us a great sea of white tents, silent and still, with here and there a groan, or a surgeon passing from one tent to another relieving the pain of some poor mortal who had fallen in battle on the morning of the day before.  We had come upon the field hospital of Hill, where he had his wounded of the day before encamped.  Here we first heard of the fight in which so many brave men had fallen, without any decided results.  As we had friends and relatives in A.P.  Hill’s corps, all began to make inquiries for Gregg’s old brigade.  We heard with delight and animation of the grand conduct of the banner brigade of South Carolina, “Gregg’s” or McGowan’s, and listened with no little pride to the report of their desperate struggle through the streets of Gettysburg, and to learn that the flag in the hands of a member of a Palmetto regiment first waved over the city.  I heard here of the desperate wounding of an old friend and school-mate, Lieutenant W.L.  Leitsey, and left the ranks long enough to hunt him up in one of the many tents to the left.  I found him severely wounded, so much so that I never met him afterwards.  While marching along at a “snail’s gait” among the wagons and artillery trains, with a long row of tents to the left, tired and worn out and so dark that you could not distinguish objects a few feet distant, a lone man was standing by the road side viewing, as well as he could in the dark, the passing troops.  The slowness of our march enabled me to have a few words of conversation with him.  At its end, and just as I was passing him, I heard, or thought I heard him say, “I have a drink in here,” pointing to a tent, “if you feel like it.”  Reader, you may have heard of angel’s voices in times of great distress, but if ever an angel spoke, it was at that particular moment, and to me.  I was so tired, sleepy and worn out I could scarcely stand, and a drink would certainly be invigorating, but for fear I had not heard or understood him clearly I had him to repeat it.  In fact, so timely was it that I felt as if I could have listened all night, so much like the voice of a syren was it at that moment.  I said “Yes!  Yes!!” But just then I thought of my friend and companion, my next Color Captain, John W. Watts, who was just ahead of me and marching under the same difficulties as myself.  I told the man I had a friend in front who wanted a drink worse than I did.  He answered “there is enough for two,” and we went in.  It was Egyptian darkness, but we found a jug and tin cup on the table, and helped ourselves.  It may have been that in the darkness we helped ourselves too bountifully, for that morning Watts found himself in an ambulance going to the rear.  Overcome by weariness and the potion swallowed in the dark perhaps, he lay down by the roadside to snatch a few moments sleep, and was picked up by the driver of the ambulance as one desperately wounded, and the driver was playing the Good Samaritan.  Just before we went into action that day, I saw coming through an old field my lost friend, and right royally glad was I to see him, for I was always glad when I had Watts on my right of the colors.  Our brigade lay down by the roadside to rest and recuperate for a few hours, near Willoughby’s Run, four miles from Gettysburg.