Smith sprang to his side, and as he raised his head a bright beam of moonlight made its way through the thick foliage, and rested upon his white and lacerated face.  The aide-de-camp was startled by its great pallor and stillness, and cried out, “General, are you seriously hurt?” “No, Mr. Smith, don’t trouble yourself about me,” he replied quietly, and added some words about winning the battle first, and attending to the wounded afterwards.  He was again placed upon the litter, and carried a few hundred yards, still followed by the Federal shells, to where his medical director was waiting with an ambulance.

Dr. McGuire knelt down beside him and said, “I hope you are not badly hurt, General?” He replied very calmly but feebly, “I am badly injured, doctor, I fear I am dying.”  After a pause he went on, “I am glad you have come.  I think the wound in my shoulder is still bleeding.”  The bandages were readjusted and he was lifted into the ambulance, where Colonel Crutchfield, who had also been seriously wounded, was already lying.  Whisky and morphia were administered, and by the light of pine torches, carried by a few soldiers, he was slowly driven through the fields where Hooker’s right had so lately fled before his impetuous onset.  All was done that could ease his sufferings, but some jolting of the ambulance over the rough road was unavoidable; “and yet,” writes Dr. McGuire, “his uniform politeness did not forsake him even in these most trying circumstances.  His complete control, too, over his mind, enfeebled as it was by loss of blood and pain, was wonderful.  His suffering was intense; his hands were cold, his skin clammy.  But not a groan escaped him—­not a sign of suffering, except the light corrugation of the brow, the fixed, rigid face, the thin lips, so tightly compressed that the impression of the teeth could be seen through them.  Except these, he controlled by his iron will all evidence of emotion, and, more difficult than this even, he controlled that disposition to restlessness which many of us have observed upon the battle-field as attending great loss of blood.  Nor was he forgetful of others.  He expressed very feelingly his sympathy for Crutchfield, and once, when the latter groaned aloud, he directed the ambulance to stop, and requested me to see if something could not be done for his relief.

“After reaching the hospital, he was carried to a tent, and placed in bed, covered with blankets, and another drink of whisky and water given him.  Two hours and a half elapsed before sufficient reaction took place to warrant an examination, and at two o’clock on Sunday morning I informed him that chloroform would be given him; I told him also that amputation would probably be required, and asked, if it was found necessary, whether it should be done at once.  He replied promptly, “Yes, certainly, Dr. McGuire, do for me whatever you think best.”