At this time a Fenian was brought in on a stretcher in a dying state.

I ordered his comrades to cut his shirt open, when I found an ugly wound just under his left arm, which I have no doubt penetrated a vital part.

I got water and washed the wound; he was sensible and able to tell me that his name was James Gerrahty, from Cincinnati, and that one of his own comrades had shot him by mistake, and that he freely forgave him.

He died in about thirteen minutes, one of his comrades holding a crucifix before him as long as he could see it.

We buried him in an orchard adjoining, the same evening.
Another Fenian was now brought in with a very bad wound in the neck.
He was a very rough-looking fellow.