Besides the gunboats on the Mississippi, was Colonel Ellet's fleet of rams,--nine in all. They were old steamboats, with oaken bulwarks three feet thick, to protect the boilers and engines. Their bows had been strengthened with stout timbers and iron bolts, and they had iron prows projecting under water. They carried no cannon, but were manned by sharpshooters. There were loop-holes through the timbers for the riflemen. The pilot-house was protected by iron plates. They joined the fleet at Fort Pillow. The river is very narrow in front of the fort,--not more than a third of its usual width. It makes a sharp bend. The channel is deep, and the current rushes by like a mill-race. The Tennessee shore was lined with batteries on the bluff, which made it a place much stronger than Columbus or Island No. 10. But when General Beauregard was forced to evacuate Corinth, the Rebels were also compelled to leave Fort Pillow. For two or three days before the evacuation, they kept up a heavy fire upon the fleet. On the 3d of June,--a hot, sultry day,--just before night, a huge bank of clouds rolled up from the south. There had been hardly a breath of air through the day, but now the wind blew a hurricane. The air was filled with dust, whirled up from the sand-bars. When the storm was at its height, I was surprised to see two of the rams run down past the point of land which screened them from the batteries, vanishing from sight in the distant cloud. They went to ascertain what the Rebels were doing. There was a sudden waking up of heavy guns. The batteries were in a blaze. The cloud was thick and heavy, and the rams returned, but the Rebel cannon still thundered, throwing random shots into the river, two or three at a time, firing as if the Confederacy had tons of ammunition to spare. The dust-cloud, with its fine, misty rain, rolled away. The sun shone once more, and bridged the river with a gorgeous arch of green and gold, which appeared a moment, and then faded away, as the sun went down behind the western woods. While we stood admiring the scene, a Rebel steamer came round the point to see what we were about. It was a black craft, bearing the flag of the Confederacy at her bow. She turned leisurely, stopped her wheels, and looked at us audaciously. The gunboats opened fire. The Rebel steamer took her own time, unmindful of the shot and shell falling and bursting all around her, then slowly disappeared beyond the headland. It was a challenge for a fight. It was not accepted, for Commodore Davis was not disposed to be cut up by the shore-batteries.