essels of the flotilla up the river were all anxiety to know what had
been the fate of their gallant comrades on the "Carondelet." All the
time the battle raged, the decks of the ships at anchor were crowded
with sailors looking eagerly down the river, and trying to make out by
the blinding flashes of the cannon the dark form of a gunboat speeding
by the hostile camp. Now all is silent; the roar of battle is over,
the flash of gunpowder no more lights up the night. But what has
become of the gallant men who braved that tempest of steel and iron?
Are they floating down the troubled waters beneath the wreck of their
vessel? It was a moment of suspense. After a few minutes' silence,
there comes through the strangely quiet air the deep boom of a heavy
gun. It had been agreed, that, if the "Carondelet" made the passage of
the batteries safely, she should fire six heavy guns. The old tars on
the decks say softly to themselves, "One." Then comes another, and a
third, and still more, until suddenly a ringing cheer goes up from the
flotilla, louder than the thunder itself. Men dance for joy; grizzled
tars fall into each other's arms, sing, shout, cry. An answering
salute goes booming back, rockets scud up into the clouds; and
Commodore Foote, with a heart too full for talking, goes down into his
cabin to be alone.

That night's work by the "Carondelet" terminated Confederate domain on
Island No. 10. The next night another gunboat came down, and the two
set to work carrying the troops across the river, protecting
artillerymen engaged in erecting batteries, and generally completing
the investment of the island. In two days every loop-hole of escape
for the Confederates is closed,--gunboats above and below them,
batteries peering down from every bluff, and regiments of infantry,
all prepared to move upon the works. They made one or two ineffectual
but plucky attempts to ward off capture. One private soldier swam
ashore, skulked past the Union pickets, and made his way to one of the
Union mortar-boats. He succeeded in getting to the mortar, and
successfully spiked it, thus terminating its usefulness. A second
Confederate succeeded in reaching the deck of the mortar-boat, but
while making his way across the deck tripped and fell. The rat-tail
file he was carrying was driven into his side, making a wound from
which he died in two hours. A third man, reckless of life, set out in
a canoe to blow up a gunboat. He carried with him a fifty