They ventured into the open, as venture they must to reach the
defenders, and they were met by the terrible fire that never missed. At
no time could they pass the deadly hail of bullets, and at last, leaving
the ground strewed with their dead, they fell back into the forest, and
then, breaking into a panic, did not cease fleeing until they had
crossed the Ohio. Throughout the morning Henry Ware was one of the
deadliest sharpshooters of them all, while Paul Cotter lay safely in the
rear, and fretted because his wound would not let him do his part.
The great victory won, it was agreed that Henry Ware had done the best
of them all, but they spent little time in congratulations. They
preferred the sacred duty of burying the dead, even seeking those who
had fallen in the forest the night before; and then they began their
march southward, the more severely wounded carried on rude litters at
first, but as they gained strength after a while walking, though lamely.
Paul recovered fast, and when he heard the story, he looked upon Henry
as a knight, the equal of any who ever rode down the pages of chivalry.
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