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 as the cross to the Crusader, and he would follow wherever any would carry it. He was not always up on salutes, and the finer points of tactics or guard duty, but in the essentials of marching, fighting and taking care of himself, he had no superior. He knew how to show respect for the officer he loved, and often he would not go forward until his leader went back, in time of danger. His battalion drill may have been somewhat ragged, but his alignment in the charge was magnificent, his fire by file unequaled, and his ‘rebel yell’ the grandest music on earth. Who that looked on him can ever forget his bright face, his tattered jacket, and battered hat, his jests, which tickled the very ribs of death—his weary marches in heat and cold and storm?—his pangs of hunger, his parching fever, and agony of wounds—his passing away in hospital or prison, when the weak body freed the dauntless soul—his bare feet tracing the rugged fields of Virginia, and Georgia and Tennessee, with stains like those which reddened the snow at Valley Forge—his soul clutching his colors, while suffering and unprotected wife and child cried for him at home—his faith and hope and patience to the end—his love of home, deference to woman and trust in God—his courage which sounded all the depths and shoals of misfortune, and for a time throttled fate—the ringing yell of his onset, his battle anthem for native lands rising heavenward above the roar of five hundred stormy fields?
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