But there was not silence when it came to the fearful train of the wounded. Fifteen miles, along the Chambersburg Pike, stretched the train of the wounded and of ordnance and supply wagons, with its escort of cavalry and a score of guns. The convoy was in the charge of Imboden, and he was doing the best he could with those long leagues of hideous woe. The road was rough; the night dark, with wind and rain. “Woe!” cried the wind. “Woe, woe! Pain and woe!” Ambulances, carts, wagons, crowded with the wounded, went joltingly, under orders to use all speed. Cavalry rode before, cavalry guarded the rear, but few were the actual guards in among or alongside the wagons. Vanguard and rear guard needed every unhurt man. For miles there were, in sum, only the wounded, the jaded wagon horses, the wagon drivers with drawn faces. Orders were for no pausing, no halts. If a wagon became disabled, draw it out of the road and leave it! There must be rapid travelling through the night. Even so, if the blue were alert, the blue might strike the train before day. Rapid motion and no halting—“On!” beneath the blackness, in the teeth of wind and rain. “Woe!” cried the wind. “Woe, woe! Pain and woe!” The wagons were springless. In many there was no straw. Numbers of the wounded lay upon bare boards, placed there, in some cases, hours even before the convoy could start. Many had had no food for long hours, no water. Their rough clothing, stiff with dried blood, abraded and inflamed their wounds. The surgeons had done what bandaging was possible, but many a ghastly hurt went unbound, unlooked to. With others the bandages slipped, or were torn aside by pain-maddened hands. There was blood upon the bed of all the wagons, blood and human refuse. Upon the boards lay men with their eyes gone, with their jaws shot through and crushed, with their arms, their legs mangled, with their thighs pierced, their bowels pierced, with tormenting stomach wounds, with a foot gone, a hand gone. There were men with fever and a horrible thirst, and men who shook in a death chill. There were men who were dead. And on them all poured the rain, for the canvas wagon covers, flapping in the wind, could not keep it out. And the road, cut by countless wheels and now washed into ridge and hollow, would have been rough for well folk, in cushioned vehicles. “On! On! No halting for any one!—Good God, man! Don’t I know they are suffering? Don’t I _hear_ them? Do you reckon I _like_ to hear them? But if I’m going to save General Lee’s trains I’ve _got_ to get on! _Get on, there!_” “Woe!” cried the wind. “Woe, woe! pain and woe.” “Oh, Jesus Christ, have mercy upon me!” “Just let me die, O God! just let me die!” “If there’s anybody at all outside, won’t they stop this wagon? If there’s anybody driving, won’t you stop this wagon? Please! You don’t know how it hurts—Please!... Ah!—_Aaahh!—Aaahhh!_”