Never was self-sacrifice, by both officers and men, more apparent than on this occasion; never did men look death more calmly in the face. See the undaunted and heroic Hartwell at the head of his regiment, and hear him shouting, “Follow your colors, my brave men!” and with drawn sword leading his gallant band. His horse is up to its knees in the heavy mud. The rider, already wounded, is again struck by the fragment of a shell, but keeps his seat; while the spirited animal struggling in the mire, and plunging about, attracts the attention of the braves, who are eagerly pressing forward to meet the enemy, to retake the lost ground, and gain a victory, or at least, save the little army from defeat. A moment more, he is killed; and the brave Hartwell attempts to jump from his charger, but is too weak. The horse falls with fearful struggles upon its rider, and both are buried in the mud. The brave Captain Crane, the Adjutant, is killed, and falls from his horse near his colonel. Lieutenant Boynton, while urging his men, is killed. Lieutenant Hill is wounded, but still keeps his place. Captains Soule and Woodward are both wounded, and yet keep their command. The blood is running freely from the mouth of Lieutenant Jewett; but he does not leave his company. Sergeant-Major Trotter is wounded, but still fights. Sergeant Shorter is wounded in the knee, yet will not go to the rear. A shell tears off the foot of Sergeant-Major Charles L. Mitchel; and as he is carried to the rear, he shouts, with uplifted hand, “Cheer up, boys; we’ll never surrender!” But look away in front: there are the colors, and foremost amongst the bearers is Robert M. King, the young, the handsome, and the gentlemanly sergeant, whose youth and bravery attract the attention of all. Scarcely more than twenty years of age, well educated, he left a good home in Ohio to follow the fortunes of war, and to give his life to help redeem his race. The enemy train their guns upon the colors, the roar of cannon and crack of rifle is heard, the advanced flag falls, the heroic King is killed; no, he is not dead, but only wounded. A fellow-sergeant seizes the colors; but the bearer will not give them up. He rises, holds the old flag aloft with one hand, and presses the other upon the wound in his side to stop the blood. “Advance the colors!” shouts the commander. The brave King, though saturated with his own blood, is the first to obey the order. As he goes forward, a bullet passes through his heart, and he falls. Another snatches the colors; but they are fast, the grasp of death holds them tight. The hand is at last forced open, the flag is raised to the breeze, and the lifeless body of Robert M. King is borne from the field. This is but a truthful sketch of the part played by one heroic son of Africa, whose death was lamented by all who knew him. This is only one of the two hundred and forty-nine that fell on the field of Honey Hill. With a sad heart we turn away from the picture.