not yet fully awake. All looked ten years older than when I had bidden
them good-by a month before--hollow-eyed, unwashed, jaded, and hungry;
paper-collars and blue neckties shed and forgotten. The contents of my
basket (boxes were now obsolete), consisting of pies sweetened with
sorghum molasses, and other such edibles, were soon devoured, and I
reported "returned for duty." In a few hours we were on the road to
Richmond, with the prospect of another sojourn in the surrounding
swamps.

On the night of June 1 our battery was bivouacked in the edge of a dense
piece of woods, the guns being parked in open ground just outside, while
the men were lying in the leaves, with the horses tied among them. About
midnight one of the horses became tangled in his halter and fell to the
ground, struggling and kicking frantically to free himself. A man close
by, being startled from sleep, began halloaing, "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" The
alarm was taken up by one after another as each roused from slumber,
increasing and spreading the noise and confusion; by this time the
horses had joined in, pawing and snorting in terror, completing the
reign of pandemonium. As darkness prevented successful running, some
of the men climbed trees or clung to them for protection, while the
sentinel over the guns in the open broke from his beat, supposing
Grant's cavalry was upon us. In a space of two minutes all suddenly
became still, the climbers stealthily slid from their trees, and others
gingerly picked their way back to their lairs, "ashamed as men who flee
in battle." For some time, as the cause and absurdity of the incident
was realized, there issued now and then from a pile of leaves a chuckle
of suppressed laughter.

[Illustration: EDWARD H. HYDE

(Color-bearer)]

CHAPTER XXV

SECOND COLD HARBOR--WOUNDED--RETURN HOME--REFUGEEING FROM HUNTER

After spending the following day and night in "Camp Panic," we moved
forward early on the morning of June 3 to the field of the memorable
second Cold Harbor. Minie-balls were rapping against the trees as we
drove through a copse of small timber to occupy a temporary redoubt in
the line of breastworks beyond. While the guns halted briefly before
driving in to unlimber, I walked forward to see what was in front. The
moment I came into view a Minie-ball sung by my head and passed through
the clothes of the cannoneer, Barton McCrum, who was a few steps from
me, suggesting to both of us to lie low until c