Part 63 (2/2)

In vain the broken lines of the Federal camps were formed and re-formed.

Charge followed charge in swift and terrible succession.

By half past ten o'clock the Confederates had captured and demolished three great military encampments and taken three batteries of artillery.

Storehouses and munitions of war in rich profusion were captured at every turn. The demoralized Union army was retreating at every point.

When Grant reached the field, the lines both of attack and defense were lost in confusion. The battle raged in groups. Sometimes mere squads of men surged back and forth over the broken, tangled, blood-soaked arena, now in ravines and swamps, now for a moment emerging into clearings and then buried again in the deep woods.

The stolid Federal commander sat his horse, keen-eyed, vigilant and imperturbable in the storm of ruin. His early efforts counted for little in the blind confusion and turmoil of his crushed army. Lew Wallace had been ordered to the field in post haste. The bridge across Owl Creek, held by Sherman in the morning, was now in the hands of the Confederates. Wallace marched and countermarched his army in a vain effort to reach the field.

At two o'clock Johnston had brought up his reserves and ordered the entire gray army to charge and sweep the field. His fine face flushed with victory, he rose in his saddle, addressed a few eloquent words to Breckinridge's division, placed himself at the head of his army and his sword flashed in the sunlight as he shouted to the line:

”Charge!”

d.i.c.k Welford had been detached from Forrest's cavalry on staff duty by his Chief's side. Forrest had been marked by Johnston for promotion for his work at Donelson, and d.i.c.k had grown to wors.h.i.+p his gallant Commanding General. He had watched his plan of battle grow with boyish pride. He knew his Chief was going to crush the two divisions of Grant's army in detail before they could be united. And he had done it. Such complete and overwhelming victory would lift the South from her slough of despair.

With a shout of triumph he spurred his horse neck to neck with his General.

At two o'clock the blue lines were still rolling back on the river in hopeless confusion, the gray lines cheering and charging and crus.h.i.+ng without mercy.

A ball pierced Johnston's right leg. d.i.c.k saw his hand drop the rein for an instant and a look of pain sweep his handsome face.

”You're wounded, sir?” he asked.

”It's nothing, boy,” he answered, ”only a flesh cut--drive--drive--drive them!”

Without pause he rode on and on.

He was riding the white horse of Death--an artery had been cut and his precious life was slowly but surely ebbing away.

He swayed in his saddle and d.i.c.k dashed forward:

”General, your wound must be dressed!”

Governor Harris of Tennessee, his aide, observed him at the same moment and spurred his horse to his side.

The General turned his dim eyes to the Governor and gasped:

”I fear I'm mortally wounded--”

He reeled in his saddle and would have fallen had not d.i.c.k caught him and tenderly lowered him to the ground.

The brave war Governor of Tennessee received the falling Commander in his arms and helped d.i.c.k bear him a short distance from the field into a deep ravine.

d.i.c.k took the flask of whiskey from his pocket and pressed it to his lips in vain. A moment and he was dead.

In a pa.s.sion of grief the boy threw his arms around his beloved Chief and called through his tears and groans:

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