Scarcely was the order given, when our little frigate quivered from the recoil, and we were enveloped in smoke; but I could hear the crash of our shot on the sides and rigging of the Frenchman, which did not return the fire for a minute or two.
"Well done," shouted the captain. "Another of the same."
And by the time the Frenchman fired his first volley, we were ready. The salute was simultaneous and fearful. The enemy did awful execution: five of our gun-ports were torn into one, and several of our men killed and wounded. I have little recollection of what followed for some time—the smoke was too dense for observation, and my exertions in working our gun were too unremitting to allow of extraneous attentions. At length the shot in the locker being expended, I called for more; and, on looking round, saw my companion, James, lying extended behind the gun, bleeding. There was not one moment to spare—the balls were supplied as quick as called for—and, at the sight of my wounded friend, my dogged resolution was roused to revenge. I urged those who were still able for duty to redouble their fire.
"Well done, Elder!" said the captain; "you are a noble fellow."
At this moment, a small splinter struck my hand, as I withdrew the rammer, and almost divided my forefinger and thumb. I plucked it out—the blood poured—but I felt less pain from that source than from my mouth, which was so dry and parched, that I would have given worlds for a drop of water.
"For God's sake," I cried, "bring me a mouthful of water, for I will not leave my gun."
You may smile at my folly, for who was there to serve me? Yet, patience—the captain, who kept the quarterdeck, as cool as if we had been lying at anchor; nay, cooler, for he was then always finding fault, or in a passion—heard me, and taking a lime from his pocket, cut it in two, and put one-half into my mouth, as I was ramming home the charge.
"Here, my lad," said he, "you deserve it, were it a diamond;" and put the other half into my cut hand. The sting of the pain almost made me cry out. He smiled, and said it would cure it; then remarked to the first lieutenant, who had just come up to him, "I have often heard that the Scots fight best when they are hungry, or see their own blood; there is an instance; look at Elder's hand, and see how he works at his gun."
At this moment I heard a crash—it was our foremast nearly gone by the board.
"These Frenchmen fire well," he said, with the greatest coolness.