“Well, Dick, what do you think of it?” asked Pennington.

“We’ve got our work cut out for us, and if I didn’t know General Grant I’d say that we’re engaged in a mighty rash undertaking.”

“Just what I’d say, also.  And we need that fleet bad, too, Dick.  I’d like to see the smoke of its funnels as the boats come steaming up the Cumberland.”

Dick knew that the fleet was needed, not alone for encouragement and fighting help, but to supply an even greater want.  Grant’s army was short of both food and ammunition.  The afternoon had turned warm, and many of the northwestern lads, still clinging to their illusions about the climate of the lower Mississippi Valley, had dropped their blankets.  Now, with the setting sun, the raw, penetrating chill was coming back, and they shivered in every bone.

But the Union army, in spite of everything, gradually spread out and enfolded the whole fortress, save on the northern side where Hickman Creek flowed, deep and impassable.  The general’s own headquarters were due west of Fort Donelson, and Colonel Winchester’s Kentucky regiment was stationed close by.

Low campfires burned along the long line of the Northern army, and Dick and others who sat beside him saw many lights inside the great enclosure held by the South.  An occasional report was heard, but it was only the pickets exchanging shots at long range and without hurt.  Dick and Pennington wrapped their blankets about them and sat with their backs against a log, ready for any command from Colonel Winchester.  Now and then they were sent with orders, because there was much moving to and fro, the placing of men in position and the bringing up of cannon.

Thus the night moved slowly on, raw, cold and dark.  Mists and fogs rose from the Cumberland as they had risen from the Tennessee.  This, too, was a great river.  Dick was glad when the last of his errands was done, and he could come back to the fire, and rest his back once more against the log.  The fire was only a bed of coals now, but they gave out much grateful heat.

Dick could see General Grant’s tent from where he sat.  Officers of high rank were still entering it or leaving it, and he was quite sure that they were planning an attack on the morrow.

But the idea of an assault did not greatly move him now.  He was too tired and sleepy to have more than a vague impression of anything.  He saw the coals glowing before him, and then he did not see them.  He had gone sound asleep in an instant.

The next morning was gray and troubled, with heavy clouds, rolling across the sky.  The rising sun was blurred by them, and as the men ate their breakfasts some of the great guns from the fort began to fire at the presumptuous besieger.  The heavy reports rolled sullenly over the desolate forests, but the Northern cannon did not yet reply.  The Southern fire was doing no damage.  It was merely a threat, a menace to those who should dare the assault.