The Provost Marshal apparently demanded the skulker's name, and wrote it in a book.

Alspaugh seemed to give the information, and accompanied it with a lugubrious pointing to a bandage around his knee.

The Provost Marshal stooped and took the handkerchief off, to find that not even the cloth of the pantaloons had been injured.

He contemptuously tore the straps from Alspaugh's shoulders, and left him.
"The rascal's cowardice is like the mercy of God," said Denslow, "for it endureth forever." He put Rachel in the wagon, and ordered the driver to start at once for Nashville with her.

She pressed his hand, as they separated with fatigue and grief.
How had it been faring all this time with Harry Glen and those with him?
The fierce wave had dashed against the regiment early in the morning, and although the first fire received from the Rebels made gaps in the ranks where fifty men fell, it did not recoil a step, but drove its assailants back with such slaughter that their dead, lying in the open ground over which they crossed, were grimly compared by Abe Bolton to "punkins layin' in a field where the corn's been cut off." Then the fight settled into a murderous musketry duel across the field, in which the ranks on both sides melted away like frost in the sun.