There was a short hand-to-hand fight, and then, overpowered by numbers, Captain Tucker did the only thing he could do to save the remnant of his men—he surrendered.
Only thirty-eight of our crew were able to line up on the deck of the Hind and answer to our names as they were called from the ship’s roster; forty-five more of our men were alive but so severely wounded they were under the surgeon’s care, while forty-two had been slain.
The Englishmen had not passed through the struggle unscathed, however. More than one hundred of them had been killed or wounded, and it was clear from the deference shown us by Captain Young that the battle we had been able to put up with our small numbers had won his respect.
It seems to me now as I recall the fight that it was a singular circumstance that both Captain Tucker and myself should have come out of it unharmed. I know he was ever at the front of his men, and I am not conscious that I in any way attempted to shield myself, yet it remains a fact, unaccountable though it may be except on the belief that an overruling Providence protected us, we had not received the slightest injury.
Our brother officers had not fared so well. Lieutenant Barrows, saved only a half-hour before from a watery grave, was one of the first among us to be slain. Our third officer, and two of our five midshipmen had been wounded, and one of our midshipmen killed. There had been even greater havoc among our warrant officers, as all but four had given up their lives in defense of the flag they loved so well, and the four who survived were among the wounded.
Proud that his men had fought so well, yet grieved over the terrible loss among them, Captain Tucker asked, after our names had been taken, that we might be permitted to care for the injured—a request firmly though courteously refused.
“It would be a departure from our usual custom,” Sir William said, “but I promise you that they shall have the best care we can give them, the care that such brave men deserve.”
For ourselves, men and officers alike, we were sent to the brig, where we were closely guarded until the Hind could reach port in the Isle of St. Jean, now Prince Edward Island.
As I lay there in the darkness of the hold, I wondered over the fact that when I had responded to the name of Lieutenant Arthur Dunn, the officer calling the roll had manifested no surprise or seemed to attach no special significance to it. It was so different from the treatment I had been accustomed to receive when the name was given to the British officials, I could not help calling the attention of the Captain to the circumstance.
“It may be they think you are some other Dunn,” he suggested. “It is not an uncommon name, and the higher rank here, and reported death at Charleston may help to conceal your identity.”