"And now I recollect," and the Captain's eye glistened as he spoke, "how he acted when young Snowden was wounded. Snowden was a slender, pale-faced stripling of sixteen, beloved by every body that knew him, and if ever a perfect Christian walked this earth, he was one, even if he was in service in Western Virginny. The chaplain was fond of company, and, as was his duty, mixed with the men. Snowden was reserved, much by himself, and had little or no chance to learn bad habits; that is the only way I can account for his goodness. I often heard the chaplain tell the boys to imitate Snowden, and not himself; 'you'll find a pure mouth there, boys, because the heart is pure; you'll see no letters of introduction to the devil,' as the chaplain called cards, 'in his knapsack.' By the way, he was so hard on cards, that even the boatmen, who knew them better than their A B C's, were ashamed to play them. He would say, 'Snowden is brave as man can be; he has a right to be, he is prepared for every fate. A christian, boys, makes all the better soldier for his being a Christian,' and he would tell us of Washington, Col. Gardner, that preacher that suffered, fought and died near Elizabeth, in the Jerseys, and others.
"In bravery, none excelled Snowden. We were
lying down once, but about sixty yards from a wood chuck full of rebels, when word was sent that our troops on the left must be signalled, to charge in a certain way. Several understood the signs, but Snowden first rose, mounted a stump, and did not get off although receiving flesh wounds in half-a-dozen different places, and his clothing cut to ribands, until he saw the troops moving as directed. How we gritted our teeth as we heard the bullets whiz by that brave boy. I have the feeling yet. We thought his goodness saved him. His was goodness! Not that kind that will stare a preacher full in the face from a cushioned pew on Sunday, and gouge you over the counter on Monday, but the genuine article. His time was yet to come.
"One day we had driven the rebels through a rough country some miles, skirmishing with their rear-guard; the Chaplain and Snowden with my company foremost. We neared a small but deep creek the rebels had crossed, and trying to get across, we were scattered along the bank. I heard a shot, and as I turned I saw poor Snowden fall, first on his knee and then on his elbow. I called the Chaplain. They were messmates—he loved Snowden as his own child, and always called him 'my boy.' He rushed to him, 'My boy, who fired that shot?' The lad turned to a clump of bushes about 80 yards distant on the other side of the creek. Long Tom was in hand, but the rebel was first, and a ball cut the Chaplain's coat collar. The flash revealed him; in an instant long Tom was in range, and another instant saw a Butternut belly face the sun. Dropping his piece, falling upon his knee, he raised Snowden gently up with his left hand. 'I am dying,' whispered the boy, 'tell my mother I'll meet her in heaven.' The Chaplain raised
his right hand, his eyes swimming in tears, and in tones that I'll never forget, and that make me a better man every time I think of them, he said, 'O God, the pure in heart is before thee, redeem thy promise, and reveal thyself.' A slight gurgle, and with a pleasant smile playing upon his countenance, the soul of John Snowden, if there be justice in heaven, went straight up to the God who gave it." Tears had come to the Captain's eyes, and were glistening in the eyes of most of the crowd.
The Dutch doctor alone was unmoved. Stoically he remarked, "Very goot story, Captain, goot story, do our Chaplain much goot."
The crowd left quietly—all but the Captain, who, never forgetting business in the hurry of the moment, drew a receipt for the transfer of thirteen bottles of whiskey to the hospital department, which the doctor signed without reading.
