Across the river, the Rebels were retiring, having done their work, but were still shelling, from greater and greater distances, the wood through which I rode.

Arrived at the spot nearest the wreck (a point opposite to what we called the Brickyard Station), I saw the burning vessel aground beyond a long stretch of marsh, out of which the forlorn creatures were still floundering.

Here and there in the mud and reeds we could see the laboring heads, slowly advancing, and could hear excruciating cries from wounded men in the more distant depths.

It was the strangest mixture of war and Dante and Robinson Crusoe.

Our energetic chaplain coming up, I sent him with four men, under a flag of truce, to the place whence the worst cries proceeded, while I went to another part of the marsh.