Читать книгу: «Raiding with Morgan», страница 12

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RIDE OF THE SIX HUNDRED

What Morgan’s thoughts were, what his hopes were, as he rode away from that fatal field at Buffington Island, no one knows. With him rode six hundred, all that were left of three thousand. He could have had no thoughts of attempting to cross the Ohio anywhere near Buffington Island, for he rode almost due north. It may have been he thought that he might cross near Wheeling or higher up, and escape into the mountains of Western Pennsylvania; or as a last resort, he might reach Lake Erie, seize a steamboat, and escape to Canada. Whatever he thought, north he rode, through the most populous counties of Ohio. And what a ride was that for six hundred men! Foes everywhere; Home Guards springing up at every corner; no rest day or night.

Close in his rear thundered the legions of General Shackelford, a Kentuckian as brave, as fearless, as tireless as Morgan himself. But in spite of all opposition, in spite of foes gathering on right and left and in front, Morgan rode on, sweeping through the counties of Meigs, Vinton, Hocking, Athens, Washington, Morgan, Muskingum, Guernsey, Belmont, Harrison, Jefferson, until he reached Columbiana County, where the end came.

At almost every hour during this ride the six hundred grew less. Men fell from their horses in exhaustion. They slept as they rode, keeping to their saddles as by instinct. The terrible strain told on every one. The men grew haggard, emaciated. When no danger threatened, they rode as dead men, but once let a rifle crack in front, and their sluggish blood would flow like fire through their veins, their eyes would kindle with the excitement of battle, and they would be Morgan’s fierce raiders once more.

As for Calhoun, it seemed as if he never slept, never tired. It was as if his frame were made of iron. Where danger threatened there he was. He was foremost in every charge. It looked as if he bore a charmed life. The day before the end came he was scouting on a road, parallel to the one on which the main body was travelling. Hearing shots, he took a cross-road, and galloped at full speed to see what was the trouble. A small party of Home Guards were retreating at full speed; one far in advance of the others was making frantic efforts to urge his horse to greater speed. Calhoun saw that he could cut him off, and he did so, reaching the road just as he came abreast of it. So intent was the fellow on getting away he did not notice Calhoun until brought to a stand by the stern command, “Surrender.”

In his surprise and terror, the man rolled from his horse, the picture of the most abject cowardice Calhoun ever saw. He fairly grovelled in the dust. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” he cried, raising his hands in supplication. “I didn’t want to come; they forced me. I never did anything against you.”

Dismounting Calhoun gave him a kick which sent him rolling. “Get up, you blubbering calf,” he exclaimed, “and tell us what you know.”

The fellow staggered to his feet, his teeth chattering, and trembling like a leaf.

“Now, answer my questions, and see that you tell the truth,” said Calhoun. “Are there any forces in front of us?”

“N – not – not as I know,” he managed to say.

“Do you know the shortest road to Salineville?”

“Yes; yes.”

“Will you guide us there if I spare your life?”

“Anything, I will do anything, if you won’t kill me,” he whined.

“Very well, but I will exchange horses with you, as I see you are riding a fine one, and he looks fresh,” remarked Calhoun.

The exchange was made, and then Calhoun said, “Now lead on, and at the first sign of treachery, I will blow out your brains. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, I will take you the shortest road.”

“What’s your name,” asked Calhoun, as they rode along.

“Andrew Harmon.”

“Well, Andrew, I wish all Yankees were like you. If they were, we should have no trouble whipping the North. I reckon you are about as big a coward as I ever met.”

Harmon, still white and trembling, did not answer; he was too thoroughly cowed.

Ride as hard as Morgan’s men could, when they neared Salineville Shackelford was pressing on their rear. They had either to fight or surrender.

“My brave boys, you have done all that mortals can do. I cannot bear to see you slaughtered. I will surrender.”

As Morgan said this his voice trembled. It was a word his men had never heard him use before.

“General, it is not all over for you,” cried Calhoun, his voice quivering with emotion. “Think of the joy of the Yankees if you should be captured. Let me take half the men. You take the other half and escape. I can hold the enemy in check until you get well away.”

Morgan demurred. “The sacrifice will be too great,” he said.

“You must, you shall consent. We will force you,” the cry went up from the whole command as from one man.

