The firing ceased at sunset. The Benton was struck four times, and the Cincinnati once. No one was injured by these shots, but one of the guns of the St. Louis burst, killing two men instantly, and wounding thirteen.
When the bombardment was at its height, Commodore Foote received a letter from Cairo, containing the sad information that a beloved son had died suddenly. It was a sore bereavement, but it was no time for him to give way to grief, no time to think of his great affliction.
After the firing had ceased, I sat with him in the cabin of the Benton. There were tears upon his cheeks. He was thinking of his loss.
Were he living now, I should have no right to give the conversation I had with him, but he has gone to his reward, leaving us his bright example. These were his words, as I remember:—
“It is a terrible blow, but the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be His name. It is hard for me to bear, but no harder than it will be for the fathers of the noble men who were killed on the St. Louis. Poor fellows! I feel bad for the wounded.”
He called the orderly who stood outside the cabin.
“Orderly, tell the surgeon that I want to see him.”
The surgeon came in.
“Surgeon, I wish you to do everything you can for those poor fellows on the St. Louis. Don’t omit anything that will contribute to their comfort.”
“It shall be done, sir,” said the surgeon, as he left the cabin.