He started down the aisle.
“We can be burdened with no helpless or badly wounded men,” he said sternly. “Only those able to ride. No, my man, you are in too bad shape to travel. Very sorry, my boy, but it can't be done. Only your left arm, you say? Very well, move out in front there. No, lad, it would be the death of you, for we must ride fast and hard.”
He came to a pause a half-dozen cots away from me, and seemed about to retrace his steps. Dim as the light was, I felt convinced I had formerly seen that short figure and stern face with its closely cropped beard.
“Mosby,” I called out, resolved to risk his remembrance, “Colonel Mosby, isn't it possible to take me?”
“Who are you?” he questioned sharply, turning in the direction of my voice.
“Wayne,” I answered eagerly, “Wayne, of the ——th Virginia.”
In an instant he was standing beside my cot, his eyes filled with anxious interest.
“Phil Wayne, of Charlottesville? You here? Not badly hurt, my boy?”
“Shot and bruised, Colonel, but I'd stand a good deal to get out of this.”
“And, by the Eternal, you shall; that is, if you can travel in a wagon. Here, Sims, Thomas; two of you carry this officer out. Take bed-clothes and all—easy now.”