f Spotsylvania with a relentless courage that
was sublime.

Here the tents were pitched in a little, open lot, a house to the right
as you faced the position where the fighting was in progress. The tents
were not sufficient to contain the wounded, and they lay on the ground
on the outside by thousands. Those long rows of suffering forms, gashed
and mangled in every conceivable manner, told a dreadful tale of human
wrath. That gallant division, the Reserves, had preserved their
well-earned reputation for stubborn valor at a terrible cost. Their
greatest loss was sustained in a single onset against the rebel
position. The enemy was posted in strong rifle-pits, beyond a narrow
strip of swamp. Orders were given to charge these works. The division
moved forward. They had never failed in such an undertaking. Their
charge had always pierced the enemy's line. This had been their record
during three years of warfare. But men can not accomplish
impossibilities. Baffled by the swamp, cut by the merciless fire that
blazed out from the pits, they are driven back, rally, re-form and
charge the second and third time, and then retire to the position from
which they had come out.

The field-tents here were nearer the front than before. Bullets and an
occasional shell whistled over us. My work was still the same, caring
for the wounded, assisting the surgeon, or occasionally binding up a
wound myself.

During the second day, while engaged at the farther end of the tent, I
heard at the front a familiar voice. As soon as I was disengaged I went
to the front end of the tent, eager to learn from whom the well-known
voice proceeded. There lay a large, noble-looking young man, severely
wounded in the thigh. He was conversing quietly with a wounded comrade
by his side. Voice and face were as familiar as if heard and seen but
yesterday. Puzzled and deeply interested, I did not speak, but proceeded
to bathe his wound. While thus engaged, his eyes fell upon my face.
Looking at me intently a moment, his face brightened, and he exclaimed:

"You are Rob M'Bride, aren't you?"

"Yes; and you are Billy Craig," was the immediate reply.

As soon as he pronounced my name, it all came to me in a moment. We had
been school-mates at Courtney's School-house. He was then one of the
"big boys," and I a lad of nine or ten. I had not seen him since. He was
one of those large-hearted, royal souls, that could find pleasure in
little acts of kindness, that bou