Sergeant Whitley, grave and
unhurt, rejoined them also.
The winter night and their heavy losses could not discourage the
Northern troops. They shared the courage and tenacity of their
commander. They began to believe now that Donelson, despite its
strength and its formidable garrison, would be taken. They built the
fires high, and ate heartily. They talked in sanguine tones of what
they would do in the morrow. Excited comment ran among them. They had
passed from the pit of despair in the morning to the apex of hope at
night. Exhausted, all save the pickets fell asleep after a while,
dreaming of fresh triumphs on the morrow.
Had Dick's eyes been able to penetrate Donelson he would have beheld
a very different scene. Gloom, even more, despair, reigned there.
Their great effort had failed. Bravery had availed nothing. Their
frightful losses had been suffered in vain. The generals blamed one
another. Floyd favored the surrender of the army, but fancying that the
Union troops hated him with special vindictiveness, and that he would
not be safe as a prisoner, decided to escape.
Pillow declared that Grant could yet be beaten, but after a while
changed to the view of Floyd. They yet had two small steamers in the
Cumberland which could carry them up the river. They left the command
to Buckner, the third in rank, and told him he could make the surrender.
The black-bearded Forrest said grimly: "I ain't goin' to surrender my
cavalry, not to nobody," and by devious paths he led them away through
the darkness and to liberty.
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