His hands were bloody from where he had pressed them upon his wound.

He seemed to be awaiting the moment when he should pitch headlong.

He stalked like the specter of a soldier, his eyes burning with the power of a stare into the unknown.
There were some who proceeded sullenly, full of anger at their wounds, and ready to turn upon anything as an obscure cause.
An officer was carried along by two privates.

He was peevish.

"Don't joggle so, Johnson, yeh fool," he cried.