The spectacle, nevertheless, was appalling. The snow drove harder and
harder. It was not merely a passing shower of flakes. It was a storm.
The snow soon lay upon the ground an inch deep, then three inches,
then four and still it gained. Through the darkness and the storm the
Southern cannon crashed at intervals, sending shells at random into the
Union camp or over it. There was full need then for the indomitable
spirit of Grant and those around him to encourage anew the thousands of
boys who had so lately left the farms or the lumber yards.
Dick and his comrades, careless of the risk, searched over the
battlefield for the wounded who were yet there. They carried lanterns,
but the darkness was so great and the snow drove so hard and lay so
deep that they knew many would never be found.
Back beyond the range of the fort's cannon men were building fires with
what wood they could secure from the forest. All the tents they had
were set up, and the men tried to cook food and make coffee, in order
that some degree of warmth and cheer might be provided for the army
beset so sorely.
The snow, after a while, slackening somewhat, was succeeded by cold much
greater than ever. The shivering men bent over the fires and lamented
anew the discarded blankets. Dick did not sleep an instant that
terrible night. He could not. He, Pennington, and Warner, relieved
from staff service, worked all through the cold and darkness, helping
the wounded and seeking wood for the fires.
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