But fate in the very moment of triumph that seemed overwhelming and sure was preparing a terrible blow for the South.  A bullet struck Johnston in the ankle.  His boot filled with blood, and the wound continued to bleed fast.  But, despite the urging of his surgeon, who rode with him, he refused to dismount and have the wound bound up.  How could he dismount at such a time, when the battle was at its height, and the Union army was being driven into the creeks and swamps!  He was wounded again by a piece of shell, and he sank dying from his horse.  His officers crowded around him, seeking to hide their irreparable loss from the soldiers, the most costly death, with the exception of Stonewall Jackson’s, sustained by the Confederacy in the whole war.

But the troops, borne on by the impetus that success and the spirit of Johnston had given them, drove harder than ever against the Northern line.  They crashed through it in many places, seizing prisoners and cannon.  Almost the whole Northern camp was now in their possession, and many of the Southern lads, hungry from scanty rations, stopped to seize the plenty that they found there, but enough persisted to give the Northern army no rest, and press it back nearer and nearer to the marshes.

The combat redoubled around Sherman.  Johnston was gone, but his generals still shared his resolution.  They turned an immense fire upon the point where stood Sherman and McClernand, now united by imminent peril.  Their ranks were searched by shot and shell, and the bullets whizzed among them like a continuous swarm of hornets.

Dick was still unwounded, but so much smoke and vapor had drifted about his face that he was compelled at times to rub his eyes that he might see.  He felt a certain dizziness, too, and he did not know whether the incessant roaring in his ears came wholly from the cannon and rifle fire or partly from the pounding of his blood.

“I feel that we are shaking,” he shouted in the ears of Warner, who lay next to him.  “I’m afraid we’re going to give ground.”

“I feel it, too,” Warner shouted back.  “We’ve been here for hours, but we’re shot to pieces.  Half of our men must be killed or wounded, but how old Sherman fights!”

The Southern leaders brought up fresh troops and hurled them upon Sherman.  Again the combat was hand to hand, and to the right and left the supports of the indomitable Northern general were being cut away.  Those brigades who had proved their mettle at Donelson, and who had long stood fast, were attacked so violently that they gave way, and the victors hurled themselves upon Sherman’s flank.

Dick and his two young comrades perceived through the flame and smoke the new attack.  It seemed to Dick that they were being enclosed now by the whole Southern army, and he felt a sense of suffocation.  He was dizzy from such a long and terrible strain and so much danger, and he was not really more than half conscious.  He was loading and firing his rifle mechanically, but he always aimed at something in the red storm before them, although he never knew whether he hit or missed, and was glad of it.