[115]Late in the day he was struck by a ball in the leg, just below the knee. He deemed the wound a slight one, and, as we have seen, refused to leave the field until by increasing faintness he was compelled to do so, but not until the victory had been decided for our arms. When his wound was dressed, he playfully remarked that it would be a “good furlough” for awhile. He was borne to the house of Mr. Yerby, in Spotsylvania county. Here, when found by his uncle, Rev. James D. Coleman, he was surrounded by the wounded and dying, to whom, in his benevolent self-forgetfulness, he was striving to administer such aid and consolation as was in his power. He spoke more of his suffering comrades than of himself, and especially expressed his sympathy and sorrow for a terribly mutilated young officer who was lying by his side. He was removed to Edge Hill, Caroline county, the residence of his brother-in-law, Mr. Samuel Schooler. Soon his wound assumed a threatening and dangerous character. Virulent erysipelas supervened, and he suffered intense agony. By profuse discharges from his wound, and by constant, severe pain, his frame became emaciated and reduced to little more than a skeleton. Every attention which the skill of physicians and the affectionate care and nursing of the assembled family could render could only retard, but could not overcome the steady approaches of coming death. His friends were unwilling to believe that one for whom they so ministered, for whose recovery they so fervently prayed, upon whose continued life so many hopes and interests were depending, must be taken from them. But the gravest fears were soon excited, and before long Colonel Coleman himself began to anticipate his speedy departure from earth. He endured with marvellous patience and uncomplaining cheerfulness the most excruciating agonies of body. His faith in the rectitude and benevolence of his covenant God never wavered, rather steadily increased as death approached nearer and still nearer. And now the beautiful light of his pious spirit, like the glories of a clear autumn sunset, illumed the chamber in which he was gasping away his life, and lighted up, with sweet resignation and hope, the hearts of his lamenting kindred. In the early stages of his disease he hoped—expected to recover. He had much for which to live, and few men could better enjoy or adorn life, or render it more useful than he. He now decided. what before he had often pondered, that, with recovered health, he would devote his life and talents to the more direct service of
