Vincent Wingfield saw but little of the battle at Bull Run. As they
were impatiently waiting the order to charge while the desperate
conflict between Jackson's brigade and the enemy was at its
fiercest, a shell from one of the Federal batteries burst a few
yards in front of the troop, and one of the pieces striking Vincent
on the side hurled him insensible from his horse. He was at once
lifted and carried by Dan and some of the other men-servants, who
had been told off for this duty, to the rear, where the surgeons were
busily engaged in dressing the wounds of the men who straggled
back from the front. While the conflict lasted those unable to walk
lay where they fell, for no provision had at present been made for
ambulance corps, and not a single man capable of firing a musket
could be spared from the ranks. The tears were flowing copiously
down Dan's cheeks as he stood by while the surgeons examined
Vincent's wound.
"Is he dead, sah?" he sobbed as they lifted him up from his
stooping position.
"Dead." the surgeon repeated. "Can't you see he is breathing, and
did you not hear him groan when I examined his side? He is a
long way from being a dead man yet.
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