He must have slept, too, because when he sat up and opened his eyes again it was nearly sundown, and somebody had stolen his horse.
A zouave with a badly sprained ankle, lying on a blanket near him, offered him bread and meat that stank; and Berkley ate it, striving to collect his deadened thoughts. After he had eaten he filled the zouave's canteen at a little rivulet where hundreds of soldiers were kneeling to drink or dip up the cool, clear water.
"What's your reg'ment, friend?" asked the man.
"Eighth New York Lancers."
"Lord A'mighty! You boys did get cut up some, didn't you?"
"I guess so. Are you Colonel Craig's regiment?"
"Yes. We got it, too. Holy Mother—we got it f'r fair!"
"Is your Colonel all right?"
"Yes. Steve—his son—corporal, 10th Company—was hit."
"What!"