“And why Pegassus?” inquired Shellman.
“Why don’t you see the crather has been winged, but divil the bit do I belave there’s much fly in him.”
After partaking of a cup of coffee and a cracker or two, the remains of the poor dead soldier’s rations, I shouldered my Enfield, and bidding my companions remain until I returned, started off in search of Colonel (afterwards General) Bradley T. Johnson, whose command we had determined to join.
Moving rapidly across the field, subjected to a sharp fire from the enemy’s sharpshooters, I reached the cover of a friendly woods in safety. Meeting a horseman, I inquired the Colonel’s whereabouts, and was informed it was but a short distance ahead.
“I am going that way myself,” said he, “and will with pleasure pilot you. I perceive from your uniform that you are a Captain, and presume you belong to his command.”
I informed him of the circumstances that had placed me with the army, and told him I thought it most likely “Atkins’ Brigade” could render more efficient service as officers in some of the depleted regiments, than as privates as we were.
“I assure you,” said the stranger, “it would gratify me much should you accept a command in my brigade, for I have suffered fearfully in officers during the past three days.”
“What brigade do you command,” I inquired.
“The Second Louisiana. My name is Starke, sir, General Starke, and I am immediately on the left of Johnson. Should he have no place to assign you to, call upon me.”
After pointing out Johnson’s command, the General put spurs to his horse and disappeared. Poor fellow, I never saw him after, for he rendered up his precious life in battling for his beloved South upon the bloody field of Sharpsburg.