elow
the eye and passing through his head. As soon as I could, I picked up my
gun, and as the Yankee turned I sent a minnie ball crushing through his
head, and broke and run. But I am certain that I killed the Yankee who
killed Billy Carr, but it was too late to save the poor boy's life.
As I started to run, a fallen dogwood tree tripped me up, and I fell over
the log. It was all that saved me. The log was riddled with balls,
and thousands, it seemed to me, passed over it. As I got up to run again,
I was shot through the middle finger of the very hand that is now penning
these lines, and the thigh. But I had just killed a Yankee, and was
determined to get away from there as soon as I could. How I did get back
I hardly know, for I was wounded and surrounded by Yankees. One rushed
forward, and placing the muzzle of his gun in two feet of me, discharged
it, but it missed its aim, when I ran at him, grabbed him by the collar,
and brought him off a prisoner. Captain Joe P. Lee and Colonel
H. R. Field remember this, as would Lieutenant-Colonel John L. House,
were he alive; and all the balance of Company H, who were there at the
time. I had eight bullet holes in my coat, and two in my hand, beside
the one in my thigh and finger. It was a hail storm of bullets. The
above is true in every particular, and is but one incident of the war,
which happened to hundreds of others. But, alas! all our valor and
victories were in vain, when God and the whole world were against us.

Billy Carr was one of the bravest and best men I ever knew. He never
knew what fear was, and in consequence of his reckless bravery, had been
badly wounded at Perryville, Murfreesboro, Chickamauga, the octagon house,
Dead Angle, and the 22nd of July at Atlanta. In every battle he was
wounded, and finally, in the very last battle of the war, surrendered up
his life for his country's cause. No father and mother of such a brave
and gallant boy, should ever sorrow or regret having born to them such a
son. He was the flower and chivalry of his company. He was as good as
he was brave. His bones rest yonder on the Overton hills today, while I
have no doubt in my own mind that his spirit is with the Redeemer of the
hosts of heaven. He was my friend. Poor boy, farewell!

When I got back to where I could see our lines, it was one scene of
confusion and rout. Finney's Florida brigade had broken before a mere
skirmish line, and soon the whole army had