"As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
The British vessels were a brig and a sloop-of-war. They wanted to fight as badly as did Captain Barry, and, as they could not sail, they got out sweeps and rowed up to the American frigate. It was weary work, and it took them six hours to do it.
Then came the hails of the captains and the roar of cannon, and soon there was a very pretty fight, with the Alliance in a dangerous situation. She was too heavy to be moved with sweeps, like the light British vessels, so they got on her quarters and poured in broadsides, while she could reply only with a few guns.
Barry raged like a wild bull, bidding his men fight, and begging for a wind. As he did so, a grape-shot struck him in the shoulder and felled him to the deck. As he was carried below, a shot carried away the American flag. A lusty cheer came from the British ships; they thought the flag down and the victory theirs. They soon saw it flying again.
But the Alliance was in sore straits. She was getting far more than she could give, and had done little harm to her foes. At length a lieutenant came down to the wounded captain.
"We cannot handle the ship and are being cut to pieces," he said. "The rigging is in tatters and the fore-topmast in danger, and the carpenter reports two serious leaks. Eight or ten of our people are killed and more wounded. The case seems hopeless, sir; shall we strike the colors?"
"No!" roared Barry, sitting bolt upright. "Not on your life! If the ship can't be fought without me, then carry me on deck."
The lieutenant went up and reported, and the story soon got to the men.
"Good for Captain Barry," they shouted. "We'll stand by the old man."
A minute later a change came. A ripple of water was seen. Soon a breeze rose, the sails filled out, and the Alliance slipped forward and yielded to her helm.