Robert Stiles, Four years under Marse Robert

There was an old Captai-Hunter,--it seems difficult to determine whether of the Texas or the Georgia regiment,who had the handle of his frying pan in his hand, holding the pan over the hot coals, with his little slice of meat sizzling in it, when the enemy broke over. He had his back to them, and the first thing he knew his men were scampering past him like frightened sheep. He had not been accustomed to that style of movement among them, and he sprang up and tore after them, showering them with hot grease and hotter profanity, but never letting go his frying pan. On the contrary, he slapped right and left with the sooty, burning bottom, distributing his favors impartially on Federal and Confederate alike-several of his own men bearing the black and ugly brand on their cheeks for a long time after and occasionally having to bear also the captain's curses for having made him lose his meat that evening. He actually led the counter-charge, leaping upon the works, wielding and waving his frying pan, at once as sword and banner.

When it became evident that the attack had failed, I suggested to the chaplain — who happened to be with the Howitzer guns, perhaps for that sundown prayer meeting which Willy Dame mentioned — that there might be some demand for his ministrations where the enemy had broken over; so we walked up there and found their dead and dying piled higher than the works themselves. It was almost dark, but as we drew near we saw a wounded Federal soldier clutch the pantaloons of Captain Hunter, who at that moment was passing by, frying pan in hand, and heard him ask, with intense eagerness: “Can you pray, sir? Can you pray?” The old captain looked down at him with a peculiar expression, and pulled away, saying, “No, my friend, I don't wish you any harm now, but praying's not exactly my trade.”

I said to the chaplain, “Let's go to that man.” As we came up he caught my pants in the same way and uttered the same words: “Can you pray, sir? Can you pray?” I bent over the poor fellow, turned back his blouse, and saw that a large canister shot had passed through his chest at such a point that the wound must necessarily prove mortal,