rs from
the upper shore. "The Yanks are laying bridges" is the word that goes
from mouth to mouth, and long before the day is fairly opened the
nearing sounds and the will-o'-the-wisp lights out there in the fog tell
the shivering pickets that the foe is more than half-way across.
Daybreak brings strong forces into line along the southern bank, all
eyes straining through the fog. Out to the front the ping! ping! of the
rifles has become rapid and incessant, and by broad daylight all the
river bank and the walls of the buildings that command a view of it are
packed with gray riflemen ready for work the instant those bridge-heads
loom into view. When seven o'clock comes, and the fog thins just a
little, there are the bridge-ends, sure enough, poking drearily into
space, but the only signs of the builders are the motionless forms in
blue that are stretched here and there about the boats or planks, only
faintly visible through the mist; the working parties have been forced
to give it up. Back they come, what is left of them, and tell their tale
among the sympathizing blue overcoats in the wearying ranks, and
officers ride away up the slopes, and there are moments of suspense and
question, and then the thud of sponge-staff and rammer among the
batteries, and a sudden flash and roar, tearing the mists asunder;
another, another; and then, up and down along the line of heights, the
order goes, and gun after gun belches forth its charge of shot and
shell, and back from the walls of Fredericksburg comes the direful echo
and the crash of falling roof or gable. "Depress those muzzles!" is the
growling order. "The whole bank is alive with rebs, and we must shell
'em out before those bridges can be finished." The elevating screws are
spun in their beds, the shell fuzes cut down to the very edge. Some guns
are so near the river that they are rammed with grape and canister; and
so, for an hour, the thundering cannonade goes on, and the infantry
crouch below, and swear and shiver, and once in a while set up a cheer
when occasion seems to warrant it. And then, covered by this furious
fog-bombardment, the engineers again push forward their
bridge-builders, and cram their pontoons, and launch them forth upon the
stream. It is all useless. No sooner do they reach the bridge-end when
down they go by the dozens before the hot fire of a thousand Southern
rifles. So dense is the fog that the gunners cannot aim. Shot, shell,
and canister go shrie