small cedar, a row of which grew along the road, we dug a grave for him and gave him as good burial as we could. I think Joe Rounds, Chet Catlin, or Tarbell, read the Episcopal or Masonic burial service, I do not remember which. Spicer's death threw a gloom over us. He was a fine fellow and well liked by all of us. At dusk we moved back into the hollow by the roadside, got our supper and slept on our arms. In the morning before daylight we were roused up, told to get our breakfast and get ready to go on the picket or skirmish line. We had scarcely time to get a cup of coffee, toast a cracker, and broil a bit of pork on a stick, before we were ordered into ranks. Levi Doxtater had gone for water and had a number of canteens, among which was mine, to fill. He was late getting back and his brother Jerome called to him “Hurry up, Levi, we are going right away.” Levi said, “I don't care, I ain't going to hurry. I am only going out there to be killed anyway.” Sure enough, his prediction or presentiment proved true, for he had scarcely reached the advance line when he received a mortal wound. We moved up the creek that runs through the gully before mentioned, followed it a considerable distance toward the enemy until we came to a point where it turned toward the right. Here, under the bank it made, and the shelter it afforded, our picket reserve was posted. When we reached this point it was daylight and objects could be seen distinctly for some distance in the direction of the enemy, but a considerable fog still hung over the low ground. We moved rapidly past the reserve and out into the unsheltered field, deployed as skirmishers from our left squad, which was my squad, and ran forward on a double quick to our line, which I could not see when I started, but which we reached in going seventy yards. The
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