He asked who was the Rebel general who had fallen beside
Cushing.
"General Armistead," said an officer--"mortally wounded, they say."
Penhallow turned and went down the slope again. Far away, widely
scattered, he caught glimpses of this rash and gallant attack. He was
aware of that strange complex odour which rises from a battlefield. It
affected him as horrible and as unlike any other unpleasant smell.
Feeling better, he busied himself directing those who were aiding the
wounded. A general officer he did not know said to him, "Stop the
firing from that regiment."
A number of still excited men of one of the flanking brigades on our
right were firing uselessly at the dimly seen and remote mass of the
enemy. Penhallow went quickly to the right, and as he drew near shouted,
"Stop those men--quit firing!" He raised his hand to call attention to
his order. The firing lessened, and seeing that he was understood he
turned away. At the moment he was not fifty feet from the flanking line,
and had moved far down the slope as one of the final shots rang out.
He felt something like a blow on his right temple, and as he staggered
was aware of the gush of blood down his face. "What fool did that?" he
exclaimed as he reeled and fell. He rose, fell, rose again, and managed
to tie a handkerchief around his head.
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