ion near the "Lane," and poured broadside after
broadside upon the struggling Union ship. But where were the other
three Union vessels all this time? It seemed as though their
commanders had lost all their coolness; for they ran their vessels
here and there, now trying to do something to help their friends on
shore, now making an ineffectual attempt to aid the "Harriet Lane."
But on board that vessel matters were going badly for the Federals.
The Confederates in great numbers kept pouring over the bulwarks, and
were rapidly driving the crew from the deck. Capt. Wainwright lay dead
at the door of the cabin. Across his body stood his young son, his
eyes blazing, his hair waving in the wind. He held in his right hand a
huge revolver, which he was firing without aim into the tossing mass
of struggling men before him, while he called on his dead father to
rise and help him. A stray bullet cut off two of his fingers, and the
pain was too much for the little hero only ten years old; and,
dropping the pistol, he burst into tears, crying, "Do you want to kill
me?" The blue-jackets began to look anxiously for help toward the
other vessels. But, even while they looked, they saw all hope of help
cut off; for with a crash and a burst of flame the "Westfield" blew
up. It turned out later, that, finding his ship aground, the captain
of the "Westfield" had determined to abandon her, and fire the
magazine; but in fixing his train he made a fatal error, and the ship
blew up, hurling captain and crew into the air. The men on the
"Harriet Lane" saw that all hope was gone, and surrendered their ship.
When the captains of the two remaining gunboats saw the stars and
stripes fall from the peak, they turned their vessels' prows toward
the sea, and scudded out of danger of capture. At the same moment,
cheers from the gray-coats on shore told that the Confederates had
been successful both by land and sea, and the stars and bars once more
floated over Galveston.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CAPTURE OF NEW ORLEANS. -- FARRAGUT'S FLEET PASSES FORT ST.
PHILIP AND FORT JACKSON.

While Commodore Foote, with his flotilla of gunboats and mortar-boats,
was working his way down the Mississippi River, making occasional
dashes into the broad streams that flow from either side into the
father of waters, Admiral Farragut, with his fleet of tall-sparred,
ocean-going men-of-war, was laying his plans for an expedition
up-stream. But Farragut's first