"In the beginning of the battle the British had the advantage. Their guns were of longer range, and Perry was exposed to their fire half an hour before he got in position where he could do execution. When he had succeeded in this the British concentrated their fire on his flag-ship. Enveloped in flame and smoke, Perry strove desperately to maintain his ground till the rest of his ships could get into action. For more than two hours he sustained the unequal conflict without flinching. It was his first battle, and, moreover, he was enfeebled by a fever from which he had just risen; but he never lost his ease and confidence. When most of his men had fallen, when his ship lay an unmanageable wreck on the water, 'every brace and bowline shot away,' and all his guns were rendered ineffective, he still remained calm and unmoved.
"Eighteen men out of one hundred stood alive on his deck; many of those were wounded. Lieutenant. Yarnell, with a red handkerchief tied round his head and another round his neck to stanch the blood flowing from two wounds, stood bravely by his commander. But all seemed lost when, through the smoke, Perry saw the Niagara approaching uncrippled.
"'If a victory is to be won I will win it,' he said to the lieutenant. He tore down his flag with its glorious motto,—'Don't give up the ship,'—and leaping into a boat with half a dozen others, told the sailors to give way with a will. The Niagara was half a mile distant to the windward, and the enemy, as soon as they observed his movement, directed their fire upon his boat. Oars were splintered in the rowers' hands by musket-balls, and the men themselves covered with spray from the roundshot and grape that smote the water on every side. But they passed safely through the iron storm, and at last reached the deck of the Niagara, where they were welcomed with thundering cheers. Lieutenant Elliot of the Niagara, leaving his own ship, took command of the Somers, and brought up the smaller vessels of the fleet, which had as yet been little in the action. Perry ran up his signal for close action, and from vessel to vessel the answering signals went up in the sunlight and the cheers rang over the water. All together now bore down upon the enemy and, passing through his line, opened a raking crossfire. So close and terrible was that fire that the crew of the Lady Prevost ran below, leaving the wounded and stunned commander alone on the deck. Shrieks and groans rose from every side. In fifteen minutes from the time the signal was made Captain Barclay, the British commander, flung out the white flag. The firing then ceased; the smoke slowly cleared away, revealing the two fleets commingled, shattered, and torn, and the decks strewn with dead. The loss on each side was the same, one hundred and thirty-five killed and wounded. The combat had lasted about three hours. When Perry saw that victory was secure he wrote with a pencil on the back of an old letter, resting it on his navy cap, the despatch to General Harrison: 'We have met the enemy, and they are ours: two ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop.'
"It was a great victory," concluded the eloquent narrator. "The young conqueror did not sleep a wink that night. Until the morning light he was on the quarter-deck of the Lawrence, doing what he could to relieve his suffering comrades, while the stifled groans of the wounded men echoed from ship to ship. The next day the dead, both the British and the American, were buried in a wild and solitary spot on the shore. And there they sleep the sleep of the brave, with the sullen waves to sing their perpetual requiem."
We sat in silence a long time after; no one was disposed to speak. It came to us with power there on the moonlit lake, a realization of the hard-fought battle, the gallant bearing of the young commander, his daring passage in an open boat through the enemy's fire to the Niagara, the motto on his flag, the manner in which he carried his vessel alone through the enemy's line, and then closed in half pistol-shot, his laconic account of the victory to his superior officer, the ships stripped of their spars and canvas, the groans of the wounded, and the mournful spectacle of the burial on the lake shore.
Our next stopping-place was at Detroit, the metropolis of Michigan, on the river of the same name, the colony of the old Frenchman De la Mothe Cadillac, the colonial Pontchartrain, the scene of Pontiac's defeat and of Hull's treachery, cowardice, or incapacity, grandly seated on the green Michigan shore, overlooking the best harbor on the Great Lakes, and with a population of more than one hundred thousand. Two stormy days kept us within doors most of the time. The third day we were again "on board," steaming up Detroit River into Lake St. Clair. On and on we kept, till the green waters of Huron sparkled beneath the keel of our steamer. All the way over the lake we kept the shores of Michigan in sight, beaches of white sand alternating with others of limestone shingle, and the forests behind, a tangled growth of cedar, fir, and spruce in impenetrable swamps, or a scanty, scrubby growth upon a sandy soil. Two hours were spent at Thunder Bay, where the steamer stopped for a supply of wood, and we went steaming on toward Mackinaw, a hundred miles away. At sunset of that day the shores of the green rocky island dawned upon us. The steamer swept up to an excellent dock, as the sinking sun was pouring a stream of molten gold across the flood, out of the amber gates of the west.
"At last Mackinaw, great in history and story," announced the Historian leaning on the taffrail and gazing at the clear pebbly bottom and through forty feet of water.
"My history consists of a series of statues and tableaux—statues of the great men, tableaux of the great events," said Vincent. "Were there any such at Mackinaw?"
"Yes," answered Hugh, "two statues and one tableau—the former Marquette and Mae-che-ne-mock-qua, the latter the massacre at Fort Michilimakinack."