Twelfth June, 1812.
My DEAR OLD FRIEND: I have come to the end of life; they tell me it will be all over by the morrow, and there remains but one thing that greatly troubles me--my little girl, my Elsa.

You know I have never much feared death, nor do I in this hour when I face it once more; for I have ever tried to honor God and do my duty as both man and soldier.

David, I can scarcely write, for my mind wanders strangely, and my fingers will but barely grasp the pen.

'T is not the grip of the old sword-hand you knew so well, for I am already very weak, and dying.

But do you yet remember the day I drew you out of the rout at Saratoga, and bore you away safely, though the Hessians shot me twice?
God knows, old friend, I never thought to remind you of the act,--'twas no more than any comrade would have done,--yet I am here among strangers, and there is no one else living to whom I may turn in my need.