Colonel Winchester knew most of the leaders within Donelson.  He knew that Pillow was not of a strong and decided nature.  Nor was Floyd, who would rank first, of great military capacity.  Buckner had talent and he had served gallantly in the Mexican War, but he could not prevail over the others.  The fame of Forrest, the Tennessee mountaineer, was already spreading, but a cavalryman could do little for the defense of a fort besieged by twenty thousand well equipped men, led by a general of unexcelled resolution.

All that Colonel Winchester surmised was true.  Inside the fort confusion and doubt reigned.  The fleeing garrison from Fort Henry had brought exaggerated reports of Grant’s army.  Very few of the thousands of young troops had ever been in battle before.  They, too, suffered though in a less degree from cold and fatigue, but many were wounded.  Pillow and Floyd, who had just arrived with his troops, talked of one thing and then another.  Floyd, who might have sent word to his valiant and able chief, Johnston, did not take the trouble or forgot to inform him of his position.  Buckner wanted to attack Grant the next morning with the full Southern strength, and a comrade of his on old battlefields, Colonel George Kenton, seconded him ably.  The black-bearded Forrest strode back and forth, striking the tops of his riding boots with a small riding whip, and saying ungrammatically, but tersely and emphatically: 

“We mustn’t stay here like hogs in a pen.  We must git at ’em with all our men afore they can git at us.”

The illiterate mountaineer and stock driver had evolved exactly the same principle of war that Napoleon used.

But Colonel Winchester and his comrades could only guess at what was going on in Donelson, and a guess always remains to be proved.  So they must continue their perilous quest.  Once they were hailed by a Southern sentinel, but Colonel Winchester replied promptly that they belonged to Buckner’s Kentuckians and had been sent out to examine the Union camp.  He passed it off with such boldness and decision that they were gone before the picket had time to express a doubt.

But as they came toward the center of the line, and drew nearer to the fort itself, they met another picket, who was either more watchful or more acute.  He hailed them at a range of forty or fifty yards, and when Colonel Winchester made the same reply he ordered them to halt and give the countersign.  When no answer came he fired instantly at the tall figure of Colonel Winchester and uttered a loud cry of, “Yankees!”

Luckily the dim light was tricky and his bullet merely clipped the colonel’s hair.  But there was nothing for the four to do now save to run with all their undignified might for their own camp.

“Come on, lads!” shouted Colonel Winchester.  “Our scouting is over for the time!”

The region behind them contained patches of scrub oaks and bushes, and with their aid and that of the darkness, it was not difficult to escape; but Dick, while running just behind the others, stepped in a hole and fell.  The snow and the dead leaves hid the sound of his fall and the others did not notice it.  As he looked up he saw their dim forms disappearing among the bushes.  He rose to his own feet, but uttered a little cry as a ligament in his ankle sent a warning throb of pain through his body.