During the days and nights that passed since the dread sentence had been read to him, he lay upon his rude couch in the guard tent all indifferent to his environments, and on the march he moved along with the guard in silence, gazing abstractedly at the blue vaults of heaven or the star-strewn, limitless space.  That far away future now to him so near—­that future which no vision can contemplate nor mortal mind comprehend—­is soon to be unfolded.  Little heed was paid to the comforting words of his sympathetic comrades in arms, who bid him hope, for the condemned man felt inwardly and was keenly conscious of the fact that he had been caught upon the crest of a great wave of destiny, soon to be swept away by its receding force to darkness, despair, death.  “Fate had played him falsely.”

To witness death, to see the torn and mangled remains of friends and comrades, are but incidents in the life of a soldier.  While all dread it, few fear it.  Yet it is upon the field of battle that it is expected—­amid the din and smoke, the shouts of his comrades, the rattle of musketry, and the cannon’s roar.  There is the soldier’s glory, his haven, his expected end; and of all deaths, that upon the battlefield, surrounded by victorious companions and waving banners, the triumphant shouts of comrades, is the least painful.

The grounds selected for the carrying out of the court’s sentence were on a broad plateau, gently sloping towards the center on three sides.  So well were the grounds and surroundings adapted to the end in view, that it seemed as if nature had anticipated the purposes of man.

By 9 o’clock the troops of the division were in motion, all under the command of Colonel James D. Nance, of the Third South Carolina, marching for the field of death.  Kershaw’s Brigade took the lead, and formed on the left of the hollow square.  Wofford’s on the right, with Bryan’s doubling on the two, while Humphrey’s closed the space at the west end of the square.

A detail of thirty men were made to do the firing, fifteen guns being loaded with powder and ball, the others with powder alone, this arrangement being made, perhaps, with a view to ease the qualms of conscience, should any of the guards have scruples of shedding the blood of a former comrade in arms.  None could know positively who held the death-dealing guns.  An opening was made at the lower end and the first platoon of guards entered with arms reversed, then the band playing the “Dead March,” followed by the condemned and his son, the second platoon bringing up the rear.  The cortege marched around the whole front of the lined-up troops, keeping step to the slow and dismal sounds of the “Dead March.”  The prisoner walked with the firm and steady step of a Sagamore, or an Indian brave marching and singing his death chants, to the place of his execution.  His son was equally as courageous and self-possessed, not a tremor or faltering in either.  At times the father and son would speak in low, soft tones to each other, giving and receiving, perhaps, the last messages, the last farewells on earth, the soldier-outcast being now under the very shadow of death.