On the gory field of Murfreesboro, upon the ushering in of the new
year, many a noble life was ebbing away. It was a rainy, dismal night;
and, on traversing that field, I saw many a spot sacred to the memory
of my loved companions of the glorious 6th Ohio. I incidentally heard
of the death of a nephew in that fight. I thought of his poor mother.
How could I break the news to her! Yes, there was I, surrounded by
hundreds of dead and wounded, _pitying the living_. O, how true it is
that--

Death's swift, unerring dart brings to its victim calm and peaceful rest,
While those _who live_ mourn and live on--the arrow in their breast!

With anxious haste I sought his body during that night. Many an
upturned face, some with pleasing smile, and others with vengeance
depicted, seemed to meet my gaze.

Stragglers told me to go further to the left. "There's where
Crittenden's boys gave 'em h--l!" Just to the right of the railroad I
found young Stephens, of the 24th Ohio. His leg was shattered. He
called me by name, and begged me to get him some water, as he was
perishing. I went back to the river, stripped three or four dead of
their canteens, and filled them, and returned. He told me that young
Tommy Burnett was only wounded. He saw him carried back. This relieved
my anxiety. The next day the dead were buried. There, amid the shot
and shell and other _debris_ of the battle-field, the dead heroes of
the 6th lie, until the last trump shall call.

A few days afterward I met one of the officers of that regiment. Of
him I eagerly inquired as to its fate. A tear fell from his manly eye
as he exclaimed, "O, sad enough, Alf! Our boys were terribly cut up;
but they fought like tigers--no flinching there; no falling out of
line; shoulder to shoulder they stood amid the sheeted flame; and,
though pressed by almost overwhelming numbers, no blanched cheek, no
craven look, not the slightest token of fear was visible. The boys
were there to do or die. They were Ohio boys, and felt a pride in
battling for their country and her honor." And when I asked of names
familiar, the loss, indeed, seemed fearful. "What became," said I, "of
Olly Rockenfield?" "Dead!" was the reply. "And George Ridenour?"
"Wounded--can not live!"

Dave Medary, a perfect pet of the regiment, a boy so childlike, so
quiet in his deportment, yet with as brave a heart as Julius
Caesar--LITTLE DAVE was killed! I saw his grave a few days after. It
was half a mile to the