Morgan bowed his head, he could not speak. In silence he took Calhoun’s hand, tears gathered in his eyes, the first tears Calhoun ever saw there. There was a strong clasp, a clasp which seemed to say “It may be the last,” then, wheeling his horse, Morgan galloped swiftly away, followed by less than half of his six hundred.

There was not a moment to lose, for the Federals were already charging down with triumphant cheers, confident of an easy victory. Calhoun had posted his men well, and a withering volley sent the Federals reeling back. They charged again, only to recoil before the fierce fire of the Confederates. There was now a lull in the fighting. Calhoun saw that they were flanking him on the right and left. “Charge!” he shouted, and the little band were soon in the midst of their enemies. The Federals closed in around them. There was no way to retreat. Calhoun’s men, seeing how hopeless the fight was, began to throw down their arms.

“Surrender,” cried a fine-looking officer to Calhoun, who, well in front, was fighting like a demon. Even in that hell of battle Calhoun knew the officer. It was Mark Crawford, the captain whose horse he had captured in Tennessee, and whom he afterwards took prisoner at Cave City. But the captain was wearing the shoulder-straps of a major now.

“Never!” shouted Calhoun, in answer to the summons to surrender, and with sword in hand, he spurred forward to engage Crawford in single combat. But that officer had a revolver in his hand, and he raised it and fired.

Calhoun felt as if he had been struck on the head with a red-hot iron. He reeled in his saddle, and then fell forward on his horse’s neck. His sword dropped from his nerveless hand. His horse, wild with fear and not feeling the restraining hand of a master, broke through the ranks of the Federals, and bore him out of the conflict.

Still clinging to the neck of his horse and the horn of his saddle, he kept his seat. He straightened himself up, but the blood streaming over his face blinded him, and he saw not where he was going. Neither did he realize what had happened, for the shock of his wound had rendered him half-unconscious. His mind began to wander. He was a soldier no longer, but a boy back in Kentucky running a race with his cousin Fred.

“On! on! Salim,” he weakly shouted; “we must win, it is for the Sunny South we are racing.”

The horse still ran at full speed, his glossy coat dripping with perspiration, his nostrils widely distended and showing red with blood. But his pace began to slacken. Darkness gathered before the eyes of Calhoun. “Why, it’s getting night,” he murmured; “Fred, where are you?” Lower still lower he sank, until he was once more grasping the neck of his horse. A deadly faintness seized him, total darkness was around him, and he knew no more.

With Calhoun gone, all resistance to the Federals ceased. Of the six hundred, who had ridden so far and so well, fully one-half were prisoners.

The Federals were greatly chagrined and disappointed when they found that Morgan was not among the prisoners. The man they desired above all others was still at liberty. “Forward,” was the command, and the pursuit was again taken up.

With the remnant of his command, Morgan was nearing New Lisbon. If there were no foes before him there was still hope. From a road to the west of the one he was on, a cloud of dust was rising. His guide told him that this road intersected the one he was on but a short distance ahead. His advance came dashing back, saying there was a large body of Federal troops in his front. From the rear came the direful tidings that Shackelford was near. Morgan saw, and his lip quivered. “It is no use,” he said, “it is all over.”

The ride of the six hundred had ended – a ride that will ever live in song and story.

“Morgan has surrendered! Morgan is a prisoner!” was the news borne on lightning wings all over the entire North.

What rejoicing there was among the Federals! The great raider, the man they feared more than an army with banners, was in their power.

CHAPTER XIX.
AN ANGEL OF MERCY

In front of one of the most beautiful and stately farm-houses in Columbiana County stood a young girl. With clasped hands and straining eyes she was gazing intently down a road which led to the west. The sound of battle came faintly to her ears. As she listened, a shudder swept through her slight frame.

“My brother! My brother!” she moaned, “he may be in it. O God of battles, protect him!”

She would have made a picture for an artist as she stood there. The weather being warm, she wore a soft, thin garment, which clung in graceful folds around her. Her beautifully rounded arm and shapely shoulders were bare. Her luxuriant hair, the color of sun-beams, fell in a wavy mass to her waist. Her eyes, blue as the sky, were now troubled, and a teardrop trembled and then fell from the long lashes.

