“Think you there will be a battle this night?” Alec asked, so excited that his voice trembled.
“That is accordin’ to yonder Britisher’s stomach. If it so be he says the word, I’ll warrant you we’ll go with our three hundred men—hardly more than enough to work the fleet—and give him such a taste of our metal as won’t be pleasin’.”
“If Oliver should set out so poorly prepared and be whipped, the government would blame him as severely as if he had a full force,” Alec said, half to himself; and I understood from the words that the lad hoped Barclay was not of the mind to wait until we might come up with him.
“But he won’t be whipped, lad;” and old Silas spoke in a tone of confidence, as if he could read the future. “We Yankees have been kept cooped up in Presque Isle bay so long that each will do the work of three men when the chance is given him. We’ll not be whipped, lad, as Barclay shall soon learn to his cost.”
Now it was that as we worked every one of us gazed seaward at brief intervals, looking with pride upon the little Ariel and Scorpion, while they stood boldly on toward the British squadron that could have sunk them with a single broadside, the stars and stripes flying proudly from their mastheads, and all hands doubtless at quarters, hoping it might be possible to engage in a contest, however unequal.
But the battle was not to be on that day, and well perhaps for our commodore that his challenge was not accepted, for the odds against us might have proven too great, despite the eagerness of the men.
Before the two schooners were come within range of the enemy’s ships the squadron was put about, heading for the North Foreland, crowding on all sail as if it was feared our tiny schooners might insist upon a battle.
We cheered, as a matter of course, when the enemy thus fled, and laughed in derision at his cowardice; but there was beneath it all a deep disappointment because the time had not come when we might show our strength and determination.
“Never you mind, lad,” old Silas said, as we stood looking after the retreating fleet, and doubtless showing in our faces signs of that which was in our hearts. “Never you mind. Commodore Perry ain’t the one to hang ’round here while there’s a British vessel afloat on Lake Erie, and I’m willin’ to wager all my prize-money that if Commodore Barclay doesn’t come out boldly to meet us, we shall hunt him up, and the battle won’t be long delayed unless it so chances the gallant redcoats surrender without firing a gun.”