the army of General Grant, the
siege lines so continuous, alike in the rear of the town and on the
Mississippi and its opposite shore, that it seemed as if hardly a bird
could enter or leave its streets. General Johnston kept the field in the
rear, but Grant was much too strong for him, and he was obliged to trust
to the chapter of chances for the hope of setting Pemberton free from
the net by which he was surrounded.

Knowing the daring and usual success of Lamar Fontain in very hazardous
enterprises, Johnston engaged him to endeavor to carry a verbal message
to General Pemberton, sending him out on the perilous and seemingly
impossible venture of making his way into the closely beleaguered city.
In addition to his message, he took with him a supply of some forty
pounds of percussion caps for the use of the besieged garrison.

On the 24th of May, 1863, Fontain set out from his father's home, at a
considerable distance in the rear of the Federal lines. He was well
mounted, and armed with an excellent revolver and a good sabre, which he
carried in a wooden scabbard to prevent its rattling. His other burdens
were his packet of percussion caps, his blanket, and his crutches.

That night he crossed Big Black River, and before dawn of the next day
was well within the lines of the enemy. Travel by day was now out of the
question, so he hid his horse in a ravine, and found a place of shelter
for himself in a fallen tree that overlooked the road. From his
hiding-place he saw a confused and hasty movement of the enemy,
seemingly in retreat from too hot a brush with the garrison. Waiting
till their columns had passed and the nightfall made it safe for him to
move, he mounted again and continued his journey in the direction of
Snyder's Bluff on the Yazoo.

Entering the telegraphic road from Yazoo City to Vicksburg, he had not
gone far before he was confronted and hailed by a picket of the enemy.
Spurring his spirited steed, he dashed past at full speed. A volley
followed him, one of the balls striking his horse, though none of them
touched him. The good steed had received a mortal wound, but by a final
and desperate effort it carried its rider to the banks of the Yazoo
River. Here it fell dead, leaving its late rider afoot, and lacking one
of his crutches, which had been caught and jerked away by the limb of a
tree as he dashed headlong past.

With the aid of his remaining crutch, and carrying his baggage, Fontain
groped his