two or three inches from my right ear.
The shock of the report almost deafened me at the time, and my neck and
right cheek were peppered with powder grains, which remained there for
years until finally absorbed in the system. I turned to Phil in a fury,
exclaiming, "What in the hell and damnation do you mean?" Just then down
went the man on my right with a sharp cry, and followed by the one on
the left, both apparently severely wounded. The thought of my shocking
conduct, in thus indulging in wicked profanity at such a time, flashed
upon me, and I almost held my breath, expecting summary punishment on
the spot. But nothing of the kind happened. And, according to history,
Washington swore a good deal worse at the battle of Monmouth,--and
Potter was more careful thereafter.

Poor Phil! On December 7, 1864, while fighting on the skirmish line near
Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and just a few paces to my left, he was
mortally wounded by a gun-shot in the bowels and died in the hospital a
few days later. He was a Catholic, and in his last hours was almost
frantic because no priest was at hand to grant him absolution.

Right after we began firing on this line I noticed, directly in my front
and not more than two hundred yards away, a large Confederate flag
flapping defiantly in the breeze. The smoke was too dense to enable me
to see the bearer, but the banner was distinctly visible. It looked
hateful to me, and I wanted to see it come down. So I held on it, let my
gun slowly fall until I thought the sights were about on a waist line,
and then fired. I peered eagerly under the smoke to see the effect of my
shot,--but the blamed thing was still flying. I fired three or four more
shots on the same line as the first, but with no apparent results. I
then concluded that the bearer was probably squatted behind a stump, or
something, and that it was useless to waste ammunition on him.
Diagonally to my left, perhaps two hundred and fifty yards away, the
Confederate line of battle was in plain sight. It was in the open, in
the edge of an old field, with woods to the rear. It afforded a splendid
mark. Even the ramrods could be seen flashing in the air, as the men,
while in the act of loading, drew and returned the rammers. Thereupon I
began firing at the enemy on that part of the line, and the balance of
the contents of my cartridge box went in that direction. It was
impossible to tell if any of my shots took effect, but after the battle
I