“Save yourself if you can,” replied Tom, faintly.

The kind-hearted fireman was sorry to leave him, but he knew that one who wore his uniform could expect no mercy from the rebels.  They had been too terrible upon the battle-field to receive any consideration from those whom they had so severely punished.  He was, therefore, unwilling to trust himself to the tender mercies of the cavalry, who were sweeping the fields to pick up prisoners; and after asking Tom’s name and regiment, he reluctantly left him.

Tom had eaten nothing since daylight in the morning, which, added to the long march, and the intense excitement of his first battle-field, had apparently reduced him to the last extremity.  Then, for the first time, he realized what it was to be a soldier.  Then he thought of his happy home—­of his devoted mother.  What must she not suffer when the telegraph should flash over the wires the intelligence of the terrible disaster which had overtaken the Union army!  It would be many days, if not weeks or months, before she could know whether he was dead or alive.  What anguish must she not endure!

He had but a moment for thoughts like these before he heard the sweep of the rebel cavalry, as they dashed down the road through the woods.  He must not remain where he was, or the record of his earthly career would soon be closed.  On his hands and knees he crawled away from the road, and rolled himself up behind a rotten log, just in season to escape the observation of the cavalrymen as they rode by the spot.

Here and there in the woods were the extended forms of Federals and rebels, who had dragged their wounded bodies away from the scene of mortal strife to breathe their last in this holy sanctuary of nature, or to escape from the death-dealing shot, and the mangling wheels that rumbled over the dead and the dying.  Close by the soldier boy’s retreat lay one who was moaning piteously for water.  Tom had filled his canteen at a brook on the way, and he crawled up to the sufferer to lave his dying thirst.  On reaching the wounded man, he found that he was a rebel, and the fate of the Zouave who had done a similar kindness only a short time before presented itself to his mind.

“Water!  Water!  For the love of God, give me a drop of water,” moaned the dying soldier.

Tom thought of the Zouave again, and had almost steeled his heart against the piteous cry.  He turned away.

“Water!  Water!  If you are a Christian give me some water,” groaned the sufferer.

Our soldier boy could no longer resist the appeal.  He felt that he could not be loved on earth or forgiven in heaven if he denied the petition of the dying rebel; but before he granted it, he assured himself that the sufferer had no dangerous weapon in his possession.  The man was deadly pale; one of his arms hung useless by his side; and he was covered with blood.  He was a terrible-looking object, and Tom felt sick and faint as he gazed upon him.