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.
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