Now and then an awkwardly folded blanket was taken from the shoulders which it disgraced, refolded, packed carefully in its covering of India-rubber, and strapped once more in its place, two or three generally assisting in the operation.  Presently a firing at marks from the upper deck commenced.  The favorite target was a conical floating buoy, showing red on the sunlit surface of the harbor, some four hundred yards away.  With a crack and a hoarse whiz the minie-balls flew towards it, splashing up the water where they first struck and then taking two or three tremendous skips before they sank.  A militiaman from New York city, who was one of my fellow-passengers, told me that he “never saw such good shooting.”  It seemed to me that every sixth ball either hit the buoy full, or touched water but a few yards this side of it, while not more than one in a dozen went wild.

“It is good for a thousand yards,” said a volunteer, slapping his bright, new piece, proudly.

A favorite subject of argument appeared to be whether Fort Sumter ought to be attacked immediately or not.  A lieutenant standing near me talked long and earnestly regarding this matter with a civilian friend, breaking out at last in a loud tone,—­

“Why, good Heaven, Jim! do you want that place to go peaceably into the hands of Lincoln?”

“No, Fred, I do not.  But I tell you, Fred, when that fort is attacked, it will be the bloodiest day,—­the bloodiest day!—­the bloodiest——!!”

And here, unable to express himself in words, Jim flung his arms wildly about, ground his tobacco with excitement, spit on all sides, and walked away, shaking his head, I thought, in real grief of spirit.

We passed close to Fort Pinckney, our volunteers exchanging hurrahs with the garrison.  It is a round, two-storied, yellow little fortification, standing at one end of a green marsh known as Shute’s Folly Island.  What it was put there for no one knows:  it is too close to the city to protect it; too much out of the harbor to command that.  Perhaps it might keep reinforcements for Anderson from coming down the Ashley, just as the guns on the Battery were supposed to be intended to deter them from descending the Cooper.

On the wharf of the ferry three drunken volunteers, the first that I had seen in that condition, brushed against me.  The nearest one, a handsome young fellow of six feet two, half turned to stare back at me with a—­

“How are ye, Cap’m?  Gaw damn ye!  Haw, haw, aw!”—­and reeled onward, brimful of spirituous good-nature.

Four days more had I in Charleston, waiting from tide to tide for a chance to sail to New York, and listening from hour to hour for the guns of Fort Sumter.  Sunday was a day of excitement, a report spreading that the Floridians had attacked Fort Pickens, and the Charlestonians feeling consequently bound in honor to fight their own dragon.  Groups of earnest men talked all day and late into the evening under the portico and in the basement-rooms of the hotel, besides gathering at the corners and strolling about the Battery.  “We must act.”  “We cannot delay.”  “We ought not to submit.”  Such were the phrases that fell upon the ear oftenest and loudest.