The soldier, like the sailor, is proverbial for his superstition.  But at times certain incidents or coincidents take place in the life of the soldier that are inexplainable, to say the least.  Now it is certain that every soldier going into battle has some dread of death.  It is the nature of man to dread that long lost sleep at any time and in any place.  He knows that death is a master of all, and all must yield to its inexorable summons, and that summons is more likely to come in battle than on ordinary occasions.  That at certain times soldiers do have a premonition of their coming death, has been proven on many occasions.  Not that I say all soldiers foretell their end by some kind of secret monitor, but that some do, or seem to do so.  Captain Summer, of my company, was an unusually good-humored and lively man, and while he was not what could be called profane, yet he had little predilection toward piety or the Church.  In other battles he advanced to the front as light-hearted and free from care as if going on drill or inspection.  When we were drawn up in line of battle at Fredericksburg the first morning an order came for the Captain.  He was not present, and on enquiry, I was told that he had gone to a cluster of bushes in the rear.  Thinking the order might be of importance, I hastened to the place, and there I found Captain Summer on his knees in prayer.  I rallied him about his “sudden piety,” and in a jesting manner accused him of “weakening.”  “After rising from his kneeling posture, I saw he was calm, pale, and serious—­so different from his former moods in going into battle.  I began teasing him in a bantering way about being a coward.”  “No,” said he, “I am no coward, and will show I have as much nerve, if not more, than most men in the army, for all have doubts of death, but I have none.  I will be killed in this battle.  I feel it as plainly as I feel I am living, but I am no coward, and shall go in this battle and fight with the same spirit that I have always shown.”  This was true.  He acted bravely, and for the few moments that he commanded the regiment he exhibited all the daring a brave man could, but he fell shot through the brains with a minnie ball.  He had given me messages to his young wife, to whom he had been married only about two months, before entering the services, as to the disposition of his effects, as well as his body after death.

Another instance was that of Lieutenant Hill, of Company G, Third South Carolina Regiment.  The day before the battle he asked permission to return to camp that night, a distance perhaps of three miles.  With a companion he returned to the camp, procured water, bathed himself, and changed his under-clothing.  On being asked by his companion why he wished to walk three miles at night to simply bathe and change his clothing, with perfect unconcern he replied:  “In the coming battle I feel that I will be killed, and such being the case, I could not bear the idea of dying and being buried in soiled clothes.”  He fell dead at the first volley.  Was there ever such courage as this—­to feel that death was so certain and that it could be prevented by absenting themselves from battle, but allowed their pride, patriotism, and moral courage to carry them on to sure death?