The morning passed without attack. What could it mean? They
saw at last--another fleet. Clouds of black smoke on the river told the
story. Reenforcements had arrived.
At half-past two o'clock the fleet formed in line of battle--threw their
big flags to the breeze and dashed squarely on the fort.
They swept now within point blank range of three hundred yards, pouring
in a storm of shot.
But the Confederate batteries were too heavy and too well manned.
Fifty-seven shells struck the flagship and more than a hundred took
effect on the five boats leading the assault. The fleet was crushed and
put out of commission. Every boat was disabled except one and that
withdrew beyond the range of the batteries.
Dick watched the magnificent spectacle with thrilling pride. He could
have enjoyed the show but for the bitter cold. It was twenty degrees
below the freezing point, and while the battle raged between the fleet
and fort it began to sleet and snow. When the crippled boats at last
drifted down the yellow tide and out of range, he found to his amazement
that a thick coat of ice had formed on the hand in which he held his
musket. His clothes were frozen stiff on his body.
He leaped to his feet and beat his arms fiercely, and glanced over the
embankment toward those ominous-looking piles of blue.
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