“I don't know, but it's quite certain that we won't attempt another assault. It's hopeless.”
“That's true,” said Warner, who was standing by, “but we—hark, what was that?”
The boom of a cannon echoed over the fort and forest, and then another and another. To the northward they saw thin black spires of smoke under the horizon.
“It's the fleet! It's the fleet!” cried Warner joyously, “coming up the Cumberland to our help! Oh, you men of Donelson, we're around you now, and you'll never shake us off!”
Again came the crash of great guns from the fleet, and the crash of the Southern water batteries replying.
CHAPTER XI. THE SOUTHERN ATTACK
The excitement in the Union army was intense and joyous. The cheers rolled like volleys among these farmer lads of the West. Dick, Warner and Pennington stood up and shouted with the rest.
“I should judge that our chances of success have increased at least fifty, yes sixty, per cent,” said Warner. “As we have remarked before, this control of the water is a mighty thing. We fight the Johnnie Rebs for the land, but we have the water already. Look at those gunboats, will you? Aren't they the sauciest little things you ever saw?”
Once more the navy was showing, as it has always shown throughout its career, its daring and brilliant qualities. Foote, the commodore, although he had had no time to repair his four small fighting boats after the encounter with Fort Henry, steamed straight up the river and engaged the concentric fire from the great guns of the Southern batteries, which opened upon him with a tremendous crash. The boys watched the duel with amazement. They did not believe that small vessels could live under such fire, but live they did. Great columns of smoke floated over them and hid them at times from the watchers, but when the smoke lifted a little or was split apart by the shattering fire of the guns the black hulls of the gunboats always reappeared, and now they were not more than three or four hundred yards from Donelson.