“I haven't got much to tell, but I've seen some fighting, too. I was at the Fort Donelson scrimmage, and it was the coldest time I ever saw--snowing and blowing, and afterward turning out clear, but bitter cold. The storm of rain and snow had been pretty severe, and the fellows who were in the trenches must have been frost-bitten. I know we had no shelter and were hungry besides, as rations had given out, and had nobody round to ask us in to take dinner with 'em. We had pulled up stakes at Cairo, and had to go up the Ohio to Smithland, and then up the Cumberland River. Cavalry was no good in that country, for there was too much big timber, and the ground was too rough. We were kept busy trying to plant a battery, for those fellows in gray have some sharpshooters worthy of their name, and though not one of them showed himself, it was whiz! pang! every few minutes, and some one was sure to go down. We lost Eddie Downing that way.” Al paused a moment to brush an imaginary fly from before his eyes. “Eddie Downing was shot? He was a noble boy. So he's dead!” Al nodded assent. “Where's George Martin? Do you know what regiment he joined?” “Oh, sure. He was in the gunboat service. Poor fellow, he fared worse than Eddie. He was on the Cumberland and had his right arm shot away.” {163} [Illustration: 0172] “Is {164}he at home?” “He was sent home as soon as the stump healed, and his only regret is, so his father says, that it wasn't the left arm, for he declares he'd try it again. But of course they wouldn't have him in any branch of the service.” “Of course not. But George always had grit. But how did you come out at Fort Donelson?” “We had taken Fort Henry, but didn't feel so certain about Donelson. General Buckner had swelled the Confederate numbers there by about ten thousand men. Then the fort stood on high ground, and had a fine battery on the river front, as well as several lines of strong fortifications on the land side, such as immense logs, bags of sand, were well protected, and their riflemen were in little pits dug in the side of a hill. All the time the weather staid stinging cold, and we suffered terribly. They were resting when the gunboats came to the front. Their gunners looked death right in the face every instant, but the way they made the shells fly was lively. Commodore Foote is a hero, and {165}he bombarded them in gallant style. He had six boats, and the sight was worth seeing, as they would come up toward the fort, getting nearer, one by one, and then each delivering its fire, and circling round to give the other boats a shot at the rebs. And the fort was giving them trouble, too, for they were sending solid shot over the decks, which were doing damage. [Illustration: 0173]