s of little boats. We could hear them impudently
singing: "O soldiers, won't you meet us." We had met them on fields of
carnage, and expected to meet them again on the return of spring; but
whether we should meet them "On Canaan's happy shore," or in some less
pleasing locality in the eternal world, who could say?

I distinctly remember one night when my turn came to go to the river on
picket duty, and the earth was covered with snow several inches deep.
When my watch was off and the opportunity to sleep was afforded the
question was, where to lie down. I spread on the snow some boughs that I
had cut from a cedar tree and laid a gum cloth upon them. Upon this
pallet I lay down and covering myself head and all with a blanket
enjoyed sweet, refreshing, and healthful sleep. The next morning the
blanket above my head was stiff-frozen with the moisture from my breath.

There was one man that should have been mentioned before this time,--a
negro of my own age, whose name was Charles Wesley. We had grown up on
the farm together, and had played, and boxed, and wrestled without
respect to color. Not as a slave but as a friend he followed me to the
war,--my launderer, my cook, and when I was sick, my nurse. Having
orders to keep himself out of danger, he very willingly remained far in
the rear when a battle was in progress, but when the firing ceased he
faithfully sought me and reported for duty. While writing about Charles,
I may anticipate a little and say that when we were in Pennsylvania I
told him that we were on Yankee soil, and that he had the opportunity of
deserting me and of remaining there as a free man. He replied that he
already knew that, but that he was going to abide with me. And when I
was captured at Falling Waters he had the intelligence and fidelity to
ride my horse home and deliver him to my brother.

It was while we were encamped at Moss Neck that I witnessed a military
execution for the offense of desertion from the 47th regiment. The
criminal was on his knees, blindfolded, with his hands tied behind him
to a stake. A short distance in front of him was the line of twenty men
detailed to do the shooting, and commanded by an officer especially
appointed. No man could tell who did the killing, for the twenty muskets
were handed to them, one-half of them being loaded with blank
cartridges. The rest of the regiment was drawn up, one-half on the
right, and the other on the left. At the word "Fire!" the report of