After making several ineffectual attempts in placing the bridge, the destructive fire of Barksdale’s Riflemen forcing them back, the enemy attempted the bold project of filling the boats with armed soldiers, pushing out in the stream, and fighting their way across, under cover of their artillery fire.  While the dense fog was yet hanging heavily over the waters, one hundred and forty guns, many siege pieces, were opened upon the deserted city and the men along the water front.  The roar from the cannon-crowned battlements shook the very earth.  Above and below us seemed to vibrate as from the effects of a mighty upheaval, while the shot and shell came whizzing and shrieking overhead, looking like a shower of falling meteors.  For more than an hour did this seething volcano vomit iron like hail upon the city and the men in the rifle pits, the shells and shot from the siege guns tearing through the houses and plunging along the streets, and ricocheting to the hills above.  Not a house nor room nor chimney escaped destruction.  Walls were perforated, plastering and ceiling fell, chimneys tottering or spreading over yards and out into the streets.  Not a place of safety, save the cellars and wells, and in the former some were forced to take refuge.  Yet through all this, the brave Mississippians stood and bravely fought the bridge builders, beating them back till orders were given to retire.  They had accomplished the purpose of delaying the enemy’s crossing until our troops were in position.  The Federals now hurried over in swarms, by thousands and tens of thousands, and made their way down the river, stationing a strong cordon of guards around the point of landing.  The space between was soon a seething mass of humanity, the houses and streets crowded to overflowing.  A second bridge was laid a mile below at the mouth of Deep Run, and here a continuous stream of all arms were soon pouring over.  General Kershaw rode along our lines, encouraging the men, urging them to stand steadfast, assuring them that there was to be neither an advance nor retreat, that we were but to hold our ground, and one of the greatest victories of the war would be gained.  How prophetic his words!  All during the day and night the deep rumbling sound of the long wagon trains, artillery, and cavalry could be heard crossing the pontoon bridges above and below.

The next morning, the 12th, as the fog lifted, Stafford Heights and the inclines above the river were one field of blue.  Great lines of infantry, with waving banners, their bright guns and bayonets glittering in the sunlight, all slowly marching down the steep inclines between the heights and the river on over the bridges, then down the river side at a double-quick to join their comrades of the night before.  These long, swaying lines, surging in and out among the jutting of the hillsides beyond, down to the river, over and down among the trees and bushes near the water, resembled some monster serpent dragging its