The men toss their caps in the air. They shake hands, they shout, and break into singing. They forget all their hardships and sufferings, the hungry days, the horrible nights, the wounded and the dead. The success is worth all the sacrifice. CHAPTER VI. THE SURRENDER. All through the night the brave men held the ground they had so nobly won. They rested on snowy beds. They had no supper. They could kindle no fires to warm the wintry air. The cannon above them hurled down shells, and sent volleys of grape, which screamed above and around them like the voices of demons in the darkness. The branches of the trees were torn from their trunks by the solid shot, and the trunks were splintered from top to bottom, but they did not falter or retire from that slope where the snow was crimsoned with the life-blood of hundreds of their comrades. Nearly four hundred had fallen in that attack. The hill had cost a great deal of blood, but it was worth all it cost, and they would not give it up. So they braved the leaden rain and iron hail through the weary hours of that winter night. They only waited for daybreak to storm the inner works and take the fort. Their ardor and enthusiasm was unbounded. As the morning approached they heard a bugle-call. They looked across the narrow ravine, and saw, in the dim light of the dawn, a man waving a white flag upon the intrenchments. It was a sign for a parley. He jumped down from the embankment, and descended the hill. "Halt! Who comes there?" shouted the picket. "Flag of truce with a letter for General Grant." An officer took the letter, and hastened down the slope, across the meadow, up to the house on the Dover road, where General Grant had his head-quarters. During the night there had been a council of war at General Floyd's head-quarters. Nearly all the Rebel officers commanding brigades and regiments were there. They were down-hearted. They had fought bravely, won a victory, as they thought, but had lost it. A Rebel officer who was there told me what they said. General Floyd and General Pillow blamed General Buckner for not advancing earlier in the morning, and for making what they thought a feeble attack. They could have escaped after they drove McClernand across the brook, but now they were hemmed in. The prospect was gloomy. The troops were exhausted by the long conflict, by constant watching, and by the cold. What bitter nights those were to the men who came from Texas, Alabama, and Mississippi, where the roses bloom and the blue-birds sing through all the winter months. What should be done? Should they make another attack, and cut their way out, or should they surrender? "I cannot hold my position a half-hour. The Yankees can turn my flank or advance directly upon the breastworks," said General Buckner. "If you had advanced at the time agreed upon, and made a more vigorous attack, we should have routed the enemy," said General Floyd.