“I wasn’t trying to discourage you. I was merely telling the worst first. We’re going to win. We nearly always win here in the West, but it seems to me the country is against us now. This doesn’t look much like the plains, Dick, with its big, deep rivers, its high bluffs along the banks, and its miles and miles of swamp or wet lowlands. How wide would you say the Mississippi is here?”
“Somewhere between a mile and a mile and a half.”
“And they say it’s two or three hundred feet deep. Look at the steamers, boys. How many are there?”
“I count seven pyramids of smoke,” said Warner, “four in one group and three in another. All the pyramids are becoming a little faint as the twilight is advancing. Dick, you call me a cold mathematical person, but this vast river flowing in its deep channel, the dark bluffs up there, and the vast forests would make me feel mighty lonely if you fellows were not here. It’s a long way to Vermont.”
“Fifteen hundred or maybe two thousand miles,” said Dick, “but look how fast the dark is coming. I was wrong in saying it’s coming. It just drops down. The smoke of the steamers has melted into the night, and you don’t see them any more. The surface of the river has turned black as ink, the bluffs of Grand Gulf have gone, and we’ve turned back three or four hundred years.”
“What do you mean by going back three or four hundred years?” asked Warner, looking curiously at Dick.
“Why, don’t you see them out there?”
“See them out there? See what?”
“Why, the queer little ships with the high sides and prows! On my soul, George, they’re the caravels of Spain! Look, they’re stopping! Now they lower something in black over the side of the first caravel. I see a man in a black robe like a priest, holding a cross in his hand and standing at the ship’s edge saying something. I think he’s praying, boys. Now sailors cut the ropes that hold the dark object. It falls into the river and disappears. It’s the burial of De Soto in the Father of Waters which he discovered!”
“Dick, you’re dreaming,” exclaimed Pennington.
“Yes, I know, but once there was a Chinaman who dreamed that he was a lily. When he woke up he didn’t know whether he was a Chinaman who had dreamed he was a lily or a lily now dreaming he was a Chinaman.”
“I like that story, Dick, but you’ve got too much imagination. The tale of the death and burial of De Soto has always been so vivid to you that you just stood there and re-created the scene for yourself.”
“Of course that’s it,” said Pennington, “but why can’t a fellow create things with his mind, when things that don’t exist jump right up before his eyes? I’ve often seen the mirage, generally about dark, far out on the western plains. I’ve seen a beautiful lake and green gardens where there was nothing but the brown swells rolling on.”
“I concede all you say,” said Dick readily. “I have flashes sometimes, and so does Harry Kenton and others I know.”
“Flashes! What do you mean?” asked Warner.
“Why, a sort of lightning stroke out of the past. Something that lasts only a second, but in which you have a share. Boys, one day I saw myself a Carthaginian soldier following Hannibal over the Alps.”
“Maybe,” said Pennington, “we have lived other lives on this earth, and sometimes a faint glimpse of them comes to us. It’s just a guess.”
“That’s so,” said Warner, “and we’d better be getting back to the regiment. Grand Gulf defended by Bowen and eight thousand good men is really enough for us. I think we’re going to see some lively fighting here.”
The heavy boom of a cannon from the upper circle of batteries swept over the vast sheet of water flowing so swiftly toward the Gulf. The sound came back in dying echoes, and then there was complete silence among besieged and besiegers.
The Winchesters had found a good solid place, a little hill among the marshes, and they were encamped there with their horses. Dick had no messages to carry, but he remained awake, while his comrades slept soundly. He had slept so much the night before that he had no desire for sleep now.
From his position he could see the Confederate bluffs and a few lights moving there, but otherwise the two armies were under a blanket of darkness. He again felt deeply the sense of isolation and loneliness, not for himself alone, but for the whole army. Grant had certainly shown supreme daring in pushing far into the South, and the government at Washington had cause for alarm lest he be reckless. If there were any strong hand to draw together the forces of the Confederacy they could surely crush him. But he had already learned in this war that those who struck swift and hard were sure to win. That was Stonewall Jackson’s way, and it seemed to be Grant’s way, too.
Still unable to sleep, he walked to a better position, where he could see the shimmering dark of the river and the misty heights with their two circles of cannon. A tall figure standing there turned at his tread and he recognized Colonel Winchester.
“Uneasy at our position, Dick?” said the colonel, fathoming his mind at once.
“A little, sir, but I think General Grant will pull us through.”
