We heard shots and made our way swiftly to the site of battle, finding a detachment of Marines engaged in volleys with four or five shirtmen who had been surprised in their looting; the shirtmen took refuge behind their carts of pilfered fine furniture.

Our arrival was not unseasonable, we issuing forth to the side of the conflict, so we might outflank the enemy. We fired upon them, and the closest of their number collapsed.

His companion turned to us with surprise — having not hitherto detected us — and screamed, “God damn you, filthy Negro brutes!” and discharged his rifle at us.

Private Jocko gave forth a grunt — collapsed — and the smoke of combat twined with that of arson. I recall my terror — spilling the powder upon my hand —

We reloaded — they reloaded — only fifteen feet between us. Again we fired — one was hit — he swore, bent low — and we began again to load.

I trembled as I tore a cartridge with my teeth; but our antagonist and his friends, outnumbered and outflanked, were beating a retreat, ducked low, into an alley. We got off another round, but it did no damage.

Corporal Craigie was full of urgency and outrage, demanding which of us knew the science of tying a bloody tourniquet, ilk of ye — by God, the man was dying while we gaped.

None of us was possessed of this necessary skill — and all of us regarded each other with astonishment until Corporal Craigie began calling names and orders — adding, “By God, the villains are escaping”— demanding the rest of us rush forward to harry them and bring them back prisoners.

By his order, three soldiers remained behind with Jocko to claim the crossroads while the rest of us formed (we having lapsed into some confusion) and at a trot rushed after the enemy through the alley.

The Marines sought also our adversary; they were fast upon our heels, letting forth fearsome cries.

Come to the next street — a broad avenue with no commerce now in it — we saw that the rebels had turned in their course to flee off to the left, and we pursued them, grim in the knowledge that if we allowed them time to load their rifles, they should make unhappy work of us.

One more street passed, and we had lost them; the Captain of the Marine company called to Corporal Craigie and demanded that we divide two lanes between us.

To this, our Corporal complied. With some apprehensions of our hazard, we marched between houses.

The lane was of no great width, unpaven, and was filled with smoke. We passed down it with care.

We came upon an old woman sitting in her garden in a washtub like Diogenes. She was clothed, her dress soaked from the water in which she had sunk herself; she wore a calash upon her head.

She berated us with a steady stream of invective and imprecation for as long as she could see us; calling us murderers, barbarians, and every other name she could devise; informing us that she should be safe in her tub when we were burned to cinders.

We left her by her withered hollyhocks and sought onward.