A cool proceeding.
I turned and looked to the rear of the battery, on the top of a perfect pyramid of overcoats, blankets, knapsacks and frying pans, ‘Old Hines’ was seated, with his legs crossed, ‘tailor-fashion,’ sewing away for dear life, and right in the range of a dozen batteries.
I had very improvidently thrown away in the morning a very heavy but good overcoat, rather than lug it through the fight, which I was then regretting.
The fire in our front having slackened, I walked over to ‘Old Hines.’
He had put on my overcoat and was sewing a button on some other garment.
I plead hard for my coat, but in vain.
Just then a shot from the enemy came bounding along, passing through two of the horses to the caisson, and not missing us very far. ‘Old Hines’ cocked up his eye at me, and, with a grin and chuckle, said ‘Shoo, Fly, don't bother me,’ and I didn't any more.
That night as we left the field, the batteries in our front having been almost silenced, we fired an occasional parting shot.
Riding along by my gun I passed ‘Old Hines,’ trudging along under a pile of plunder towering at least six feet above his head.
He reminded me of the pictures of
Atlas with the world on his shoulders.
In a few minutes I heard a tremendous crash.
I looked back and saw some reckless cavalryman had ridden over ‘Old Hines,’ bag and baggage.
‘Old Hines’ scrambled to his feet and said ‘I'll be durned,’ that was all. I was avenged.
