Commodore Foote and General U. S. Grant sat conversing in the headquarters of the latter at Cairo, Illinois. The general was puffing a cigar, and answered in monosyllables between puffs.

"You have heard nothing yet, have you, General," the commodore was asking, "of that request we united in sending to General Halleck?"

"Nothing," answered Grant, moodily.

There was silence for some time, the general apparently in deep thought. The commodore broke the silence by asking:

"You went to see him personally once on this matter, did you not?"

"He ungraciously gave me permission to visit St. Louis in order to see him, after I had begged for the privilege at least half a dozen times," Grant answered.

"And you laid the matter before him in all its bearings?"

"I tried to."

"What did he say?"

"Say! he struck me."

"Struck you?" asked the commodore, starting in surprise.

Grant smiled. "I mean," said he, "that he struck me metaphorically. I don't believe he would have hurt me as badly, if he had really struck me. I was never so cut in all my life. I came away feeling that I had committed an unpardonable sin from a military standpoint."

"Then he would not hear to the proposition at all?"

"Hear it! He would not listen to me. I came away resolving never to ask another favor of him. Yet so anxious am I to make this campaign that, as you know, I swallowed my pride and united with you in making the request that we be allowed to make the movement."

"It is strange," replied the commodore, "that he should ignore both our requests, not favoring us even with a reply. Yet it seems that he must see that Fort Henry should be reduced at once. If we delay, both the Cumberland and the Tennessee will be so strongly fortified that it will be almost impossible to force a passage. Everything is to be gained by moving at once. Everything may be lost by delay."

"Even a civilian ought to see that," replied Grant, as he slowly blew a cloud of smoke from his mouth, and watched it as it lazily curled upward.

"The truth of it is," Grant continued slowly, as if weighing every word, "too many of us are afraid that another general may win more honor than we. Then there are altogether too many separate commands. Now, here are Buell and myself; each with a separate command, yet both working for the same object. I should either be subject to the command of Buell, or he should be subject to my orders. We are now like two men trying to lift the same burden, and instead of lifting together, one will lift and then the other. Such a system can but prolong the war indefinitely."

"General," said the commodore, earnestly, "I sincerely wish you had the supreme command here in the West. I believe we would see different results, and that very soon."

Grant blushed like a schoolgirl, fidgeted in his seat, and then said: "Commodore, you do me altogether too much honor. But this I will say, if I had supreme command I should not sit still and see the Tennessee and Cumberland rivers fortified without raising a hand to prevent it. Neither do I believe in letting month after month go by for the purpose of drilling and organizing. The Government seems to forget that time gives the enemy the same privilege. What is wanted is hard blows, and these blows should be delivered as soon as possible. Sherman was right when he asked for 200,000 men to march to the Gulf, yet he was sneered at by the War Department, hounded by every paper in the land, called insane, and now he is occupying a subordinate position. The war could be ended in a year. No one now can tell how long it will last."

Just then a telegram was placed in Grant's hands. He read it, and his whole face lighted up with pleasure.

"You look pleased," said the commodore. "The telegram must bring good news."

Without a word Grant placed the telegram in the hands of the commodore. It was an order from General Halleck to move up the Tennessee as soon as possible and capture Fort Henry.

"At last," said the commodore, his face showing as much pleasure as did Grant's.

"At last," responded Grant; and then, quickly, "Commodore, we may have done an injustice to General Halleck. There may be good reasons we know not of why this order should not have been made before. Commodore, be ready to move with your fleet to-morrow."

"That soon?" asked the commodore.

"That soon," responded Grant.

"General, I shall be ready; and now good-bye, for both of us have much before us. But before I go, let me congratulate you. I believe that success and great honor await you," and with these words the commodore withdrew.

The next day, with 15,000 men, General Grant was steaming up the Tennessee.

General Buell sat in his headquarters at Louisville. General Nelson, accompanied by Fred, had dropped in to see his general, and at the same time to give vent to some of his pent-up feelings.

"It's a shame, a shame!" he fumed, "for us to sit here and let the Rebels fortify Bowling Green and Dover and Columbus, and build forts to blockade the Tennessee, and we not raise a finger to prevent it."

Buell smiled at his irate general, and asked: "And what would you do, Nelson?"

"Do!" roared Nelson, "do! I would strike, and strike hard. I would give them precious little time to build forts."

Before General Buell could answer, an orderly entered with a telegram. He read it, and turning to Nelson, said:

"Well, General, you can cease your fuming. This telegram is from General Halleck. He tells me he has ordered General Grant up the Tennessee to reduce Fort Henry, and he wants me to co-operate as much as possible in the movement."

Nelson was on his feet in an instant.

"General," he exclaimed, "I have a favor, a great favor to ask of you."

Buell smilingly answered: "I think I know what it is without your asking. You want me to send your division."

Nelson bowed.

"I do not see how I can spare so many men; you know we have Johnston at Bowling Green to look after."

"But General," answered Nelson, "the Tennessee and Cumberland must be defended. In all probability the most of Johnston's army will be transferred there."