As she looked, the sound of battle became fainter, and then ceased altogether. But down the road, a mile away, a little cloud of dust arose. It grew larger and larger, and at last she saw it was caused by a single horseman who was coming at a furious pace. Was the rider a bearer of ill tidings? No, there was no rider on the horse. He who rode must have been killed. It might be her brother’s horse; she grew sick and faint, but still she gazed. The horse came nearer; he was slackening his speed. Yes, there was some one on the horse – a man – but he had fallen over on the saddle, and his arms were around the horse’s neck.

It must be her brother, wounded unto death, coming home to die, and she gave a great convulsive sob. Then like a bird she flew to the middle of the road. She saw that the horse’s mane and shoulders were dripping with blood, that the rider’s hair was clotted with it.

As the horse came to her it stopped, and the rider rolled heavily from the saddle. With a cry she sprang forward and received the falling man; but the weight of Calhoun, for it was he, bore her to the earth. She arose, screaming for help. There was no one in the house except a colored servant, who came rushing out, and nearly fainted when she saw her mistress. No wonder, for the girl’s dress and arms were dripping with blood.

“Oh! Missy Joyce! Missy Joyce!” wailed the colored woman, “what’s de mattah? Be yo’ killed?”

“No, no, this soldier – he is dead or dying. Oh, Mary, what can we do?”

But help was near. A couple of neighbors had also heard the sound of battle, and were riding nearer that they might learn the result.

“Great heavens! what is this?” exclaimed one, as they rode up. “As I live, that is Andrew Harmon’s horse. Well, I never thought Andrew would get near enough to a battle to get shot.”

By this time they had dismounted. Going to Calhoun they looked at him, and one exclaimed, “This is not Harmon; it’s one of Morgan’s men. Got it good and heavy. Served him right.”

“Is he dead?” asked the girl, in a trembling voice.

The man put his hand on Calhoun’s heart. “No, marm,” he answered, “but I think he might as well be.”

“Carry him into the house, and send for Doctor Hopkins, quick,” she said.

“What! that dirty, bloody thing! Better let us carry him to the barn. It’s a blame sight better place than our boys get down South.”

“The house, I say,” answered the girl, sharply.

“Why, Miss Joyce,” said the other man, as he looked at her, “you are covered with blood.”

“Yes, I caught him as he fell from his horse,” she answered. “I am not hurt.”

The men were about to pick Calhoun up and carry him in according to the directions of the girl, when she exclaimed, “There comes Doctor Hopkins now.”

Sure enough, the Doctor had heard of the fight, and was coming at a remarkable speed, for him, to see if his professional services were needed. He reined in his horse, and jumping from his gig, ejaculated, “Why! why! what is this? And Miss Joyce all bloody!”

“I am not hurt. The man, Doctor,” she said.

The Doctor turned his attention to Calhoun. “As I live, one of Morgan’s men,” he exclaimed, “and hard hit, too. How did he come here?”

“His horse brought him,” answered one of the men. “He clung to his horse as far as here, when he fell off. Miss Joyce caught him as he fell. That is what makes her so bloody.”

“Well! well! well!” was all that the old Doctor could say.

“The queer part is,” continued the man, “that the horse belongs to Andrew Harmon. I heard that Andrew had gone out with the Home Guards, but I could hardly believe it. I guess this fellow must have killed him and appropriated the horse.”

“What! Andrew Harmon killed in battle?” cried the Doctor, straightening up from his examination of Calhoun. “Don’t believe it. He will turn up safe enough.”

Then speaking to the girl, the Doctor said, “Miss Joyce, this man has nearly bled to death. I cannot tell yet whether the ball has entered his head or not. If not, there may be slight hopes for him, but he must have immediate attention. It is fortunate I came along as I did.”

“Miss Joyce wanted us to take him into the house,” said one of the men, “but I suggested the barn.”

“The barn first,” said the Doctor; “if I remember rightly, there is a large work-bench there. It will make a fine operating-table. And, Joyce, warm water, towels, and bandages.”

Joyce Crawford, for that was the girl’s name, flew to do the Doctor’s bidding, while the men, to their credit be it said, picked Calhoun up tenderly and carried him to the barn, where the work-bench, as the Doctor had suggested, made an operating-table. Joyce soon appeared with the water, towels, and bandages. The Doctor had already taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, ready for work. Although he was a country practitioner, he was a skilful surgeon. Carefully he washed away the blood, then clipped away the matted hair from around the wound. It seemed to Joyce a long time that he worked, but at last the wound was dressed and bandaged.

