I heard a man over to my
right shout out that General Hood had been killed; and in a minute or so
two of our officers dashed out of the timber, coming my way, riding for
dear life, and nearly trampling me. Meanwhile, the battle seemed to be
raging all around me. Most of the heavy fighting that day was done in
the woods, and the losses were big on both sides. Well, I dragged myself
to a little clump of sassafras, not caring much whether I lived or died,
I was that played out, and my leg burning and stinging just as though it
was being touched up with a red-hot poker. I had been there about
fifteen minutes when a blue-coat rose up in front of me--right out of
the ground it seemed--and says, very fierce, 'You're my prisoner!' He
was a young fellow, about my age, and didn't look at all dangerous. I
just wished that leg of mine had been all right, I would have given him
his money's worth, I tell you! But it wasn't any use. I couldn't stir
for the misery.
"'You're my prisoner,' he says again, louder'n before.
"'All right,' says I, 'I'm willing,' seeing there wasn't anything else
to say, and putting a free and easy face on it.
"'Get up, then, and come along with me,' says he. I pointed to my leg,
and tried to grin. He saw the curious way it was lying--all twisted
up--and the big red splotch on my trousers, and says, as if imparting
information, 'You're hurt, man, badly hurt.
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