The farm cart ground to a stop just as Gerry was about to mutter that it was indeed he who led the goat. Sergeant Higgs leaned over to confer with an officer in fresh white trousers and trim jacket, a man who had obviously taken no part in the fighting that day. Then the officer stood aside, the sergeant pulled sharply on the reins, and Gerry felt the wagon leave the road and go lurching across a field at the foot of Bunker Hill. One of the wounded men sat up. The others began to moan and swear. “You’re off course, Higgs!” shouted Gerry, forgetting that his barracks-mate outranked him and was entitled to a more respectful salute. Higgs turned around, his broad face a white blur in the darkness. “I be following orders, Private Malory. We’re to wait by yon hill till the troops clears a way through the town so the boats can take us off. By midnight we’ll all be back in Boston.” “Thank God,” murmured Captain Blakeslee, and then as Higgs drew up the cart in a little grove of locust trees, he turned to the younger man. “Will you help me down on the grass for a bit, lad? I’ve taken a notion to feel the earth under me. Better under than over.” He gave a weak smile. “Give us a hand, Higgs,” called Gerry, trying to lift the captain, almost a dead weight this time. Jack Higgs was six years older than Gerry. This was not his first battle, nor the first wounded man he had seen. The moment he joined them in the bed of the wagon, he thrust his hand inside the tattered coat. Then he pulled it out again and muttered under his breath. For a long moment he stared at Gerry. “Is--is it bad?” faltered the young private, feeling suddenly afraid, as he had not felt all that afternoon when the Yankees were shooting at him as he retreated down the Charlestown Road. Captain Blakeslee gave a hoarse cough. “Bad enough,” said Higgs. “Tell you what, Gerry. Go down into Charlestown and see if you can find a surgeon. Tell him we got need of him here.” “Put--me--on the ground,” whispered Captain Blakeslee. He lay slumped against the side of the wagon and tried to lift his head, but he was not strong enough. Together Gerry and Sergeant Higgs got him out of the cart and stretched the limp body on the young grass under a locust tree. “I’ll go quickly,” Gerry promised. “I’ll come back with the surgeon. I hope ’twill be in time.” “Good luck to you, lad,” said the sergeant. He was still bending over the wounded man when Gerry hastened off. The journey proved not to be a long one, but over all too soon. Ten minutes hard running across the fields, a brief encounter, and he came pounding back. Jack Higgs stood leaning against the wagon. He had lighted a little fire of dead boughs, and in its light his usually pleasant face looked somber, his eyes a little sick. He was in his shirt sleeves now.