“There is a porthole, certainly!” said another.
It came nearer. Its proportions increased.
“Pilot, put on steam! Head her up stream!” said Captain Thompson.
“Lieutenant, beat to quarters! Light up the magazine! We will see what she is made of.”
There was activity on deck. The guns were run out, shot and shell were brought up. The boat moved up stream. Broadside upon us came the unknown craft.
Suddenly the illusion vanished. The monster three hundred feet long, changed to an old coal-barge. The chimneys became two timbers, the flagstaff a small stick of firewood. The fog, the currents of air, had produced the transformation. We had a hearty laugh over our preparations for an encounter with the enemy in our rear. It was an enemy more quickly disposed of than the one in front.
The Rebels in the upper battery waved a white flag. The firing ceased. Commodore Foote sent Lieutenant Bishop down with a tug and a white flag flying, to see what it meant. He approached the battery.
“Are we to understand that you wish to communicate with us?” he asked.
“No, sir,” said an officer wearing a gold-laced coat.
“Then why do you display a white flag?”