Captain Winslow was busy with his orders.
“Clear the enemy’s deck with the light guns!” he shouted. “Sink the Confederate with the heavy iron!”
Cheer succeeded cheer from his sailors. Caps were thrown into the air, or overboard. Jackets were tossed aside. Now, certain of victory, the men were shouting wildly, as each projectile took effect.
“That’s a good one!”
“Down, boys, down!”
“Give her another like the last!”
“Now—we have her!”
The vessels continued to swing around each other in wide circles, and—at this moment—a sixty-eight pound Blakely shell passed through the starboard bulwarks of the Kearsarge below the main rigging, exploded on the quarter-deck, and wounded three of the crew of the after pivot-gun. The three unfortunate men were speedily taken below, but the act was done so quietly, that—at the termination of the fight—a large number of the crew were unaware that any of their comrades were injured.
Two shots now crashed through the port-holes occupied by the thirty-two pounders; one exploded in the hammock-netting; the other shrieked through the opposite port; yet no one was hurt. Fire blazed from the deck; the alarm calling for fire-quarters was sounded, and the men who had been detailed for this emergency put it out. The rest stayed at the guns.