My Days and Nights on the Battle-Field Part 19

The fog lifts at last, and we can see the white tents of the Rebels on the Tennessee sh.o.r.e. There are the batteries, with the cannon grim and black pointing up stream. Round the point of land is the island. A half-dozen steamboats lie in the stream below it. At times they steam up to the bend and then go back again,--wandering back and forth like rats in a cage. They cannot get past General Pope's guns at New Madrid. On the north side of the island is a great floating-battery of eight guns, which has been towed up from New Orleans. General Mackall has sunk a steamboat in a narrow part of the channel on the north side of the island, so that if Commodore Foote attempts to run the blockade he will be compelled to pa.s.s along the south channel, exposed to the fire of all the guns in the four batteries upon the Tennessee sh.o.r.e, as well as those upon the island.

Two of the mortar-boats were brought into position two miles from the Rebel batteries. We waited in a fever of expectation while Captain Maynadier was making ready, for thirteen-inch mortars had never been used in war. The largest used by the French and English in the bombardment of Sebastopol were much smaller.

There came a roar like thunder. It was not a sharp, piercing report, but a deep, heavy boom, which rolled along the mighty river, echoing and re-echoing from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e,--a prolonged reverberation, heard fifty miles away. A keg of powder was burned in the single explosion. The sh.e.l.l rose in a beautiful curve, exploded five hundred feet high, and fell in fragments around the distant encampment.

There was a flash beneath the dark forest-trees near the encampment, a puff of white smoke, an answering roar, and a shot fell into the water a half-mile down stream from the mortars. The Rebels had accepted the challenge.

Sunday came. The boats having the mortars in tow dropped them along the Missouri sh.o.r.e. The gunboats swung into the stream. The Benton fired her rifled guns over the point of land at the Rebel steamboats below the island. There was a sudden commotion. They quickly disappeared down the river towards New Madrid, out of range. During the morning there was a deep booming from the direction of Point Pleasant. The Rebel gunboats were trying to drive Colonel Plummer from his position.

Ten o'clock came, the hour for divine service. The church flag was flung out on the flagstaff of the Benton, and all the commanders called their crews together for worship. I was on board the Pittsburg with Captain Thompson. The crew a.s.sembled on the upper deck. There were men from Maine, New Hampshire, Ma.s.sachusetts, and Rhode Island, from the Eastern as well as the Western States. Some of them were scholars and teachers in Sabbath-schools at home. They were dressed in dark-blue, and each sailor appeared in his Sunday suit. A small table was brought up from the cabin, and the flag of our country spread upon it. A Bible was brought. We stood around the captain with uncovered heads, while he read the twenty-seventh Psalm. Beautiful and appropriate was that service:--

"The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?

The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?"

After the Psalm, the prayer, "Our Father which art in heaven."

How impressive! The uncovered group standing around the open Bible, and the low voices of a hundred men in prayer. On our right hand, looking down the mighty river, were the mortars, in play, jarring the earth with their heavy thunders. The sh.e.l.ls were sweeping in graceful curves through the air. Upon our left hand, the Benton and Carondelet were covering themselves with white clouds, which slowly floated away over the woodlands, fragrant with the early buds and blossoms of spring. The Rebel batteries below us were flaming and smoking. Solid shot screamed past us, sh.e.l.ls exploded above us. Away beyond the island, beyond the dark-green of the forest, rose the cloud of another bombardment, where Commodore Hollins was vainly endeavoring to drive Colonel Plummer from his position. So the prayer was mingled with the deep, wild thunders of the cannonade.

A light fog, like a thin veil, lay along the river. After service, we saw that strange and peculiar optical illusion called _mirage_, so often seen in deserts, where the thirsty traveller beholds lakes, and shady places, cities, towns, and ships. I was looking up stream, and saw, sweeping round the wooded point of land, something afloat. A boat or floating battery it seemed to be. There were chimneys, a flagstaff, a porthole. It was seemingly two hundred feet long, coming broadside towards us.

