with his arm torn off by a shell expressed his only complaint in the words, "I never can fight any more."
One evening, worn out by constant labor and watching, I lay down in a vacant place in the tent, from which a dead soldier had been removed, to find rest for mind and body in sleep. As I lay there thinking of the dreadful scenes around me, of the wounded and dying here, the dead just over yonder, I began to wonder what would be the sensations of a man shot in the brain. Suddenly there came a shock, as if the whole machinery of life had stopped at once. How long a time elapsed before consciousness was resumed I do not know; the interval may have been momentary; but as a dim sense of being stole over me again, I was quite convinced that a stray shot had struck me in the head. Rousing myself, I deliberately felt my head, to learn the exact state of things. To my surprise and gratification, I found every thing in due order. I leave it to those who are skilled in the mysteries of the nervous system to explain the phenomenon; but you must allow me to believe that I know something of what it is to be shot in the head.
The time arrived, at length, when the field hospitals must be moved because of the changed position of the army. A heavy rain began on the 11th, and continued for some days, making the roads almost impassable. The wounded that remained were removed as speedily and as mercifully as possible. Some had to be left behind. Nurses were detailed to remain with them. As night came on every thing was in readiness, and the rest of us were directed to take our departure without delay. Two of us started together after dark. We made our way through the mud and intense darkness about twenty rods, to the edge of a wood. We resolved to go no further, come what might. Doubling myself up at the root of an old stump, I was soon oblivious to both rain and danger. Just as day was breaking, I awoke, and arousing my companion, we hastened away.
Chapter V.
This closed my experience in the hospital. I was so worn out by the constant strain which such labor made on body and mind, that rest was imperative. During all these days I could get no definite information of the fate of John Elliot. The wounded reported that he was missing, but whether among the dead or living they could not tell. It was difficult to drive away the thought of the painful possibilities that imagination would bring up. Had he been disabled that first day in the wilderness and perished in the flames of the burning woods? Had he been mortally wounded, and died alone in the thick underbrush which veiled so many tragic scenes? Had death come more swiftly and mercifully, or was he a prisoner and unharmed? Such were the questions that might be solved by inquiry among the members of the company.
After some delay I found the regiment by a little stream called the Ny. The spot on which they were camped, or rather resting under arms, was within beautiful shelling range of the rebel batteries, as I found out afterward to my great discomfort and dismay. Toward evening, Sergeant W. Coleman was taken quite sick, and at his request I started with him to find the hospital. After proceeding some distance, he became so ill that we could go no further, and some means of conveyance must be found. A stretcher was procured, and two men to carry him. To these I confided my charge, and began to retrace my steps. It was now after dark, a clear, moonless night. Crossing the little stream at the point where I had left the regiment a few hours before, to my great disappointment not a man could be found.
What to do was a puzzling question. The resolution was finally taken to spend a few hours, at least, in trying to find them. At first I started in a direction bearing toward the right, but soon met a column marching toward the left. Reasoning that if troops were being moved to the left, none would be moving at the same time toward the right, I fell in with this column, determined to see what the outcome would be. Soon the open ground was crossed, and the column began to bear to the right of its line of march, through the woods. Presently I noticed that an unusual silence was observed. Not a word was spoken above a whisper, every noise and clatter incident to the march were carefully avoided.
Growing weary at length, and reflecting that after all I might be going away from the regiment instead of toward it, I dropped out of the line and lay down against the root of a tree close to the road, to sleep till morning. Half sleeping and half waking I lay there, dreamily watching that army of shadows gliding stealthily by. Shadows they seemed as they moved hurriedly along under the gloom of the overhanging trees, as noiseless almost as an army of spirits from Homer's nether world. The mystery of this secret night march served to quicken imagination, and I could see this same column grimly marshaling in "battle's magnificently stern array" in the dim light of the coming morning, ready to burst upon some exposed point of the enemy's line.