The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis. Altsheler Joseph Alexander

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      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.”

      “And СКАЧАТЬ