I saw now that I must abandon my gun—­a smooth-bore, on the stock of which, with a soldier’s vanity, I had carved the letters J.B.  I broke the stock with one blow of the barrel against the poplar log.

I was now free to help Willis.  Slowly and painfully we made our way through the bottom.  The cool water of the creek rose above our knees and seemed to cheer the wounded man.  The ascent of the further bank was achieved, but with great difficulty.

[Illustration:  BULL RUN, July 2l,1881]

We rested a little while.  Here, in the swamp, night was falling.  We saw no one, neither pursuers nor pursued.  At length, after much and painful toil, we got through the wood.  The last light of day showed us a small field in front.  Willis leaned against a tree, his blanched face showing his agony.  I let down a gap in the fence.

It was clearly to be seen that the sergeant could do no more, and I decided to settle matters without consulting him.  In the field I had seen some straw stacks.  We succeeded in reaching them.  At the bottom of the smallest, I hollowed out a sort of cave.  The work took but a minute.  Willis was looking on dully; he was on the bare ground, utterly done for with pain and weariness.  At length, he asked, “What’s that for?”

“For you,” I replied.

He said no more; evidently he appreciated the situation and at the same time was too far gone to protest.  I made him a bed and pulled the overhanging straw thinly around him, so as effectually to conceal him from any chance passer-by; I took off my canteen and haversack and placed them within his reach.  Then, with a lump in my throat, I bade him good-by.

“Jones,” said he, “God bless you.”

“Sergeant,” I said, “go to sleep if you can.  I shall try to return and get you; I am going to find help; if I can possibly get help, I will come back for you to-night; but if by noon to-morrow you do not see me, you must act for the best.  It may become necessary for you to show yourself and surrender, in order to get your wound properly treated; all this country will be ransacked by the rebel cavalry before to-morrow night.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Willis; “I will do the best I can.  God bless you, Jones.”

Alone and lightened, I made my way in the darkness to the road which we had left when we began to seek the ford.  I struck the road a mile or more to the north of Bull Run.  There was no moon; thick clouds gave warning of rain.  I knew that to follow this road—­the same circuitous road by which we had advanced in the morning—­was not to take the nearest way to Centreville.  I wanted to find the Warrenton turnpike, but all I knew was that it was somewhere to my right.  I determined to make my way as rapidly as I could in that direction through the fields and thickets.

For an hour or more I had blundered on through brush and brake, when suddenly I seemed to hear the noise of a moving wagon.  I went cautiously in the direction of the sound, which soon ceased.