"In that case, General," answered Buell, "I will remember you. Your division shall be the first one sent."

"Thank you, General, thank you," replied Nelson. "I only wish I knew I was going."

"As it is now," continued Buell, "I shall order General Crittenden to send Cruft's brigade. That brigade is near the mouth of Green river. There is no force of the enemy, in any number, before them, and the brigade can well be spared. I shall send no more men unless it is absolutely necessary. I shall at once dispatch an officer to General Crittenden with necessary orders."

"General," now spoke up Fred, "like General Nelson, I have a request to make, and by your kindness I hope to meet with better success."

"Ah!" said Buell, "you wish to carry the orders. If Nelson has no objection, I think I can grant that request. The general has told me something of your history, Mr. Shackelford. General Thomas also speaks in the highest terms of you."

"You can go if you wish, Fred," answered Nelson. "I only hope I shall soon be with you."

So it was settled, and before night Fred and his good horse Prince were on their way down the Ohio. Fred not only carried dispatches to General Crittenden, but he had personal letters both from General Buell and General Nelson to General Cruft commending him to the latter officer.

Disembarking at Owensboro, Fred made a swift ride to Calhoun, the headquarters of General Crittenden. He delivered his dispatches to the general, and at once sought the headquarters of General Cruft. The general read Fred's letters, and then said: "You are very welcome, Mr. Shackelford; you may consider yourself as one of my staff until such time as General Nelson may join us."

Soon orders came to General Cruft to at once prepare to join Grant.

It was nearly noon on February the 14th when the fleet on which General Cruft's brigade had embarked arrived at Fort Donelson. The place had already been invested two days, and some severe fighting had taken place. The weather, from being warm and rainy, had suddenly turned cold on the afternoon of the 13th, and Fred shivered as he emerged from the comfortable cabin of the steamboat and stepped out on the cold, desolate bank of the river. The ground was covered with ice and snow, and the scene was dreary in the extreme.

Now and then the heavy reverberation of a cannon came rolling down the river, and echoed and re-echoed among the hills. A fleet of gunboats lay anchored in the river, the mouths of their great guns looking out over the dark sullen water as though watching for their prey. General Cruft's brigade was assigned to the division of General Lew Wallace, which occupied the center of the Federal army. Back in the rear little groups of soldiers stood shivering around small fires, trying to warm their benumbed limbs, or to cook their scanty rations.

The condition of the soldiers was pitiable in the extreme. There were no tents; but few had overcoats, and many on the hard, muddy march from Fort Henry had even thrown away their blankets. In the front lines no fires could be lighted, and there the soldiers stood, exposed to the furious storm of sleet and snow, hungry, benumbed, hardly knowing whether they were dead or alive. Such were the heroes who stood for three days before Donelson.

As Fred looked on all this suffering, he wondered at the fortitude with which it was endured. There were few complaints from the soldiers; they were even cheerful and eager to meet the foe.

About three o'clock the gunboats came steaming up the river and engaged the Confederate batteries.

It was a most sublime spectacle, and held Fred spellbound. The very heavens seemed splitting, and the earth shook and trembled from the heavy concussions. Nearer and nearer the gunboats came to the batteries until it seemed to Fred the great guns were vomiting fire and smoke into each other's throats.

During the fight Fred noticed a small, thickset man sitting on his horse intently watching the fight. His countenance was perfectly impassive, and one could not tell by watching him whether he sympathized with friend or foe.

For two hours the conflict raged. The boilers of the Essex had been blown up, the other boats were bruised and battered and torn by the great shots which had struck them, and were helplessly drifting down the stream. The gunboats had been defeated. From the Federal side there went up a great groan of disappointment, while from the Confederate lines there arose the wild cheers of victory.

The silent man on horseback turned and rode away. Not a sign, not a word that he was disappointed.

"Who is that man?" asked Fred of an officer standing by him.

"That, young man," was the answer, "is General Grant. He must be awfully cut up, but he does not show it."

Fred turned and looked after Grant as he rode slowly away. "There," thought Fred, "is a man who is going to make his mark in this war. In some of his actions he reminds me of General Thomas. Nothing seems to excite him."

Night and darkness came. On the frozen ground, without tents or fire, the soldiers once more made their beds. The wind sighed and moaned through the bare branches, as if weeping at the suffering it caused. Many, to keep from freezing, never lay down, but kept up a weary march, so that the blood might circulate. The long hours dragged slowly along.

Over in the Confederate lines all was activity. A council of war was held, and it was resolved that in the morning they would cut their way through the lines of steel which Grant had thrown around them. All preparations were made, every order given, and then they waited for the light of morning—the last morning that hundreds would ever see.

It was hardly light when Fred was awakened by the fitful sound of musketry over on the right. In front of Wallace's division only the report of a rifle of a picket was heard now and then. Hurriedly eating a little breakfast, he mounted his horse and reported to General Cruft for duty. The men were all standing at arms, but there was nothing for them to do. But over on the right the rattle of musketry grew more intense, the roll of heavy volleys began to be heard, and then the deep-voiced cannon joined in the chorus. Louder and louder grew the din of the conflict. The smoke of battle began to ascend above the treetops like smoke from a burning coal-pit. The sound of battle came nearer, the roll of musketry was incessant, the thunder of cannon never ceased.

