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[460] right, sweeping the Gilliam field, were the remaining three guns of Ellett's Battery.

There had been during the morning some sharp skirmishing with the enemy, but everything had grown quiet towards midday, and old soldiers doubted whether there would be any general engagement. Pegram, wearied down by fatigue, was sleeping soundly among the guns on the right, when sudden, ripping volleys of musketry from the centre told him that the enemy were charging his batteries. He instantly jumped into his saddle, and rode at full speed down the line of battle to his guns. Lieutenants Hollis and Early were using double canister at close range, and their cannoneers were serving their pieces in a manner beyond all praise. Within thirty yards of the guns the dense columns of the enemy were staggering under their rapid fire. Pegram rode in, speaking cheerily to the men, a sweet serenity on his boyish face, but the old light of battle shining in his eyes. “Fire your canister low, men!” he shouted, as the blue lines surged still nearer to the heated guns. It was his last order on a field of battle. Suddenly he reeled and fell from his saddle. Small wonder that he was first to fall. The infantry were lying down, by order, firing over a low ‘curtain’ which they had hastily thrown up; he was sitting on his white horse in the front line of battle, cheering and encouraging his men. He had received his mortal wound, and knew it. “Tell my mother and sisters,” he said firmly, “that I commend them to God's protection. It will be a great blow to them at home to lose me so soon after ‘brother;’ but for myself, I am ready. I have done my duty and now I turn to my Saviour.” He knew nothing of the bitter defeat. When victory no longer perched on the battle-flag of his old battalion, he had received his last promotion at the hands of the great Captain. He met a soldier's death, and had but a soldier's burial. Wrapped carefully in a coarse blanket he was laid to rest in the bosom of his mother State, Virginia.

Brief as was his life, he had been for six years a devoted member of the Episcopal Church; and a comrade read at his grave her grand and solemn ritual for the dead.

He now sleeps at Hollywood, beside his knightly brother, on a spot sloping to the ever-murmuring James, and overlooking that beautiful city in whose defence both of them so often went forth to battle, counting their lives a worthless thing.

Thus passed away “this incomparable young man,” in the

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