“I hear nothing from the other man,” I managed to say at last. “Colonel Mosby said there were three of us; surely the third man cannot be already dead?”
“Mercifully unconscious, I think; at least he has made no sound since I was placed in here.”
“No, friends,” spoke another and deeper voice from farther back within the jolting wagon, “I am not unconscious, but less noticeably in pain. I have lost a leg, yet the stump seems seared and dead, hurting me little unless I touch it.”
We lapsed into solemn silence, it was such an effort to talk, and we had so little to say. Each man, no doubt, was struggling, as I know I was, to withhold expression of his agony for the sake of the others. I lay racked in every nerve, my teeth tightly clinched, my temples beaded with perspiration. I could hear the troopers riding without, the jingling of their accoutrements, and the steady beat of their horses' feet being easily distinguishable above the deeper rumble of the wheels. Then there came a quick order in Mosby's familiar voice, a calling aloud of some further directions to the driver, and afterwards nothing was distinguishable excepting the noise of our own rapid progress.
Jake drove, it seemed to me, most recklessly. I could hear the almost constant crack of his lash and the rough words of goading hurled at the straining mules. The road appeared to be filled with roots, while occasionally the wheels would strike a stone, coming down again with a jar that nearly drove me frantic. The chill night air swept in through the open front of the hood, and made me feel as if my veins were filled with ice, even while the inflammation of my wounds burned and throbbed as with fire. The pitiful moaning of the man who lay next me grew gradually fainter, and finally ceased altogether. Tortured as I was, yet I could not but think of the wife and child far away praying for his safe return. For their sake I forced back the intensity of my own sufferings and spoke into the darkness.
“The man who prayed,” I said, not knowing which of my two companions it might be. “Are you suffering less, that you have ceased to moan?”
There was no answer. Then the loose hay rustled, as though some one was slowly dragging his helpless body through it. A moment later the deep voice spoke:
“He is dead,” solemnly. “God has answered his prayer. His hand already begins to feel cold.”
“Dead?” I echoed, inexpressibly shocked. “Do you know his name?”
“As I am Major Wilkins, it must be Colonel Colby who has died. May God be merciful to the widow and the orphan.”