“The ball did not penetrate the brain,” he said, as he finished, “nor do I think the skull is injured, although the ball plowed along it for some distance. Fortunately it was a small bullet, one from a revolver, probably, which hit him. It cut a number of small arteries in its course, and that is the reason he has bled so much. An hour more and he would have been beyond my skill.”

“Will he live now?” asked Joyce.

“The chances are against him. If saved at all, it will only be by the best of nursing.”

“He can be taken into the house now, can’t he?” she asked.

“Yes, but you had better first let a tub of water be brought, and clean underclothes, and a night shirt. He needs a bath as much as anything.”

Joyce had the men get the water, while she procured some underclothes which belonged to her brother. Calhoun’s clothes were now removed, clothes which had not been off him for a month.

“Here is a belt,” said one of the men; “it looks as if it might contain money,” and he was proceeding to examine it when the Doctor forbade him.

“Give it to Miss Joyce,” he said; “the fellow is her prisoner.”

The belt was handed over rather reluctantly. Calhoun having been bathed, Joyce was called, and told that her prisoner was ready for her.

“Bring him in, the chamber is all prepared,” was her answer.

Calhoun was brought in and placed in a large, cool upper chamber.

“This is mighty nice for a Rebel,” said one of the men, looking around. “My Jake didn’t get this good care when he was shot at Stone River.”

“Too blame nice for a Morgan thief,” mumbled the other.

“Shut up,” said the Doctor; “remember what Miss Joyce has done for our boys. Worked her fingers off for them. This man, or rather boy, for he can’t be over twenty, was brought to her door. Would you have him left to die?”

The men hung their heads sheepishly, and went out. They were not hard-hearted men, but they were bitter against Morgan, and any one who rode with him.

“Now I must go,” said the old Doctor kindly, taking Joyce’s hand. “You have done to this young man as I would have one do to my son in a like extremity.”

The old Doctor’s voice broke, for he had lost a son in the army. Recovering himself, he continued, “I must go now, for I may be needed by some of our own gallant boys. I will drop in this evening, if possible, and see how your patient is getting along. God bless you, Joyce, you have a kind heart.”

Joyce looked after the old Doctor with swimming eyes. “One of God’s noblemen,” she murmured.

She took the belt which had been taken from Calhoun, and which had been handed her by the Doctor, and put it carefully away. She then began her vigil beside the bedside of the wounded man. The Doctor had given her minute directions, and she followed them faithfully. It was some hours before Calhoun began to show signs of consciousness, and when he did come to, he was delirious, and in a raging fever.

The Doctor returned as he had promised. He shook his head as he felt Calhoun’s pulse, and listened to his incoherent mutterings.

“This is bad,” he said. “It is fortunate he lost so much blood, or this fever would consume him. But we must hope for the best. Only the best of nursing will bring him through.”

“That he shall have,” said Joyce. “I have sent for Margaret Goodsen. You know she is an army nurse, and knows all about wounded men.”

“Yes, Margaret is good, none better,” replied the Doctor.

All through that night Joyce sat by the bedside of Calhoun cooling his fevered brow, giving him refreshing drinks. He talked almost continually to himself. Now he would be leading his men in battle, cheering them on. Then he was a boy, engaged in boyish sports. The name of Fred was uttered again and again.

“I wonder who Fred can be?” thought Joyce; “a brother, probably.”

Joyce Crawford was the only daughter of the Hon. Lorenzo Crawford, one of the most prominent citizens of Columbiana County. Mr. Crawford had served two terms in Congress, and was at the time of the war a member of the state senate. He had one child besides Joyce, his son Mark, who we have seen was a major in the Federal army.

Mr. Crawford lost his wife when Joyce was three years old; since that time his house had been presided over by a maiden sister. This lady was absent in Steubenville when Morgan appeared so suddenly in the county; thus at the time of Calhoun’s appearance only Joyce and the servants were at home, Mr. Crawford being absent in the east on duties connected with the Sanitary Commission.

