I did not reply.  He was standing almost over me, upon a sort of shelf in the side of the gully, as there was not room at the water for more than one man.

“Gimme your canteen,” said I.

He handed it to me.  It was a bright new tin canteen of the cheap Confederate make—­uncovered.  I knew at once that this man belonged to the fresh regiment.  The old Confederates had supplied themselves, from battlefields and prisoners, and the greater capture of stores, with good Union canteens.  Even while I was thinking this, he said, “What’ll you take to boot ’twixt your canteen and mine?”

“Don’t want to swap,” said I.

I filled his canteen.

“Now, gimme your hand,” said I.

He held out his hand, which I grasped, and he pulled hard; it took two pulls to bring me to his side.  I did not look at him, but knew that he was a small man.

He turned away.  I followed him.  I could see that his uniform was new.  We reached the edge of the gully, and stood still.

Now I could see the pits.  The gully was deeper up the hill.  There was a pit on either edge of the gully, which was about forty feet wide.  Had I known of the existence of that gully, I could have stolen through the picket-line in the night—­but perhaps they had it guarded at night.

“Say,” said my companion, “why didn’t you go back on your own side?”

“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” said I.

He was two steps ahead of me—­a man of small stature.  His shoes and his clothing up to his knees were almost as muddy as mine.  He walked slowly up the hill.  In a very few minutes we should be within the picket-line; it took all my will to preserve composure; I was glad the man was in front of me.  We stepped slowly tip the hill.

I could see nobody at the pits.  The pickets were lying down, probably, half of them asleep, the other half awake but at ease, I was wishing my leader would speak again.  The nervous tension was hard.  What should I do when we reached the line?  I had no plan, except to walk on.  I wished my leader would continue to march, and go past the pits—­then I could follow him; the trivial suggestion aroused self-contempt; I was thinking of straws to catch at.  I must strengthen my will.

He had made four steps; he said, “Sun’s up.”

This was not much of an opening.  I managed to respond, “Don’t see it, myself.”

“Look at that big pine up yonder,” said he.

“Be another hot day,” said I; “wish I was up there.”

“What for?”

“So I could get some sleep.”

“You won’t git any down here in this old field; that’s shore.”

“That’s what’s a-troublin’ me,” said I; “and I’ve got to take care of myself.”

“Ben sick?”

“No, not down sick; but the hot sun don’t do me any good.”

“Bilious, I reckon,” said he.

“No,” said I, “not bilious; it’s my head.”