I do not know which whipped.

My friends told me that I whipped both of them, and I suppose their friends told them that they had whipped me.

All I know is, they both run, and I was bloody from head to foot, from where I had been cut in the forehead and face by the canteens.

This all happened one dark night in the month of July, 1864, in the rifle pit in front of Atlanta.
When day broke the next morning, I went forward to where I had shot at the "boogaboo" of the night before, and right there I found a dead Yankee soldier, fully accoutered for any emergency, his eyes wide open.

I looked at him, and I said, "Old fellow, I am sorry for you; didn't know it was you, or I would have been worse scared than I was.