Making the River
Diary of Thomas Warren: July 27, 1864 I crouched behind the large willow that overlooked the woodland down the hill, and let my breath come in halting gasps. Cool and soft breezes brushed over me, caressing my skin. My eyes roved around the surroundings, alert for trouble. In each flutter of feathers I heard musket fire and the shouts of my pursuers. Kneeling, I tore strips of cloth from my tattered pants and wound them around my bare feet. I made each movement slowly and deliberately, letting my strength return.
After I had regained my breath, I stood and made a beeline for the glimmering water in the distance. If I could make the river, I could float downstream to camp; if I made it to the river, I would live.
Hearing a commotion, I looked behind me.
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