wound at Chickamauga. While a line officer, in all the long, weary marches, he was never known to ride; sharing, by choice, the fatigues and exposures of the men, and with the endurance of an old campaigner. . . . . He spoke of the chances of death with feeling, but with no superstitious forebodings. He had frequently said to me, that should he be killed in battle, he would rather be buried on the field, than that his body should be taken home for burial; and it is as he preferred. He sleeps where he fell.He sleeps where he fell. The hands of living comrades prepared for him a soldier's grave, and laid him there, as they found him,—save the ring from his finger and the lock of hair, for a mother's keeping. There in far-off Georgia, among the mountain solitudes, broken now but by the voices of nature, which echoed the uproar of that deadly strife, away from the scenes of his childhood, away from the graves of his kindred, watched over but by the eye of Him who has received his martyr spirit to spheres of nobler endeavor,—there he sleeps.
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