“Not a drop,” said I.

Although Willis was limping badly, the slow progress of the troops at this point allowed him to keep up.  At the bottom of the hill, where the road strikes the low ground, the troops had greater space; some of them followed their leaders straight ahead on the road; others went to the right and left, seeking to avoid the crowd.

“Let’s go up the creek,” said Willis.

“What for?”

“To get water; I’m dying of thirst.”

“Do you think you can stand it awhile longer?”

“Yes; at any rate, I’ll keep a-goin’ as long as God lets me, and I can stand it better if I can get water and something to eat.”

“Well, then, come on, and I’ll help you as long as I can.”

He leaned on me, hobbling along as best he could, and bravely too, although, at every step he groaned with pain.

I had become somewhat attached to Willis.  He was egotistic—­just a little—­but harmlessly so, and his senses were sound and his will was good; I had, too, abundant evidence of his liking for me.  He was a strapping fellow, more than six feet tall and as strong as a bullock.  So, while I fully understood the danger in tying myself to a wounded comrade, I could not find it in my heart to desert him, especially since he showed such determination to save himself.  Besides, I knew that he was quick-witted and country-bred; and I had great hope that he would prove more of a help than a hindrance.

We followed a few stragglers who had passed us and were now running up the creek seeking a crossing.  The stream was shallow, but the banks were high, and in most places steep.  Men were crossing at almost all points.  Slowly following the hurrying groups of twos and threes who had outstripped us, we found at length, a place that seemed fordable for Willis.  It was where a small branch emptied into the creek; and by getting into the branch, above its mouth, and following its course, we should be able to cross the creek.

“Lord!  I am thirsty,” said Willis; “but look how they have muddied the branch; it’s as bad as the creek.”

“That water wouldn’t do us any good,” I replied.

“No,” said he; “it would make us sick.”

“But what else can we do?”

“Let’s go up the branch, a little,” said he.

All sounds in our rear had long since died away.  The sun was yet shining, but in the thick forest it was cool and almost dark.  I hoped that water, food, and a little rest would do us more good than harm—­that time would be saved, in effect.

A hundred yards above the mouth of the branch, we found the water clear.  I still had my canteen, my haversack with a cup in it, and food.  Willis lay on the ground near the stream, while I filled my canteen; I handed it to him, and then knelt in the wet sand and drank.

The spot might have been well chosen for secrecy; indeed, we might have remained there for days were it not for fear.  A giant poplar had been uprooted by some storm and had crushed in its fall an opening in, the undergrowth.  The trunk spanned the little brook, and the boughs, intermingling with the copse, made a complete hiding-place.