“THE MEN WERE SHOUTING WILDLY, AS EACH PROJECTILE TOOK EFFECT.”
The eleven-inch shells were doing terrible execution upon the quarter-deck of the Alabama. Three of them crashed into the eight-inch pivot-gun port; the first swept off the forward part of the gun’s crew; the second killed one man and wounded several others; the third struck the breast of the gun-carriage and spun around on the deck until one of the men picked it up and threw it overboard. The ship was careening heavily to starboard, while the decks were covered with the dead and dying. A shell plunged into the coal bunker and a dense cloud of coal dust arose. Crippled and torn, the hulking privateer began to settle by the stern. Her guns still spat and growled, and her broadsides were going wild. She was fast weakening.
“Any one who silences that after pivot-gun will get one hundred dollars!” cried Captain Semmes, as he saw the fearful accuracy of its fire.
Crash! a whole broadside from the privateer spat at this particular piece. It was in vain.
Around and around circled the belching Kearsarge. Seven times she had swooped about the weakening gladiator of the sea, and her fire was more and more accurate. She was like a great eagle closing in for a deaththrust. Captain Semmes was in a desperate situation.
“Hoist the fore-trysail and jibs!” he called out above the din of cannon. “Head for the French coast!”
As the sailors scrambled to obey, the Alabama presented her port battery to the Kearsarge. She showed gaping sides and only two guns were bearing.
At this moment the chief engineer came up on the deck of the privateer.
“The fires are all out and the engines will not work!” he reported to Captain Semmes.