Mr. Crawford was what is known as an original Abolitionist. Before the war his house was one of the stations of the underground railroad, and many a runaway slave he had helped on the way to Canada. Twice he had been arrested by the United States officials for violation of the fugitive slave law, and both times fined heavily. He believed there could be no virtue in a slave-owner; such a man was accursed of God, and should be accursed of men. His daughter had to a degree imbibed his sentiments, and the idea of slavery was abhorrent to her; but her heart was so gentle, she could hate no one. Calhoun’s helplessness appealed to her sympathies, and she forgot he was one of Morgan’s raiders. Although young, only eighteen, she had admirers by the score, but her father so far had forbidden her receiving company, considering her as yet only a child.

Joyce’s beau ideal of a man was her brother Mark, and he was worthy of her adoration. Several years her senior, he had watched over and guided her in her childhood, and never was a brother more devoted.

The next morning the news came that Morgan was captured, and the scare in Columbiana County was over. The morning also brought Miss Crawford, who had come hurrying home on receipt of the news that Morgan was in the county. She nearly went into hysterics when she learned that one of the dreadful raiders was in the house. “How could you do it, child?” she cried to Joyce; and “Doctor, why did you let her?” she added to Doctor Hopkins, who had just come in to see his patient.

“Madam, it was a case of life or death,” replied the Doctor. “Joyce did right. We are not heathens in Columbiana County.”

“But you will take him right away?” pleaded the lady.

“It would be death to move him.”

“But he might murder us all,” said Miss Crawford.

The Doctor smiled. “If he lives, it will be weeks before he will have the strength to kill a fly,” he answered.

Miss Crawford sighed, and gave up the battle. She was not a hard-hearted woman, but the idea of having one of Morgan’s dreadful raiders in the house was trying on her nerves.

The afternoon brought Major Crawford. The story of Joyce’s capture of a raider had travelled far and wide, and the Major had already heard of it. “So you captured a prisoner, did you, Puss?” he exclaimed, kissing her, as she threw herself in his arms. “Is he a regular brigand, and bearded like a pard?”

“No, no, he is young, almost a boy,” she answered. “Margaret Goodsen is taking care of him now. Come and see him, but he is out of his head, and raves dreadfully.”

She led the way to the chamber where Calhoun was. No sooner did Major Crawford see him than he turned pale and staggered back, “Great God!” he exclaimed.

What fate was it that had led the man he had shot to the house to be cared for by his sister?

“What is it, Mark? What is it?” she cried, seeing his agitation.

Should he tell her? Yes, it would be best. “Joyce, you will not wonder at my surprise, when I tell you it was I who shot him.”

“You, brother, you!” she cried, and instinctively she shrank from him.

Mark saw it, and exclaimed, “Great God! Joyce, you don’t blame me, do you? I had to do it to save my life. He was about to cut me down with his sword when I fired.”

“No, no,” she cried, “I don’t blame you, but it was so sudden; it is so dreadful. I never before realized that war was so terrible.”

“Well, Joyce, save the poor fellow’s life if you can; I don’t want his death on my hands if I can help it. Do you know who your prisoner is?”

“No, you see the condition he is in.”

“His name is Pennington, Calhoun Pennington. He is one of Morgan’s bravest and most daring officers. I ought to know him, he took me prisoner twice.”

“You, Mark, you?”

“Yes, you remember I told you how I lost my horse in Tennessee. He is the fellow who took it. He afterwards captured me at Cave City.”

“Mark, what will become of him if he gets well?” she asked.

“The United States officials will take him,” he answered. “His being here must be reported.”

“And – and he will be sent to prison?”

“Yes, until he is exchanged.”

“But you were not sent to prison when you were captured,” she protested.

“No, I was paroled; but I hardly believe the government will parole any of Morgan’s men.”

“Why?” she asked.

“They have given us too much trouble, Puss. Now we have them, I think we will keep them.”

“Mark, Aunt Matilda don’t like my taking this Pennington in. She says father will not like it at all.”

“I will see Aunt Matilda, and tell her it is all right. I will also write to father. No, Joyce, I don’t want Pennington to die. It is best, even in war, to know you have not killed a man. So take good care of him, or rather see he has good care. Get a man to nurse him nights.”

“I will look out for that,” said Joyce.

“Well, Puss, good-bye, keep me posted. I had leave of absence only a few hours, so I must be going.”

“Oh, Mark, must you go so soon?” And she clung to him as if she would not let him go. Gently disengaging her arms, he pressed kiss after kiss on her brow and was gone. She sank into a chair weeping, and for a time forgot her prisoner.

