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!"
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 Dick caught him
and tenderly lowered him to the ground.
The brave war Governor of Tennessee received the falling Commander in
his arms and helped Dick bear him a short distance from the field into a
deep ravine.
Dick took the flask of whiskey from his pocket and pressed it to his
lips in vain. A moment and he was dead.
In a passion of grief the boy threw his arms around his beloved Chief
and called through his tears and groans:
"My God, General, you can't die--you mustn't die now! Don't you hear the
boys shouting? They're driving Grant's army into the river.
Pages:
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372