Confederate States of America. Army -- Fiction; Historical fiction; United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
The dusk deepened to night, the night of the sixteenth of April, 1863.
A perfumed wind blew through the town, the stars shone, the place lay
deep in sleep, only the sentries walking their beat. From river
battery to river battery, patrolling the Mississippi, went pickets in
rowboats. They dipped their oars softly, looking up and down and
across the stream. Toward the middle of the night they drew together
in a cluster, and now they looked upstream. Then they separated and
went in different directions, rowing no longer with slow strokes, but
with all their strength of arm. The most made for the nearest shore
battery, but others shot across to the small settlement of De Soto on
the Louisiana bank. That which they did here was to fire a number of
frame buildings near the water’s edge. Up soared the red pillars,
illuminating the river. Across the water a signal shot boomed from the
upper batteries. Up and down the bugles were heard. Lights sprung out,
the wind filled with sound. Down the Mississippi, into the glare
thrown by the burning houses came at full speed Porter’s ironclads,
meaning this time to get by. The Benton, Lafayette, and Tuscumbia, the
gunboats Carondelet, Pittsburg, Louisville, Mound City, the ram
General Price, the transports Forest Queen and Silver Wave and Henry
Clay—one by one they showed in the night that was now red. The
transports were protected by bulwarks of cotton bales, by coal barges
lashed to their sides. From the smokestacks of all rushed black clouds
with sparks of fire. _Go ahead! Go ahead!_
Vicksburg, that was to dispute the ownership of the Mississippi, had
with which to do it twenty-eight guns. She was hardly a
Gibraltar—Vicksburg; hardly ironclad and invulnerable, hardly fitted
with ordnance sufficient for her purpose. The twenty-eight guns upon
the bluffs above the river might be greatly served, they might work
tirelessly and overtime, but it remained that they were but
twenty-eight. Now in the midnight of the sixteenth of April, they
opened mouth. At once the blue ironclads answered.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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