lay shot in three places—leg, right arm, and a hideous wound through the mouth.
He extended his left hand to me, with an apology for not giving me his shattered right—the little hero.
I am nearly shot to pieces, ain't I, he said, as well as he could utter the words through his torn palate and jaw, but not a word of complaint, not a sigh of pain or discomfort would he utter.
Sorrowfully I turned from the place, and next found myself where Van Cleve was stationed as a reserve.
Here was Sam Beatty with what he brought out of his brilliant charge of the day before; 390 men were all that were left of the 1,400—our regiments in all averaging less than 100 men each.
These figures I took from his morning report, and if I felt alarmed at the smallness of the battalions before, the infallible logic of figures did not reassure me.
A quarter to 10 I rode over to a cornfield in the rear of the lines and threw a few ears of corn to my horse—a lean, stubborn colt—stubborn to lack of bri