up the scene and showed a small boat,
towing two large barges, gliding by. The Confederates had set fire to a
house near the bank. Another night, eight boats ran by, throwing a
shower of shot, and two burning houses made the river clear as day. One
of the batteries has a remarkable gun they call "Whistling Dick,"
because of the screeching, whistling sound it gives, and certainly it
does sound like a tortured thing. Added to all this is the indescribable
Confederate yell, which is a soul-harrowing sound to hear. I have gained
respect for the mechanism of the human ear, which stands it all without
injury. The streets are seldom quiet at night; even the dragging about
of cannon makes a din in these echoing gullies. The other night we were
on the gallery till the last of the eight boats got by. Next day a
friend said to H., "It was a wonder you didn't have your heads taken
off last night. I passed and saw them stretched over the gallery, and
grape-shot were whizzing up the street just on a level with you." The
double roar of batteries and boats was so great, we never noticed the
whizzing. Yesterday the _Cincinnati_ attempted to go by in daylight but
was disabled and sunk. It was a pitiful sight; we could not see the
finale, though we saw her rendered helpless.

XIII

PREPARATIONS FOR THE SIEGE

_Vicksburg, May 1, 1863._--It is settled at last that we shall spend the
time of siege in Vicksburg. Ever since we were deprived of our cave, I
had been dreading that H. would suggest sending me to the country, where
his relatives lived. As he could not leave his position and go also
without being conscripted, and as I felt certain an army would get
between us, it was no part of my plan to be obedient. A shell from one
of the practising mortars brought the point to an issue yesterday and
settled it. Sitting at work as usual, listening to the distant sound of
bursting shells, apparently aimed at the court-house, there suddenly
came a nearer explosion; the house shook, and a tearing sound was
followed by terrified screams from the kitchen. I rushed thither, but
met in the hall the cook's little girl America, bleeding from a wound in
the forehead, and fairly dancing with fright and pain, while she uttered
fearful yells. I stopped to examine the wound, and her mother bounded
in, her black face ashy from terror. "Oh! Miss V., my child is killed
and the kitchen tore up." Seeing America was too lively to be a killed
subject, I c