"Captain Thompson, see there!"

He looked at it, and jumped upon the pilot-house, scanned it over and over. The other officers raised their gla.s.ses.

"It looks like a floating battery!" said one.

"There is a porthole, certainly!" said another.

It came nearer. Its proportions increased.

"Pilot, put on steam! Head her up stream!" said Captain Thompson.

"Lieutenant, beat to quarters! Light up the magazine! We will see what she is made of."

There was activity on deck. The guns were run out, shot and sh.e.l.l were brought up. The boat moved up stream. Broadside upon us came the unknown craft.

Suddenly the illusion vanished. The monster three hundred feet long, changed to an old coal-barge. The chimneys became two timbers, the flagstaff a small stick of firewood. The fog, the currents of air, had produced the transformation. We had a hearty laugh over our preparations for an encounter with the enemy in our rear. It was an enemy more quickly disposed of than the one in front.

The Rebels in the upper battery waved a white flag. The firing ceased.

Commodore Foote sent Lieutenant Bishop down with a tug and a white flag flying, to see what it meant. He approached the battery.

"Are we to understand that you wish to communicate with us?" he asked.

"No, sir," said an officer wearing a gold-laced coat.

"Then why do you display a white flag?"

"It is a mistake, sir. It is a signal-flag. I regret that it has deceived you."

"Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, sir."

The tug steams back to the Benton, the white flag is taken down, and the uproar begins again. Lieutenant Bishop made good use of his eyes. There were seven thirty-two-pounders and one heavy rifled gun in the upper battery.

Commodore Foote was not ready to begin the bombardment in earnest till Monday noon, March 17th.

The Benton, Cincinnati, and St. Louis dropped down stream, side by side, and came into position about a mile from the upper batteries. Anchors were dropped from the stern of each gunboat, that they might fight head on, using their heavy rifled guns. Their position was on the east side of the river. The Mound City and Carondelet took position near the west bank, just below the mortars. The boats were thus placed to bring a cross fire upon the upper Rebel battery.

"Pay no attention to the island, but direct your fire into the upper battery!" is the order.

A signal is raised upon the flag-ship. We do not understand the signification of the flag, but while we look at it the ten mortars open fire, one after another, in rapid succession. The gunboats follow. There are ten sh.e.l.ls, thirteen inches in diameter, rising high in air. There are handfuls of smoke flecking the sky, and a prolonged, indescribable crashing, rolling, and rumbling. You have seen battle-pieces by the great painters; but the highest artistic skill cannot portray the scene.

It is a vernal day, as beautiful as ever dawned. The gunboats are enveloped in flame and smoke. The unfolding clouds are slowly wafted away by the gentle breeze. Huge columns rise majestically from the mortars. A line of white--a thread-like tissue--spans the sky. It is the momentary and vanishing mark of the sh.e.l.l in the invisible air. There are little splashes in the stream, where the fragments of iron fall.

There are pillars of water tossed upward in front of the earthwork, which break into spray, painted with rainbow hues by the bright sunshine. A round shot skips along the surface and pierces the embankment. Another just clears the parapet, and cuts down a tree beyond. The air is filled with sticks, timbers, branches of trees, and earth, as if a dozen thunderbolts had fallen upon the spot from a cloudless sky. There are explosions deep under ground, where the great sh.e.l.ls have buried themselves in their downward flight. There are volumes of smoke which rise like the mists of a summer morning.

There are some brave fellows behind that breastwork. Amid this storm they come out from their shelter and load a gun. There it comes! A flash, a cloud, a hissing, a crash! The shot strikes the upper deck of the Benton, tears up the iron plates, breaks the thick timbers into kindlings, falls upon the lower deck, bounds up again to the beams above, and drops into Commodore Foote's writing-desk!

All around, from the gunboats, the mortars, from all the batteries, are flashes, clouds of smoke, and thunderings, which bring to mind the gorgeous imagery of the Book of Revelation in the New Testament, descriptive of the scenes of the Last Judgment.

