GOOD-BYE, TOM WEBB
As soon as the order was given to march, we saw poor Tom Webb lying on the battlefield shot through the head, his blood and brains smearing his face and clothes, and he still alive. He was as brave and noble a man as our Heavenly Father, in His infinite wisdom, ever made. Everybody loved him. He was a universal favorite of the company and regiment; was brave and generous, and ever anxious to take some other man's place when there was any skirmishing or fighting to be done. We did not wish to leave the poor fellow in that condition, and A. S. Horsley, John T. Tucker, Tennessee Thompson and myself got a litter and carried him on our shoulders through that livelong night back to Chickamauga Station. The next morning Dr. J. E. Dixon, of Deshler's brigade, passed by and told us that it would be useless for us to carry him any further, and that it was utterly impossible for him ever to recover. The Yankees were then advancing and firing upon us. What could we do? We could not carry him any further, and we could not bury him, for he was still alive. To leave him where he was we thought best. We took hold of his hand, bent over him and pressed our lips to his—all four of us. We kissed him good-bye and left him to the tender mercies of the advancing foe, in whose hands he would be in a few moments. No doubt they laughed and jeered at the dying Rebel. It mattered not what they did, for poor Tom Webb's spirit, before the sun went down, was with God and the holy angels. He had given his all to his country. O, how we missed him. It seemed that the very spirit and life of Company H had died with the death of good, noble and brave Tom Webb.
I thank God that I am no infidel, and I feel and believe that I will again see Tom Webb. Just as sure and certain, reader, as you are now reading these lines, I will meet him up yonder—I know I will.