In less than twenty minutes, the two gunboats were so badly shattered as to be almost silenced; though the plucky little Plover still remained in the van, with the admiral’s signal still flying, “Engage the enemy,” with the red pennant under, which Mr Gilham told me meant “as close as possible.”
She held out, too, in spite of her not having nine men of her original crew left efficient out of the party with which she commenced the action; while Lieutenant Rason, who commanded her, was killed by being cut in two by a round shot.
The admiral himself was grievously wounded by the splinter of a shell in the thigh, and the rest of the officers swept down—a terrible amount of slaughter in so small a space.
Of course, we did not know all this till afterwards; but we could see the poor little temporary flagship’s battered state, as she swung all abroad across the sullen, dark-flowing river, now seemingly red with blood from the flashes of the guns, whose murderous roar rent the air each moment, sweeping down our comrades and laying them mangled and bleeding on the deck, every time we heard the sound.
Then, we noticed a signal for assistance thrown out from the solitary spar the Plover had yet standing; and the Lee and Haughty, which were anchored below the first barrier and busily engaged with the batteries on the left bank, at once weighed and proceeded to the admiral’s aid.
A few minutes later, Admiral Hope, though fainting from loss of blood, transferred his flag to the Opossum, which had not been so badly served out as the Plover; but, no sooner had the square white flag, with its red Saint George’s cross been seen flying on the second gunboat, than every gun in every battery was apparently directed on her, the admiral getting wounded a second time, while nearly every officer and man was shot down.
“By heavens, it’s too cruel!” cried Mr Stormcock, jumping up in the launch as the Opossum dropped down towards us on the ebb tide, away from the withering fire. “Can’t we do something to help them?”