—Another and an entirely different type of our volunteer soldiers was Orderly Sergeant John W. Long, whose military history is thus recorded in the brief annals of the regiment:
“John W. Long enlisted as a private, September 30th, 1861. Born at Lemoy, Ohio; a farmer; single; twenty years old at enlistment. Promoted Corporal, May 1st, 1862. Wounded at Chicamauga, September 19th, 1863. Reënlisted as a veteran, January 1st, 1864. Wounded at Peach Tree creek, near Atlanta, July 20th, 1864. Promoted First Sergeant, October 21st, 1864. Killed at the battle of Nashville, December 16th, 1864.”
A universal favorite was “Johnny” Long, as he was called. He was always in his place, and his brave, cheerful nature was superior to the vicissitudes of the longest tramp or the most desolate bivouac. Through all the eventful years of my service with him I am sure that I never saw a frown on his face, nor heard a complaint from his lips. If extra duty was to be performed, “Johnny” Long was always ready for it. If a forage detail was needed, after a long day’s march, the bright, contented face of “Johnny” Long, if he was a Corporal or Sergeant with the squad, gave assurance that the work assigned the detail would be vigorously and intelligently attended to. In camp, always neat, good-humored, and vivacious; on duty, always prompt, tireless, and intelligent; in battle, always steady, reliable, and brave—“Johnny” Long was at all times and everywhere an ideal soldier.
Twice the enemy’s bullets struck him, inflicting first a slight and then a severe wound, and his comrades joked him about “the third time, and out.” But he only laughed, as he did at all things personal to himself. Sympathetic and tender with the troubles or misfortunes of others, his own he made light of. But, alas! the “third time” did put out the life of this gay-hearted and fearless young soldier. In the last battle in which his regiment took part, and while gallantly charging the enemy’s works at Nashville, he was instantly killed. Some of his comrades say that his face, in death, told no story of pain or of horror. It was smiling, as in life. Hardships, privations and toil could not sour the sweet currents of his nature, and even death failed to chill the generous ardor of his soul. He died, as he had lived, with a smile on his young lips and content in his heart.
“Right in the van,
On the red rampart’s slippery swell,
With heart that beat a charge, he fell
Forward, as fits a man.
But the high soul burns on to light men’s feet
Where death for noble ends makes dying sweet.”