When the slow retreat began Dick looked for the sergeant. But a stalwart figure, a red bandage around the head, rose up and confronted him. It was Sergeant Whitley himself, a little unsteady yet on his feet, but soon to be as good as ever.  
“Thank you for looking for me, Mr. Mason,” he said, “but I came to, some time ago. I guess the bullet found my skull too hard, 'cause it just ran 'roun' it, and came out on the other side. I won't even be scarred, as my hair covers up the place.”
 
“Can you walk all right?” asked Dick, overjoyed to find the sergeant was not hurt badly.
 
“Of course I can, Mr. Mason, an' I'm proud to have been with General Thomas in such a battle. I didn't think human bein's could do what our men have done.”
 
“Nor did I. It was impossible, but we've done it all the same.”
 
Colonel Winchester rejoiced no less than the lads over the sergeant's escape. All the officers of the regiment liked him, and they had an infinite respect for his wisdom, particularly when danger was running high. They were glad for his own sake that he was alive, and they were glad to have him with them as they retreated into Chattanooga, because the night still had its perils.
 
The moon, though clouded, was out as they withdrew slowly. On their flanks there was still firing, as strong detachments skirmished with one another, but the Winchester men as yet paid little attention to it. They said grimly to one another that two days in the infernal regions were enough for one time. They looked back at the vast battlefield and the clumps of pines burning now like funeral torches, and shuddered.
 
The retreat of Thomas was harried incessantly. Longstreet and Forrest were eager to push the attack that night and the next day and make the victory complete. They and men of less rank dreamed of a triumph which should restore the fortunes of the Confederacy to the full, but Bragg was cautious. He did not wish to incur the uttermost risk, and the roll of his vast losses might well give him pause also.
 
Nevertheless Southern infantry and cavalry hung on the flanks and rear of the withdrawing union force. The cloudy moon gave sufficient light for the sharpshooters, whose rifles flashed continuously. The lighter field guns moved from the forests and bushes, and the troops of Thomas were compelled to turn again and again to fight them off.
 
The Winchester regiment was on the extreme flank, where the men were exposed to the fiercest attacks, but fortunately the thickets and hills gave them much shelter. At times they lay down and returned the fire of the enemy until they beat him off. Then they would rise and march on again.
 
All the officers had lost their horses, and Colonel Winchester strode at the head of his men. Just behind were Dick, Pennington and some other members of his staff. The rest had fallen. Further back was Sergeant Whitley, his head in a red bandage, but all his faculties returned. In this dire emergency he was taking upon himself the duties of a commissioned officer, and there was none to disobey him. Once more was the wise veteran showing himself a very bulwark of strength.
 
Despite the coolness of the night, they had all suffered on the second day of the battle from a burning thirst. And now after their immense exertions it grew fiercer than ever. Dick's throat and mouth were parched, and he felt as if he were breathing fire. He felt that he must have water or die. All the men around him were panting, and he knew they were suffering the same torture.
 
“This country ought to be full of brooks and creeks,” he said to Pennington. “If I see water I mean to make a dash for it, Johnnies or no Johnnies. I'm perfectly willing to risk my life for a drink.”
 
“So am I,” said Warner, who overheard him, “and so are all who are left in this regiment. If they see the flash of water nothing can hold them back, not even Bragg's whole army. How those skirmishers hang on to us! Whizz-z! there went their bullets right over our head!”
 
The Winchesters turned, delivered a heavy volley into a thicket, whence the bullets had come, and marched on, looking eagerly now for water. They began to talk about it. They spoke of the cool brooks, “branches” they called them, that they had known at home, and they told how, when they found one, they would first drink of it, and then lie down in its bed and let its water flow over them.
 
But Dick's thirst could not wholly take his mind from the tremendous scenes accompanying that sullen and defiant retreat. Hills and mountains were in deepest gloom, save when the signal lights of the Southern armies flashed back and forth. The clouded moon touched everything nearer by with somber gray. The fire of cannon rolled through the forest and gorges with redoubled echoes.
 
A shout suddenly came from the head of the Winchester column.
 
“Water! Water!” they cried. A young boy had caught a glimpse of silver through some bushes, and he knew that it was made by the swift current of a brook. In an instant the regiment broke into a run for the water. Colonel Winchester could not have stopped them if he had tried, and he did not try. He knew how great was their need.
 
“We're off!” cried Pennington.
 
“I see it! The water!” shouted Dick.
 
“I do, too!” exclaimed Warner, “and it's the most beautiful water that ever flowed!”
 
But they stopped in their rush and dropped down in the thickets. Sergeant Whitley had given the warning shout, and fortunately most of a volley from a point about a hundred yards beyond the stream swept over their heads. A few men were wounded, and they not badly.
 
Dick crawled to the head of the column. The sergeant was already there, whispering to Colonel Winchester.
 
“They've taken to cover, too, sir,” said the sergeant.
 
“How many do you suppose they are?” asked the colonel.
 
“Not more than we are, sir.”
 
“They run a great risk when they attack us in this manner.”
 
“Maybe, sir,” said Dick, “they, too, were coming for the water.”
 
Colonel Winchester looked at Sergeant Whitley.
 
“I'm of the opinion, sir,” said the sergeant, “that Mr. Mason is right.”
 
“I think so, too,” said Colonel Winchester. “It's a pity that men should kill each other over a drink of water when there's enough for all. Has any man a handkerchief?”
 
“Here, sir,” said Warner; “it's ragged and not very clean, but I hope it will do.”
 
The Colonel raised the handkerchief on the point of his sword and gave a hail. The bulk of the two armies had passed on, and now there was silence in the woods as the two little forces confronted each other across the stream.
 
Dick saw a tall form in Confederate gray rise up from the bushes on the other side of the brook.
 
“Are you wanting to surrender?” the man called in a long, soft drawl.
 
“Not by any means. We want a drink of water, and we're just bound to have it.”
 
“You don't want it any more than we do, and you're not any more bound to have it than we are.”
 
The colonel hesitated a moment, and then, influenced by a generous impulse, said:
 
“If you won't fire, we won't.”
 
The tall, elderly Southerner, evidently a colonel, also said:
 
“It's a fair proposition, sir. My men have been working so hard the last two days licking you Yanks that they're plum' burnt up with thirst.”
 
“I don't admit the licking, although it's obvious that you've gained the advantage so far, but is it agreed that we shall have a truce for a quarter of an hour?”
 
“It is, sir; t............