Part 19 (1/2)
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 wors.h.i.+p. I was on board the Pittsburg with Captain Thompson. The crew a.s.sembled on the upper deck. There were men from Maine, New Hamps.h.i.+re, 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 s.h.i.+ps. 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.”