"Sleep poorly, you bastards..." grumbled Col. John Heath as he watched the Union officers trudge back down a snow-covered corpse-strewn palisade. The emissaries had, under a flag of truce, brought a message for whoever was in command of Fort Donelson. It was most likely an agreement to negotiate a surrender of the Fort. Yesterday's fight had started so well that, for a moment, Col. Heath thought they might just make it, they might just win even. But the South seemed to get a lot of tough breaks in the last 24 hours, mused the Colonel as he folded his arms against the chilly early morning air. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. He watched for a moment longer as the soon to be victors grew smaller, threw his cigar stub aside and began to head back. The HQ was in the ugly, long, and squat Dover Hotel right on the riverbank. Col. Heath wasn't sure who was in charge of the garrison anymore, but he knew whoever it was they'd be there.
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