An officer wild with excitement came spurring his foaming horse up to General Wallace.

"General McClernand wants help," he gasped. "The whole Rebel army has attacked his division."

"I have orders from General Grant to hold this position at all hazards," replied Wallace. "I must have orders from him."

To Grant's headquarters the officer rides in frantic haste. The general was away; he had started at five o'clock to see Commodore Foote, who had been wounded in the battle of the night before, and was on board of one of his gunboats, and the boats lay some five or six miles below.

Would not some one of his staff give orders to send reinforcements to McClernand. No; none would take the responsibility. The officer groaned, and rode back to McClernand with the heavy tidings.

Minutes go by, the thunder of battle is terrific. The Federals are being driven. The exultant cheering of the advancing foe is heard above the roar of conflict.

Another officer, with his horse bleeding from wounds, his hat gone, and tears streaming down his face, rides to General Wallace. "For God's sake, help!" he gasps, "or everything is lost; we are flanked, we cannot hold out longer."

Then General Wallace said: "I will take the responsibility; help you shall have." And with his face lighted up with joy the officer dashed back to tell McClernand that help was coming.

An order comes to General Cruft to at once march his brigade to the scene of action. No sooner is the command given than the brigade is on the way. Soon shot and shell are crashing overhead, and singing bullets begin to cut the twigs of the bushes around. Now and then a soldier falters and goes down. A smooth-faced, florid man rides up to General Cruft. "I am Colonel Oglesby," he says; "my brigade is being flanked on the right. Let me lead you in position; my men are nearly out of ammunition." And then as calmly as if on parade Colonel Dick Oglesby leads Cruft's brigade to the relief of his men. Soon the brigade is in the midst of the conflict. Here and there Fred rides carrying orders. The excitement of battle is on him, and he feels no fear.

Oglesby's brigade is out of ammunition. Sullenly his men fall back, leaving over 800 of their number dead and wounded on the field, but his left regiment refuses to go. The colonel, a large, dark man, with hair as black as midnight, eyes like flaming stars, rages up and down the line like a lion. Fred gazes on him in admiration. He is typical of war incarnate.

"Who is he?" Fred asks of a wounded soldier hobbling back.

"Colonel John A. Logan," is the answer.

At last his men are out of ammunition, and Logan, bleeding from two wounds, is obliged to lead his regiment back. Another regiment takes its place, and after a dreadful conflict, is compelled to fall back, leaving over 300 of their number dead and wounded.

Cruft's brigade was now on the extreme right, cut off from the rest of the army. The enemy pressed upon them; a withering volley sent them reeling back. "Charge!" was the order. Fred spurred forward, and seizing the colors of a Kentucky regiment, shouted: "Now, boys, for the honor of old Kentucky."

The enemy flew before them like frightened sheep. But on either flank the enemy pressed, and the brigade, combating every foot, was forced back.

The enemy had gained the desired end; McClernand's division was out of the way, the road to retreat was open. Why was it not taken advantage of? Because of the imbecility of Generals Floyd and Pillow.

Broken, and with a third of its number dead and wounded, McClernand's division is driven back on Lew Wallace. Officers, stunned with the disaster, come wildly galloping through Wallace's lines, shouting, "All is lost! all is lost!"

Wallace changes front to meet the exultant, advancing foe. Firm as adamant his lines stand. In the faces of the charging Confederates his men pour their crushing volleys. The enemy waver, reel, then go staggering, bleeding back.

Where is Grant all of this time? In conference with Commodore Foote on board of a gunboat six miles down the river. He is too far away to hear the roll of musketry, and the thunder of artillery he thinks but cannonading between the two lines. It is past noon when the conference is ended and he is rowed ashore. There stands a staff officer with bloodless face and shaking limbs. In a few words the story of the disaster is told. Without a word Grant listens, and then mounts his horse. The iron shoes of his steed strike fire on the frozen ground as he gallops back. He arrives just as the foe is repulsed by Wallace's division. His eye sweeps the field.

"Why, boys," he cries, "they are trying to get away; we mustn't let them."

"Why, boys, they are trying to get away; we mustn't let them."

The words act like magic as they are borne along the lines. Cartridge boxes are replenished, and the soldiers, who a few moments before were in retreat, are now eager to advance. The lines are re-formed and the army sweeps forward. This time it is the Confederates who are pressed back, and soon the open road is closed. The chance to escape is forever gone; Fort Donelson is doomed.

Darkness once more came, and with it another night of cold and suffering. The early morning light showed a white flag floating from the ramparts of the fort. Donelson had surrendered. Cold and hunger were forgotten, as the soldiers in their joy embraced each other, and their shouts of victory rose and fell like the swells of the ocean. The first great victory of the war had been won.

Fifteen thousand Confederates were prisoners.