Part 23 (2/2)

Sh.e.l.ls explode around her. She is pierced through and through. Her timbers crack. She quivers beneath the shock, but does not falter.

On--on--faster--straight towards the General Beauregard.

The commander of that vessel adroitly avoids the stroke. The Queen misses her aim. She sweeps by like a race-horse, receiving the fire of the Beauregard on one side and the Little Rebel on the other. She comes round in a graceful curve, almost lying down upon her side, as if to cool her heated smoke-stacks in the stream. The stern guns of the Beauregard send their shot through the bulwarks of the Queen. A splinter strikes the brave commander, Colonel Ellet. He is knocked down, bruised, and stunned for a moment, but springs to his feet, steadies himself against the pilot-house, and gives his directions as coolly as if nothing had happened.

The Queen pa.s.ses round the Little Rebel, and approaches the General Price.

”Take her aft the wheelhouse,” says Colonel Ellet to the pilot. The commander of the Price turns towards the approaching antagonist. Her wheels turn. She surges ahead to escape the terrible blow. Too late.

There is a splintering, crackling, cras.h.i.+ng of timbers. The broadside of the boat is crushed in. It is no more than a box of cards or thin tissue-paper before the terrible blow.

There are jets of flame and smoke from the loop-holes of the Queen. The sharpshooters are at it. You hear the rattling fire, and see the crew of the Price running wildly over the deck, tossing their arms. The unceasing thunder of the cannonade drowns their cries. A moment, and a white flag goes up. The Price surrenders.

But the Queen has another antagonist, the Beauregard. The Queen is motionless, but the Beauregard sweeps down with all her powers. There is another crash. The bulwarks of the Queen tremble before the stroke.

There is a great opening in her hull. But no white flag is displayed.

There are no cries for quarter, no thoughts of surrendering. The sharpshooters pick off the gunners of the Beauregard, compelling them to take shelter beneath their casemates.

We who see it hold our breaths. We are unmindful of the explosions around us. How will it end? Will the Queen sink with all her brave men on board?

But her consort is at hand, the Monarch, commanded by Captain Ellet, brother of Colonel Ellet. He was five or ten minutes behind the Queen in starting, but he has appeared at the right moment. He, too, has been unmindful of the shot and sh.e.l.l falling around him. He aims straight as an arrow for the Beauregard. The Beauregard is stiff, stanch, and strong, but her timbers, planks, knees, and braces are no more than laths before the powerful stroke of the Monarch. The sharpshooters pour in their fire. The engineer of the Monarch puts his force-pumps in play and drenches the decks of the Beauregard with scalding water. An officer of the Beauregard raises a white cloth upon a rammer. It is a signal for surrender. The sharpshooters stop firing.

There are the four boats, three of them floating helplessly in the stream, the water pouring into the hulls, through the splintered planking.

Captain Ellet saw that the Queen was disabled, and took her in tow to the Arkansas sh.o.r.e. Prompted by humanity, instead of falling upon the other vessels of the fleet he took the General Price to the sh.o.r.e.

The Little Rebel was pierced through her hull by a half-dozen shots.

Commodore Montgomery saw that the day was lost. He ran alongside the Beauregard, and, notwithstanding the vessel had surrendered, took the crew on board, to escape. But a shot from the Cairo pa.s.sed through the boilers. The steam rushed out like the hissing of serpents. The boat was near the sh.o.r.e, and the crew jumped into the water, climbed the bank, and fled to the woods. The Cairo gave them a broadside of sh.e.l.ls as they ran.

The Beauregard was fast settling. The Jessie Benton ran alongside. All had fled save the wounded. There was a pool of blood upon the deck. The sides of the casemate were stained with crimson drops, yet warm from the heart of a man who had been killed by a sh.e.l.l.

”Help, quick!” was the cry of Captain Maynadier.

We rushed on board in season to save a wounded officer. The vessel settled slowly to the bottom.

”I thank you,” said the officer, ”for saving me from drowning. You are my enemies, but you have been kinder to me than those whom I called my friends. One of my brother officers when he fled, had the meanness to pick my pocket and steal my watch!”

Thus those who begun by stealing public property, forts, and a.r.s.enals, did not hesitate to violate their honor,--fleeing after surrendering, forsaking their wounded comrade, robbing him of his valuables, and leaving him to drown!

There is no cessation of the cannonade. The fight goes on. The Benton is engaged with the General Lovell. They are but a few rods apart, and both within a stone's-throw of the mult.i.tude upon the sh.o.r.e.

Captain Phelps stands by one of the Benton's rifled guns. He waits to give a raking shot, runs his eye along the sights, and gives the word to fire. The steel-pointed shot enters the starboard side of the hull, by the water-line. Timbers, braces, planks, the whole side of the boat seemingly, are torn out.

The water pours in. The vessel settles to the guards, to the ports, to the top of the casemate, reels, and with a lurch disappears. It is the work of three minutes.

The current sets swiftly along the sh.o.r.e. The plummet gives seventy-five feet of water. The vessel goes down like a lump of lead. Her terror-stricken crew are thrown into the current. It is an appalling sight. A man with his left arm torn, broken, bleeding, and dangling by his side, runs wildly over the deck. There is unspeakable horror in his face. He beckons now to those on sh.o.r.e, and now to his friends on board the boats. He looks imploringly to heaven, and calls for help.

Unavailing the cry. He disappears in the eddying whirlpool. A hundred human beings are struggling for life, buffeting the current, raising their arms, catching at sticks, straws, planks, and timbers. ”Help!

help! help!” they cry. It is a wild wail of agony, mingled with the cannonade.

There is no help for them on sh.o.r.e. There, within a dozen rods, are their friends, their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, wives, children, they who urged them to join the service, who compelled them to enlist. All are powerless to aid them!

They who stand upon the sh.o.r.e behold those whom they love defeated, crushed, drowning, calling for help! It is an hour when heart-strings are wrung. Tears, cries, prayers, efforts, all are unavailing.

Commodore Davis beholds them. His heart is touched. ”Save them, lads,”

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