The next day Joyce had another visitor, in the person of Andrew Harmon. He had heard that his horse was at Crawford’s, and that the officer who took him was there desperately wounded. He made his visit with pleasure, for of all the girls in Columbiana County, she was the one he had selected to become Mrs. Harmon. He had no idea he would be refused, for was he not considered the greatest catch in the county?

Harmon had two things to recommend him – good looks and money. He was accounted a handsome man, and was as far as physical beauty was concerned. He had the body and muscle of an athlete, but there was nothing ennobling or inspiring in the expression of his countenance. By nature he was crafty, mean, cruel, and miserly, and was one of the biggest cowards that ever walked.

Like many others, he was a great patriot as far as talk was concerned. He had been so unfortunate as to be drafted at the first call, and had promptly furnished a substitute. He was fond of boasting he was doing double duty for his country, not only was he represented in the army, but he was doing a great work at home. This work consisted in contracting for the government, and cheating it at every turn. Many a soldier who received shoddy clothing, paper-soled shoes, and rotten meat had Mr. Harmon to thank for it. But he was piling up money, and was already known as one of the richest men in the county. When he went out with the Home Guards, he had no idea of getting near Morgan; he would look out for that. But his party ran into Morgan’s advance unexpectedly, and as has been related, he was captured by Calhoun. It was a most wonderful story he had to tell.

He had been beset by at least six of Morgan’s men. A desperate conflict followed, and he had killed, or at least desperately wounded, three of his assailants, and it was only after he had not a single shot left in his revolver and was surrounded that he had surrendered.

“So enraged were they at my desperate defence,” said he, “that the officer in charge pulled me from my horse, brutally kicked and struck me, threatened to kill me, and then appropriated my horse. He is a desperate fellow, Miss Joyce; I would not keep him in the house a single moment.”

Joyce, who had listened to his account much amused, for she had heard another version of it, said, “I do not think, Mr. Harmon, he could have beaten you very hard, for I see no marks on you, and you seem to be pretty lively. As for sending Lieutenant Pennington away, the Doctor says it would be death to move him.”

Mr. Harmon shifted uneasily in his chair as Joyce was saying this, and then asked to see Calhoun, as he wished to be sure whether he was the one who had captured him. This Joyce consented to, provided he would be careful not to disturb him. Harmon promised, and he was taken into the room. Calhoun was tossing on his bed, as he entered, and no sooner did his wild eyes rest on Harmon than he burst into a loud laugh, “Oh! the coward! the coward!” he shouted, “take him away.”

Harmon fled from the room white with rage. “Miss Joyce, that fellow is shamming,” he fumed. “I demand he be delivered to the United States officials at once.”

“The Doctor thinks differently; he says it will kill him to be moved,” she answered.

“Let him die, then. It isn’t your business to nurse wounded Rebels, especially one of Morgan’s cutthroats.”

“I do not have to come to you to learn what my business is,” answered Joyce, haughtily, and turned to leave the room.

Mr. Harmon saw that he had made a mistake. “Joyce! Joyce! don’t go, hear me,” he exclaimed.

“You will find your horse in the stable,” was all she said, as she passed out.

He left the house vowing vengeance, and lost no time in informing the Federal authorities that the wounded officer at Crawford’s was shamming, and would give them the slip if not taken away. Two deputy marshals came to investigate, and went away satisfied when Doctor Hopkins promised to report as soon as his patient was well enough to be removed.

In due time Joyce received a letter from her father. He had not heard that Morgan had come as far north as Columbiana County, until after he was captured. As all danger was now over, he would not be home for some time. The thousands who had been wounded in the great battle of Gettysburg were occupying his attention. He also had to make a visit to Washington and Fortress Monroe, and might go as far south as Hilton Head. As for the wounded Rebel at his house, Joyce had done right in not letting him die in the road, but that he should be turned over to the military authorities at the earliest possible moment. Little did Mr. Crawford think what the outcome of the affair would be.

Contrary to her aunt’s protest, Joyce insisted on taking most of the care of Calhoun during the day. Margaret Goodsen was all the help she needed. She had engaged a competent man to care for him nights. Had not Mark told her to save the life of the man he had shot, if possible?