Buist, and he seemed to be
quite easy. He asked Jim Fogey to please write a letter to his parents
at home. He wished to dictate the letter. He asked me to please look in
his knapsack and get him a clean shirt, and said that he thought he would
feel better if he could get rid of the blood that was upon him. I went
to hunt for his knapsack and found it, but when I got back to where he
was, poor, good Billy Webster was dead. He had given his life to his
country. His spirit is with the good and brave. No better or braver man
than Billy Webster ever drew the breath of life. His bones lie yonder
today, upon the battlefield of Chickamauga. I loved him; he was my
friend. Many and many a dark night have Billy and I stood together upon
the silent picket post. Ah, reader, my heart grows sick and I feel sad
while I try to write my recollections of that unholy and uncalled for
war. But He that ruleth the heavens doeth all things well.
CHAPTER IX
CHICKAMAUGA
BATTLE OF CHICKAMAUGA
Sunday morning of that September day, the sun rose over the eastern hills
clear and beautiful. The day itself seemed to have a Sabbath-day look
about it. The battlefield was in a rough and broken country, with trees
and undergrowth, that ever since the creation had never been disturbed by
the ax of civilized man.
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