When the pages of this memoir have been read, and laid aside, and then in the course of time have been all but quite forgotten, there shall yet linger a memory that will stir when chance brings some passing mention of his name, or maybe at mere reference to the Secret Service. A confused memory perhaps, a memory of countless desperate chances, of services that weigh heavy in the balance scale of Victory; remembrance of his youth and courage, and, at the last, an ever-questioning memory, vague as in the telling, of that ﬁnal unrecorded battle; but outlasting all other recollections of the man there shall be this one concrete impression— admiration.
Who can quite forget such tributes as were paid him by his generals?—Sheridan's “I want him!” and the reply of General Edwards, “I would rather you would take my right arm than to have you take him from me.” Best of all, the splendid profanity of one among his soldiers— a tribute rugged and imperishable as rough-hewn granite, “We think God A'mighty of him.”
It is like a picture—that ﬁrst story that begins before he was a soldier: the dusty chaise in which there stands the boy Young—he was scarcely more than a boy even when he was commissioned lieutenant-colonel four years later—and at his side the solemn-eyed little girl of ten, breathlessly watching brother Henry as he talks, watching him to the forgetting of the horse she holds, and the place her ﬁnger marks for him in the book of Military Tactics, forgetful of the very crowd that hems them in and that stands with upturned, troubled faces. For background