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.
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