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e comes not back with light, elastic step and erect carriage as when he marched forth so gayly at his country's call.
He is borne on a litter—he has been shot through the lungs, his life-tide is ebbing away, and he has come home to die. On that memorable 27th day of June, 1862, at Cold Harbor, when Stonewall Jackson issued his crisp order, Tell General Ewell to sweep the field with the bayonet, and our whole line pressed grandly forward, carried every position before it, and persuaded General McClellan that it was indeed time to change base from before Richmond to the shelter of his gun-boats at Harrison's Landing, our youthful hero fell in the very forefront of the battle in one of the most splendid charges of the famous old Thirteenth Virginia Infantry.
The surgeons gave us no hope, but God spared him to reach home and linger for over six months to illustrate how a Christian soldier could be patient under suffering, and how, when he came to die, a smile could light up his countena