“He will, Dick, and he’ll take this fort, too. Grant’s the hammer we’ve been looking for. Look at his record. He’s had backsets, but in the end he’s succeeded in everything he’s tried. The Confederate government and leaders have made a mess of their affairs in the West and Southwest, and General Grant is taking full advantage of it.”
“Do we attack in the morning, sir?”
“We do, Dick, though not by land. Porter, with his seven gunboats, is going to open on the fort, but it will be a hazardous undertaking.”
“Because of the nature of the river, sir?”
“That’s it. They can’t anchor, and with full steam up, caught in all the violent eddies that the river makes rounding the point, they’ll have to fire as best they can.”
“But the gunboats did great work at Fort Henry, sir.”
“So they did, Dick, and we’ve come a long way South since then, which means that we’re making progress and a lot of it here in the West. Well, we’ll see to-morrow.”
They walked back to their own camp and sleep came to Dick at last. But he awoke early and found that the thrill of expectation was running through the whole army. Their position did not yet enable them to attack on land, but far out on the river they saw the gunboats moving. Porter, the commander, divided them into two groups. Four of the gunboats were to attack the lower circle of batteries and three were to pour their fire upon the upper ring.
Dick by day even more than by night recognized the difficulty of the task. Before them flowed the vast swift current of the Mississippi, gleaming now in the sunshine, and beyond were the frowning bluffs, crested and ringed with cannon. Grant had with him twenty thousand men and his seven gunboats, and Bowen, eight thousand troops. But if the affair lasted long other Southern armies would surely come.
Dick and his comrades had little to do but watch and thousands watched with them. When the sun was fully risen the seven boats steamed out in two groups, four farther down the river in order to attack the lower batteries, while the other three up the stream would launch their fire against those on the summit.
He watched the crest of the cliffs. He saw plainly through his glasses the muzzles of cannon and men moving about the batteries. Then there was a sudden blaze of fire and column of smoke and a shell struck in the water near one of the gunboats. The boat replied and its comrades also sent shot and shell toward the frowning summit. Then the batteries, both lower and upper, replied with full vigor and all the cliffs were wrapped in fire and smoke.
The boats steamed in closer and closer, pouring an incessant fire from their heavy guns, and both rings of batteries on the cliffs responded. The water of the river spouted up in innumerable little geysers and now and then a boat was struck. Over both cliffs and river a great cloud of smoke lowered. It grew so dense that Dick and his comrades, watching with eagerness, were unable to tell much of what was happening.
Yet as the smoke lifted or was shot through with the blaze of cannon fire they saw that their prophecies were coming true. The boats in water too deep for anchorage were caught in the powerful eddies and their captains had to show their best seamanship while they steamed back and forth.
The battle between ship and shore went on for a long time. It seemed at last to the watching Union soldiers that the fire from the lower line of batteries was diminishing.
“We’re making some way,” said Warner.
“It looks like it,” said Dick. “Their lower batteries are not so well protected as the upper.”
“If we were only over there, helping with our own guns.”
“But there’s a big river in between, and we’ve got to leave it to the boats for to-day, anyhow.”
“Look again at those lower batteries. Their fire is certainly decreasing. I can see it die down.”
“Yes, and now it’s stopped entirely. The boats have done good work!”
A tremendous cheer burst from the troops on the west shore as they saw how much their gallant little gunboats had achieved. Every gun in the lower batteries was silent now, but the top of the cliffs was still alive with flame. The batteries there were far from silent. Instead their fire was increasing in volume and power.
The four gunboats that had silenced the lower batteries now moved up to the aid of their comrades, and the seven made a united effort, steaming forward in a sort of half-moon, and raining shot and shell upon the summits. But the guns there, well-sheltered and having every advantage over rocking steamers, maintained an accurate and deadly fire. The decks of the gunboats were swept more than once. Many men were killed or wounded. Heavy shot crashed through their sides, and Dick expected every instant to see some one of them sunk by a huge exploding shell.
“They can’t win! They can’t win!” he exclaimed. “They’d better draw off before they’re sunk!”
“So they had,” said Warner sadly. “Boats are at a disadvantage fighting batteries. The old darky was right when he preferred a train wreck to a boat wreck, ‘ef the train’s smashed, thar you are on the solid ground, but ef the boat blows up, whar is you?’ That’s sense. The boats are retiring! It’s sad, but it’s sense. A boat that steams away will live to fight another day.”