The firing ceased at sunset. The Benton was struck four times, and the Cincinnati once. No one was injured by these shots, but one of the guns of the St. Louis burst, killing two men instantly, and wounding thirteen.

When the bombardment was at its height, Commodore Foote received a letter from Cairo, containing the sad information that a beloved son had died suddenly. It was a sore bereavement, but it was no time for him to give way to grief, no time to think of his great affliction.

After the firing had ceased, I sat with him in the cabin of the Benton.

There were tears upon his cheeks. He was thinking of his loss.

Were he living now, I should have no right to give the conversation I had with him, but he has gone to his reward, leaving us his bright example. These were his words, as I remember:--

"It is a terrible blow, but the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be His name. It is hard for me to bear, but no harder than it will be for the fathers of the n.o.ble men who were killed on the St.

Louis. Poor fellows! I feel bad for the wounded."

He called the orderly who stood outside the cabin.

"Orderly, tell the surgeon that I want to see him."

The surgeon came in.

"Surgeon, I wish you to do everything you can for those poor fellows on the St. Louis. Don't omit anything that will contribute to their comfort."

"It shall be done, sir," said the surgeon, as he left the cabin.

"Poor fellows! I must see them myself. It is a great deal worse to have a gun explode than to have the men wounded by the enemy's shot, for they lose confidence. I have protested again and again to the Department against using these old thirty-two-pounders, which have been weakened by being rifled; but I had to take them or none. I had to pick them up wherever I could find them. I have tried my best to get the fleet in good trim, and it is too bad to have the men slaughtered in this way. I shall try to do my duty. The country needs the services of every man. We shall have a long war. I would like to rest, and have a little breathing spell, but I shall not ask for it. I shall try to do my duty to my country and to G.o.d. He is leading this nation in a way we know not of.

My faith is unshaken in Him. He will bring us out of all trouble at last."

Thus, in the hour of battle, while attending to his duties, while bearing up under the intelligence that a beloved son had died, he talked calmly, cheerfully, and hopefully of the future, and manifested the care and tenderness of a father for the wounded.

Although the gunboats ceased firing at sunset, the mortars were in play all night. It was beautiful to see the great flash, illuminating all the landscape, the white cloud rolling upward and outward, unfolding, expanding, spreading over the wide river, and the bright spark rising high in the air, turning with the revolving sh.e.l.l, reaching its alt.i.tude and sailing straight along the arch of the parabola, then descending with increasing rapidity, ending in a bright flash, and an explosion which echoes and re-echoes far away. The next day I went with Captain Maynadier across the point to reconnoitre the batteries on the island and watch the explosions of the sh.e.l.ls. We pa.s.sed a deserted farm-house, and saw a squad of Colonel Buford's soldiers running down pigs and chickens. Crossing a creek upon a corduroy bridge, we came to a second squad. One was playing a violin, and several were dancing; they were as happy as larks. We stood upon the bank of the river opposite the island.

Before us was the floating battery, which was formerly the New Orleans dry-dock. It mounted eight guns. There were four batteries on the Tennessee sh.o.r.e and several on the island. We could see the artillerists at their guns. They saw us, and sent a sh.e.l.l whizzing over our heads, which struck in a cornfield, and ploughed a deep furrow for the farmer owning it. We went where they could not see us, and mounted a fence to watch the effect of the mortar-firing. It was interesting to sit there and hear the great sh.e.l.ls sail through the air five hundred feet above us. It was like the sound of far-off, invisible machinery, turning with a constant motion, not the sharp, shrill whistle of a rifled-bolt, but a whirr and roll, like that which you may sometimes hear above the clouds in a thunder-storm. One sh.e.l.l fell like a millstone into the river. The water did not extinguish the fuse, and a great column was thrown up fifty feet high. Another buried itself deep in the ground before it burst, and excavated a great hole. I learned, after the place surrendered, that one fell through a tent where several officers were sitting, playing cards, and that the next moment the tent, furniture, officers, and fifty cartloads of earth were sailing through the air!