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!"

Dick 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 Dick had grown to worship 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 crushing
without mercy.

A ball pierced Johnston's right leg. Dick 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 Dick dashed forward:

"General, your wound must be dressed!"

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