Dick was dejected. He fancied he could hear the cheering of their foes at what looked like a Union defeat, but he recalled that Grant, the bulldog, led them. He would never think of retiring, and he was sure to be ready with some new attempt.
The gunboats drew off to the far western shore and lay there, puffing smoke defiantly. Their fight with the batteries had lasted five hours and they had suffered severely. It seemed strange to Dick that none of them had been sunk, and in fact it was strange. All had been hit many times, and one had been pierced by nearly fifty shot or shell. Their killed or wounded were numerous, but their commanders and crews were still resolute, and ready to go into action whenever General Grant wished.
“Spunky little fellows,” said Pennington. “We don’t have many boats out where I live, but I must hand a bunch of laurel to the navy every time.”
“And you can bind wreaths around the hair of those navy fellows, too,” said Warner, “and sing songs in their honor whether they win or lose.”
“Now I wonder what’s next,” said Dick.
To their surprise the gunboats opened fire again just before sundown, and the batteries replied fiercely. Rolling clouds of smoke mingled with the advancing twilight, and the great guns from either side flashed through the coming darkness. Then from a stray word or two dropped by Colonel Winchester Dick surmised the reason of this new and rather distant cannonade.
He knew that General Grant had transports up the river above Grand Gulf, and he believed that they were now coming down the stream under cover of the bombardment and the darkness. He confided his belief to Warner, who agreed with him. Presently they saw new coils of smoke in the darkness and knew they were right. The transports, steaming swiftly, were soon beyond the range of the batteries, and then the gun boats, drawing off, dropped down the river with them.
Long before the boats reached a point level with Grant’s camp the army was being formed in line for embarkation on the gunboats and transports. The horses were to be placed on one or two of the transports and the men filled all the other vessels.
“You can’t down Grant,” said Pennington. “A failure with him merely means that he’s going to try again.”
“But don’t forget the navy and the Father of Waters,” said Dick, as their transports swung from the shore upon the dark surface of the river. “The mighty rivers help us. Look how we went up the Cumberland and the Tennessee and now we’ve harnessed a flowing ocean for our service.”
“Getting poetical, Dick,” said Warner.
“I feel it and so do you. You can’t see the bluffs any more. There’s nothing in sight, but the lights of the steamers and the transports. We must be somewhere near the middle of the stream, because I can’t make out either shore.”
There were two regiments aboard the transport, the Winchester and one from Ohio, which had fought by their side at both Perryville and Stone River. Usually these boys chattered much, but now they were silent, permeated by the same feelings that had overwhelmed Dick. In the darkness—all lights were concealed as much as possible—with both banks of the vast river hidden from them, they felt that they were in very truth afloat upon a flowing ocean.
They knew little about their journey, except that they were destined for the eastern shore, the same upon which Grand Gulf stood, but they did not worry about this lack of knowledge. They were willing to trust to Grant, and most of them were already asleep, upon the decks, in the cabins, or in any place in which a human body could secure a position.
Dick did not sleep. The feeling of mystery and might made by the tremendous river remained longer in his sensitive and imaginative nature. His mind, too, looked backward. He knew that the great grandfathers of Harry Kenton and himself, the famous Henry Ware and the famous Paul Cotter, had passed up and down this monarch of streams. He knew of their adventures. How often had he and his cousin, who now, alas! was on the other side, listened to the stories of those mighty days as they were handed from father to son! Those lads had floated in little boats and he was on a steamer, but it seemed to him that the river with its mighty depths took no account of either, steamer or canoe being all the same to its vast volume of water.
He was standing by the rail looking over, when happening to glance back he saw by the ship’s lantern what he thought was a familiar face. A second glance and he was sure. He remembered that fair-haired Ohio lad, and, smiling, he said:
“You’re one of those Ohio boys who, marching southward from its mouth in the Ohio, drank the tributary river dry clear to its source, the mightiest achievement in quenching thirst the world has ever known. You’re the boy, too, who told about it.”
The youth moved forward, gazed at him and said:
“Now I remember you, too. You’re Dick Mason of the Winchester regiment. I heard the Winchesters were on board, but I haven’t had time to look around. It was hot when we drank up the river, but it was hotter that afternoon at Perryville. God! what a battle! And again at Stone River, when the Johnnies surprised us and took us in flank. It was you Kentuckians then who saved us.”
“Just as you would have saved us, if it had been the other way.”
“I hope so. But, Mason, we left a lot of the boys behind. A big crowd stopped forever at Perryville, and a bigger at Stone River.”