“This is a good place to die, too.”
A thundering cheer rose suddenly above the roar of the guns, and the line of dismounted sharp-shooters behind their rail breastworks opened a more steady and resolute fire as the enemy appeared to pause.
At the same moment young Preston Hampton, a son of the general, and one of my favorites, from his courage and courtesy, passed by at a gallop, cheering and encouraging the skirmishers.
I spurred after him. Just as I reached him, I saw the arm waving above his head suddenly drop; his sword escaped from his grasp, and he fell from the saddle to the ground.
In an instant I had dismounted, and with other officers who hastened up, had raised him from the earth.
As we did so, the group, consisting now of no less than seven, attracted the enemy’s attention; a hot fire was opened on us, and before we could bear the dying youth in our arms beyond the reach of the fire, four out of the seven officers were shot.{1}
{Footnote 1: Fact}
The boy was placed in an ambulance, and borne to the rear; but the wound was fatal, and he soon afterward expired. A staff officer afterward informed me that General Hampton did not leave his tent for a fortnight—scarcely replying when he was spoken to, and prostrated by grief.
I could understand that. The death of the brave youth sent a pang to my own heart—and he was only my friend. The great heart of the father must have been nearly broken.
So fell Preston Hampton. Peace to his ashes! No kinder or braver spirit ever died for his country!