On the bloody field reposed the victors when that day’s dreadful work was done: amid the dead and dying--the lifebreath painfully passing from the lips of wounded friend and foe--some of our bravo fellows, pillowed on their knapsacks, slept a fitful sleep; some crept among the heaps of dying, searching for friend or brother, and some supported the drooping head and administered a draught of water to the fevered lips of wounded comrade or dying enemy. The fight was over, the lust of blood satisfied, and all the better qualities of manhood, mercy and forgiveness, appeared beneath that setting sun. Sometimes, as they stooped to assist a dying enemy, the Muscovite, trained to treachery, with a final effort, would discharge a pistol at their heads; and then the old war spirit was once more aroused, and with clubbed musket, or deadly bayonet, the malevolent Russian was sent to his account. The sailors, who had watched the progress of the battle from the ships, when they saw that victory was ours, swarmed ashore, and hurried to the scene of strife. There they bore the wounded to the surgeon’s quarters, and to the ships, with the tenderness of women. Little drummer-boys might be seen among the prostrate heroes, comforting and rendering assistance with a care and zeal beyond their years. A fatigue party was ordered on service to bury the dead; and the surgeons, with bare arms and splashed with blood, strove by their skill and energy to alleviate the sufferings and save the lives of the poor fellows brought to them.