"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.