The next day there were lively times at the fort. A cannonade was kept up on Commodore Davis's fleet, which was vigorously answered. We little thought that this was to blind us to what was going on. At sunset the Rebels set fire to their barracks. There were great pillars of flame and smoke in and around the fort. The southern sky was all aglow. Occasionally there were flashes and explosions, sudden puffs of smoke, spreading out like flakes of cotton or fleeces of white and crimson wool. It was a gorgeous sight. In the morning we found that the Rebels had gone, spiking their cannon and burning their supplies. That which had cost them months of hard labor was abandoned, and the river was open to Memphis. On the 5th of June, Commodore Davis's fleet left Fort Pillow for Memphis. I was sitting at dinner with the Commodore and Captain Phelps, on board the Benton, when an orderly thrust his head into the cabin, and said, "Sir, there is a fine large steamer ahead of us." We are on deck in an instant. The boatswain is piping all hands to quarters. There is great commotion. "Out with that gun! Quick!" shouted Lieutenant Bishop. The brave tars seize the ropes, the trucks creak, and the great eleven-inch gun, already loaded, is out in a twinkling. Men are bringing up shot and shell. The deck is clearing of all superfluous furniture. There she is, a mile distant, a beautiful steamer, head up-stream. She sees us, and turns her bow. Her broadside comes round, and we read "Sovereign" upon her wheelhouse. We are on the upper deck, and the muzzle of the eleven-inch gun is immediately beneath us. A great flash comes in our faces. We are in a cloud, stifled, stunned, gasping for breath, our ears ringing; but the cloud is blown away, and we see the shot throw up the water a mile beyond the Sovereign. Glorious! We will have her. Another, not so good. Another, still worse. The Louisville, Carondelet, and Cairo open fire. But the Sovereign is a fast sailer, and is increasing the distance. "The Spitfire will catch her!" says the pilot. A wave of the hand, and the Spitfire is alongside, running up like a dog to its master. Lieutenant Bishop, Pilot Bixby, and a gun crew jump on board the tug, which carries a boat howitzer. Away they go, the tug puffing and wheezing, as if it had the asthma. "Through the _chute_!" shouts Captain Phelps. _Chute_ is a French word, meaning a narrow passage, not the main channel of the river. The Sovereign is in the main channel, but the Spitfire has the shortest distance. The tug cuts the water like a knife. She comes out just astern of the steamer. Bang! goes the howitzer. The shot falls short. Bang! again in a twinkling. Better. Bang! It goes over the Sovereign.