With eager eyes he searched for the wound. A ball had shattered Colonel Shackelford's leg, and he was bleeding to death.
For Fred to cut away the clothing from around the wound, and then to take a handkerchief and tightly twist it around the limb above the wound was the work of a moment. The flow of blood was stopped. Tenderly was Colonel Shackelford carried back, his weeping son walking by his side. The surgeon carefully examined the wounded limb, and then brusquely said: "It will have to come off."
"Oh! no, no, not that!" cried Fred, piteously.
"It's that, or his life," shortly answered the surgeon.
"Do it then," hoarsely replied Fred, as he turned away unable to bear the cruel sight.
When Colonel Shackelford came to himself, he was lying in a state-room in a steamboat, and was rapidly gliding down the Tennessee. Fred was sitting by his side, watching every movement, for his father had been hovering between life and death.
"Where am I? What has happened?" Colonel Shackelford faintly asked.
"Dear father," whispered Fred, "you have been very sick. Don't talk," and he gave him a soothing potion.
The colonel took it without a word, and sank into a quiet slumber. The surgeon came in, and looking at him, said: "It is all right, captain; he has passed the worst, and careful nursing will bring him around."
When the surgeon was gone Fred fell on his knees and poured out his soul in gratitude that his father was to live.