The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.
Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter? If our colours are struck and the fighting done?
Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, “We have not struck,” he composedly cries, “we have just begun our part of the fighting.”
Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast, Two well served with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.
The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.
Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.
One of the pumps had been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.
Serene stands the little captain, He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.
Toward twelve, there in the beams of the moon, they surrender to us.’
Whitman.