Both craft held their course, neither sailing faster nor slower than the other, but moving onward at the same relative distance, as if we were engaged in a friendly race.
The fact that none of the Britisher’s shots had come aboard gave me courage, and I almost brought myself to believe that they would not be able to hit us.
Not being forced to perform any duties, Simon and I acted as spectators of this odd battle, and were speculating upon the chances that our gunners might succeed in shooting away one of the enemy’s spars, when suddenly there was a hideous crashing of the timbers, cries of pain at the gun nearest to us but one, and for the first time I saw the white deck crimsoned with the blood of my countrymen.
Fortune had favoured the Britisher so far, at least, and now fear took possession of me.
The lifeless bodies of two men, and one of them he with whom I had been speaking five minutes before, were rolled to and fro on the deck as the ship leaped and plunged, while another was being helped to the cockpit by comrades, that his wounds might be dressed.
From that moment I failed to realise all that took place. After the first flush of cowardice, a fever took possession of me.
I prayed fervently that our next shot might work more injury than theirs had done; the thirst for blood was full upon me, and I saw everywhere before my eyes that ominous crimson hue.
For how long a time this singular battle was waged I knew not; but afterward came to learn that no less than two hours elapsed, from the time Carleton and Hawley had been killed, before the Britisher hauled down the cross of St. George.
Three times had the America’s hull been struck, and our gunners declared that we had sent home no less than ten shot, one of which wounded the enemy’s mizzenmast, within six feet of the deck, so badly that it fell ten minutes later, while another carried away all the spars above the mainmasthead.