[Footnote 25: Memphis Argus.] On Saturday, the 15th of March, the fleet approached the island. The clouds were thick and lowering. The rain pattered on the decks of the gunboats, the fog settled upon the river. As the boats swept round a point of land, the old river pilot, who was on the watch, who knew every crook, turn, sand-bar, and all the objects along the bank, sung out, "Boat ahead!" The sailors scrambled to the portholes; Captain Phelps sprang from the cabin to the deck. There she was, a steamer, just visible through the fog a mile ahead. It was the Grampus, owned by Captain Chester of the steamer Alps, who had two of the mortar-boats in tow. He belonged to Pittsburg, and used to carry coal to Memphis. When the war broke out the Rebels seized his steamboats and his coal-barges, and refused to pay him for the coal they had already purchased. The act roused all his ire. He was a tall, athletic man, and had followed the river thirty years. Although surrounded by enemies, he gave them plain words. "You are a set of thieves and rascals! You are cowards, every one of you!" he shouted. He took off his coat, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, bared his great brawny arms, dashed his hat upon the ground. "Now come on! I'll fight every one of you, you infernal rascals! I'll whip you all! I challenge you to fight me! You call yourselves chivalrous people. You say you believe in fair play. If I whip, you shall give up my boats, but if I am beaten, you are welcome to them." They laughed in his face, and said: "Blow away, old fellow. We have got your boats. Help yourself if you can." A hot-headed secessionist cried out, "Hang the Yankee!" The crowd hustled him about, but he had a few old friends, who took his part, and he succeeded in making his escape. Captain Phelps looked a moment at the Grampus. He saw her wheels move. She was starting off. "Out with the starboard gun! Give her a shot!" Lieutenant Bishop runs his eye along the sights of the great eleven-inch gun, which has been loaded and run out of the porthole in a twinkling. There is a flash. A great cloud puffs out into the fog, and the shot screams through the air and is lost to sight. We cannot see where it fell. Another--another. Boom!--boom!--boom!--from the Cincinnati and Carondelet. But the Grampus is light-heeled. The distance widens. You can hardly see her, and at last she vanishes like a ghost from sight. We were not more than four or five miles from the head of the island. One by one the boats rounded to along the Kentucky shore. The sailors sprang upon the land, carrying out the strong warps, and fastening us to the trunks of the buttonwood-trees.