THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
ages, and their knives and uprolled sleeves and blood-smeared aprons, and by their sides ghastly heaps of cut-off legs and arms—and, oh! the shrieks and wailings of the wounded men as they are handled by the attendants, and the beseeching eyes of the dying boy who, recognizing me, says with his broken voice: “Oh, General! can you not do something for me?”—and I can do nothing but stroke his hands and utter some words of courage and hope, which I do not believe myself, and commend him to the special care of the surgeon and his men—and such scenes one after another—I feel a lump in my throat which almost chokes me.
Having seen my wounded cared for as well as I can, I visit my regiments bivouacking near by. The roar of the battle is still thundering hardly a mile away, but some of our supply wagons have found their way to our position and added, not much, indeed, but something in the way of more crackers and coffee and a little bacon to the bill of fare. And they have had a drink at the creek, and some had enjoyed the luxury of a dash of water in their faces. And now they are as gay as if the whole war were over and they might go home to-morrow. And their jokes about the gorgeousness of their meal, and the banterings about the “skedaddling” of some before the rebel yell, and their cheers when I praise their good conduct, which I most heartily do!
At last myself and my staff may sit down on the ground to a royal feast. And a royal feast it is. To-day's battle had its humorous incident. About noon, when the bullets were flying thick, I suddenly heard somebody shouting behind me with a stentorian voice: “Oh, General! Oh, General!” Looking round, I saw Schiele, my tent orderly, or body servant, brandishing a bulky object over his head. “What is it, Schiele?” I asked. “A ham, General! a ham! a ham!” cried Schiele jubi-
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