It so happened that the regiment
to which Mr. Grey belonged had participated in the fight, and at the
conclusion he found himself badly wounded and a prisoner. Having been
ill previously, the wounded soldier was unable to be marched off with
other prisoners, but was left, as all supposed, to die. The tide of
battle rolled on, leaving the field where the fight began strewn with
the dying and the dead. A blazing sun poured its intolerable light and
heat upon the upturned faces and defenceless heads of hundreds of
suffering, dying men, adding frightful tortures to the pain of their
wounds. When the dews of night came to moisten parched lips, to cool
aching brows, Mr. Grey managed to drag himself to a stump near by, and
placing his back against it, waited hoping to gain a little more
strength. His mouth was parched and dry, but he had not a drop of
water. Suddenly his eyes fell upon a canteen lying at no great
distance, almost within reach of his hand; with infinite pain and
trouble he at last possessed himself of it. It was not quite empty,
but just as Mr. Grey was about to drink, he heard a deep groan, and
turning, met the imploring eyes of a Federal soldier.
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