Here I will digress a few moments from my narrative to relate an incident that took place while encamped near Rodgersville, an incident that will ever remain fresh in the memory of all of the old First Division who witnessed it.  It is with feelings of sorrow at this distant day to even recall it to mind, and it is with pain that I record it.  But as I have undertaken to give a faithful and true story of the army life of the First Brigade, this harrowing scene becomes a part of its history.  It was near the middle of the month.  The sun had long since dropped out of sight behind the blue peaks of the distant Cumberland.  All is still in camp; the soldiers, after their many hardships and fatiguing marches, rest, and soon all in sound slumber.  Even the very voices of nature seemed hushed and frozen in the gloomy silence of the night.  All is quiet, save in one lonely tent, apart some distance from the rest, before which walks a silent sentinel, as if he, too, feels the chilling effects of the sombre stillness.  Murmurings soft and low in the one lighted tent are all that break the oppressive death-like silence.  In the back ground the great forest trees of the mountain stand mute and motionless, not even a nod of their stately heads to a passing breeze, while far away to the south could be seen an occasional picket fire, making the surrounding objects appear like moving, grotesque phantoms.  The heavens above were all bedecked with shimmering stars, pouring down upon the sleeping Valley of the Holston a cold and trembling light.

In the lonely tent sits a soldier, who is spending his last night on earth; by his side sits his little son, who has come far away over the mountains to spend the last moments with his father and see him die—­not to die like a soldier wishes for death, but as a felon and outcast, the ignominious death at the stake.  An occasional sob escapes the lips of the lad, but no sigh or tears of grief from the condemned.  He is holding converse with his Maker, for to His throne alone must he now appeal for pardon.  Hope on earth had gone.  He had no friend at court, no one to plead his cause before those who had power to order a reprieve.  He must die.  The doomed man was an ignorant mountaineer, belonging to one of the regiments from North Georgia or Tennessee, and in an ill-fated moment he allowed his longings for home to overcome his sense of duty, and deserted his colors—­fled to his mountain home and sought to shelter himself near his wife and little ones in the dark recesses and gorges thereabout.  He was followed, caught, returned to his command, courtmartialed, and sentenced to death—­time, to-morrow.