rk of the gun wheel remained on my back for a year or more, but I never experienced any serious pain or inconvenience from the injury.
I attribute my escape, in part at least, to my unusually full muscular development at the time.
Upon one of our shiftings of position in the battle I was on foot, abreast of one of the guns of the Charlottesville battery, and following close after John Hunter, sergeant of that piece, who was riding his little chestnut mare, Madge, when a thirty-pounder Parrott shell passed through her body, just back of the legs of the rider, exploding as it emerged, and spattering me profusely with the blood of the poor animal.
Little Madge was not even jarred-any experienced artillerist will understand this.
She never knew what hit her, but sank gently down; while Hunter did not get even so much as a decent shaking up, not a very easy thing to administer to him, I frankly admit.
When his feet touched the ground — they were not far from it even while Madge st