My two journalistic friends and myself were side by side, watching the exhibition with an interest that might be called personal. We were not excited, as we had supposed we should be, owing, no doubt, to the fact that we had had two years’ experience in the field. And yet we were forced to admit that it was about the liveliest experience under fire which we had ever enjoyed. I presume that our nerves were at a higher tension than we suspected, though we talked very glibly, and discussed the probability of our getting through, albeit much of what we said was lost in the infernal din.
What the French call the fire of hell was unremittingly kept up. A hundred guns seemed to explode, and a hundred shells to burst, every second. We suggested that the so-called Confederacy would soon expend all its ammunition, if it long continued such a tremendous cannonading; but then we remembered that long before it could be exhausted, we should be in a condition to know or care very little about it.
Under such circumstances, men who have any coolness, or inclination to speculate, are very apt to become fatalists, irrational as fatalism is.
“I don’t believe,” said one of my companions, “that I am destined to die here.” And the other remarked, “If my time has come, it might as well be here as anywhere else.”
A TERRIBLE EXPLOSION.
Our speculations were cut short by an explosion, not so loud as, and altogether different from, any other that had taken place; and almost at the same instant there was a rush of steam, with a great deluge of live coals and cinders all about us. “What the devil is the matter now?” asked one correspondent. “This seems to be a new sensation!” exclaimed the second; while I solved the mystery by declaring that the boiler of the tug had exploded.
That I was right, was proved by the immediate cessation of the regular puff, puff, puff. A large shell had fallen upon the little steamer, and, bursting, a fragment had penetrated the boiler, causing the explosion, and throwing the fires of the furnace upon the dry hay covering the upper part of the barges. The loose hay caught at once. We ran to extinguish it; but our effort was vain. The fire blazed up before and behind us, and not having any means of putting it out, we abandoned further endeavor. On looking around, we discovered that a number of the soldiers, and those of the crew of the tug who had not been killed outright, were very severely scalded. Others, as we knew, had been badly wounded by shot and shell. At least half of the thirty-five men with whom we had set out were either dead or badly hurt, and our first thought was to help the poor fellows that could not help themselves.
Those who were sound began pushing the bales of hay into the river, and putting the wounded upon them. The barges burned like tinder, and in a few minutes after they had been ignited, two thirds of them were wrapped in flames. The rebels, strangely unmindful of their much boasted chivalry, continued their fire, though they must have seen that our expedition was utterly wrecked. Having gotten off the wounded, we who were unharmed jumped overboard, and secured a bale apiece, designing to float down the river beyond the city, and then those of us who were expert swimmers, at least, strike out for the Louisiana shore, and try to get back to our camp at Young’s Point.
Alas for the vanity of human expectation! One of my journalistic associates and myself had arranged this programme to our satisfaction, when, hearing the sound of rowlocks, we knew the enemy must be out in small boats to capture the survivors of our ill-fated expedition. Consequently we left our bales, and floated,—nothing but our faces out of the water,—believing that by so doing, we should remain unnoticed. We had not floated quite a minute before a yawl, filled with armed men, was rowed up to us, and we were seized and drawn into the boat, with the remark from a rebel captain, “We will get you d——d Yankees once in a while.”
IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY.