"Sir," said General Burgoyne, "you command the finest regiment in the world."
Colonel Morgan proudly repeated this to his men, and each man of the regiment treasured it in his memory to the end of his life, as being the highest compliment troops could receive, for it came, unsolicited, from a gallant enemy.
A few days afterward we rejoined the main army at Whitemarsh, Morgan's command taking part in the battle of Chestnut Hill. It was there I got my first and only wound during the Revolution, and was for a second time taken prisoner. I was leading my men in a headlong charge upon the enemy's works, when a small body of British cavalry dashed suddenly upon us from an unexpected direction, and threatened to cut us off from the main body of our troops; I gave the order to retreat at double quick, and remembered no more, till I found myself a prisoner with a bullet in my left thigh.
The next day I was taken to a prison hospital in Philadelphia, and laid on a straw pallet in a row of other groaning, tossing, half delirious unfortunates. For some days—I lost count of time—I lived in a troubled dream, with but one definite need, one clearly defined longing, and that for water. Oh, for a fountain of cool sweet water, that I might drink and drink, then rest and drink again! That which some one brought me from time to time was muddy and flat, but I drank it as if it had been the ambrosial cup of Jove, and in the confused visions which floated in and out of my mind, there was always a sparkling spring gushing out of a green hillside, and falling with a splashing sound into a pebble paved basin. Sometimes I seemed to lie flat upon my chest in the cool grass, and to plunge my head into the cool water. Again I saw the spring, as on that last night at home, silvered by the moon's rays, and Ellen standing on the rock above, wrapped in her white robe, her face mystical with strange thoughts. She smiled at me, and gave me to drink from a golden cup the sweetest water I had ever quaffed.
One of the first things to arouse me from my semi-stupor was the beseeching cry of a poor lad, who lay on the pallet next mine, for "water, water,"—over and over again, in tones first petulant and insistent, then entreating and pitiful, then weary and despairing. The next time the bucket and dipper came around, I begged the man who distributed our dole to give my share to the lad, though my throat was like cast iron within, and my heavy tongue as slick as if coated with varnish. The boy fell asleep afterwards, and the brief quiet of his tossing limbs with the smile his dreams brought to his pale lips so rested my nerves, as to enable me to endure the hours which ensued before the next bucketful was distributed.
"This is Captain McElroy, I believe, sir," I heard a prison official say one day, standing over my pallet—I do not know whether it was morning or afternoon, or how many days after I had been brought to the hospital.
"Do we not provide better accommodations than this for wounded officers?" said another in lowered voice.
"We cannot make our own wounded comfortable, Captain," answered the first; "we must do as we can in this half savage country."
I opened my eyes now, and met those of a slim young man in British uniform,—"Can you tell me, sir," he asked, "where I may find Captain Donald McElroy, of Morgan's rifle company?"
"I'm Captain McElroy of the Virginia Riflemen, sir," and I sat up with a mighty effort, and managed to salute him with a trembling hand.