Thus did my fictional Seventy-Ninth Private Abram Elliot tell his comrade Private Burton Laing in the Northwest Bastion that he had taken a bullet through his bonnet the night before the attack.
“It was Elliot, come over in a crouch from my right to talk, which was his usual way. He dinna like being alone, the way we were posted so far apart in the bastion. I canna say I like it much neither.
“‘Did they wound you, Abram, or only the cap?’
“‘Only the cap, Burton, only the cap.”
“He waggled his forefinger at me through a hole in the glencarry, a gift from the Caledonian Relief Society in New York. They were keeping us well supplied with tents and uniforms, and kilts for ceremonies when they could get them.”