n the gunners in the trenches. Steadily onward
moved the boats, pouring all their shells into the lower works. It was a
continuous storm,--an unbroken roll of thunder. There were constant
explosions in the Rebel trenches. The air was filled with pieces of iron
from the exploding shells and lumps of frozen earth thrown up by the
solid shot. The Rebels fled in confusion from the four-gun battery,
running up the hill to the intrenchments above.

The fight had lasted an hour, and the boats were within five hundred
feet of the batteries; fifteen minutes more and the Commodore would be
abreast of them, and would rake them from bottom to top with his
tremendous broadsides. But he had reached the bend of the river; the
eight-gun battery could cut him through crosswise, while the guns on the
top of the hill could pour plunging shots upon his decks. The Rebels saw
their advantage, and worked their guns with all their might. The boats
were so near that every Rebel shot reached its mark. A solid shot cut
the rudder-chains of the Carondelet and she became unmanageable. The
thirty-two-pound balls went through the oak sides of the boats as you
can throw peas through wet paper. Another shot splintered the helm of
the Pittsburg, and that boat also became unmanageable. A third shot
crashed through the pilot-house of the St. Louis, killing the pilot
instantly. The Commodore stood by his side, and was sprinkled with the
blood of the brave, unfortunate man. The shot broke the wheel and
knocked down a timber which wounded the Commodore in the foot. He sprang
to the deck, limped to another steering apparatus, and endeavored with
his own hands to keep the vessel head to the stream; but that apparatus
also had been shot away. Sixty-one shots had struck the St. Louis; some
had passed through from stem to stern. The Louisville had received
thirty-five shots. Twenty-six had crashed into and through the
Carondelet. One of her guns had burst, killing and wounding six of the
crew. The Pittsburg had been struck twenty-one times. All but the
Louisville, of the iron-plated boats, were unmanageable. At the very
last moment--when the difficulties had been almost overcome--the
Commodore was obliged to hoist the signal for retiring. Ten minutes
more,--five hundred feet more,--and the Rebel trenches would have been
swept from right to left, their entire length. When the boats began to
drift down the stream they were running from the trenches, deserting
their