"Do you surrender?" asked one of the officers of the Merrimac.
"Never!" said Lieutenant Morris, who commanded the Cumberland. "I'll sink alongside before I pull down that flag."
He was a true Yankee seaman; one of the "no surrender" kind.
Down, inch by inch, settled the doomed ship. But her men stuck grimly to their guns, and fired their last shot just as she sank out of sight. Then all who had not saved themselves in the boats leaped overboard and swam ashore, but a great many of the dead and wounded went down with the ship.
She sank like a true Yankee hero, with her flag flying, and when she struck bottom, with only the tops of her masts above water, "Old Glory" still fluttered proudly in the breeze.
That was the way it went when iron first met wood in naval warfare. The victor now turned to the Congress and another fierce battle began. But the wooden ship had no chance. For an hour her men fought bravely, but her great guns were of no use, and a white flag was raised. She had surrendered, but the Confederates could not take possession, for there were batteries on shore that drove them off. So they fired hot shot into the Congress and soon she was in a blaze.
It was now five o'clock in the afternoon, and the Merrimac steamed away with the Confederate flag flying in triumph. She had finished her work for that day. It was a famous trial trip. She would come back the next and sink the vessels still afloat—if nothing hindered.
For hours that night the Congress blazed like a mighty torch, the flames lighting up the water and land for miles around. It was after midnight when the fire reached her magazine and she blew up with a terrific noise, scattering her timbers far and near. The men on the Merrimac looked proudly at the burning ship. It was a great triumph for them. But they saw one thing by her light they did not like so well. Off towards Fortress Monroe there lay in the water a strange-looking thing, which had not been there an hour before. What queer low ship was that? And where had it come from?
The sun rose on the morning of Sunday, March 9, and an hour later the Merrimac was again under way to finish her work. Not far from where the Congress had burnt lay the Minnesota. She had run aground and looked like an easy prey. But close beside her was the floating thing they had observed the night before, the queerest-looking craft that had ever been seen.
Everybody opened their eyes wide and stared as at a show when they saw this strange object. They called it "a cheese box on a raft," and that was a good name for its queer appearance. For the deck was nearly on a level with the water, and over its centre rose something like a round iron box. But it had two great guns sticking out of its tough sides.