“My brave lads,” he shouted, “shall we hoist it?”

Our “Ay, ay, sir!” could have been heard a mile away, and the flag rose, above tossing hats and howling voices, to the mainroyal masthead.

The wind came; we could hear the sails snap and stiffen as it overhauled the fleet behind us.  In a jiffy it bunted our own hull and canvas, and again we began to plough the water.  It grew into a smart breeze, and scattered the fleet of clouds that hovered over us.  The rain passed; sunlight sparkled on the rippling plane of water.  We could now see the enemy; he had hove to, and was waiting for us in a line.  A crowd was gathering on the high shores we had left to see the battle.  We were well in advance, crowding our canvas in a good breeze.  I could hear only the roaring furrows of water on each side of the prow.  Every man of us held his tongue, mentally trimming ship, as they say, for whatever might come.  Three men scuffed by, sanding the decks.  D’ri was leaning placidly over the big gun.  He looked off at the white line, squinted knowingly, and spat over the bulwarks.  Then he straightened up, tilting his hat to his right ear.

“They ‘re p’intin’ their guns,” said a swabber.

“Fust they know they’ll git spit on,” said D’ri, calmly.

Well, for two hours it was all creeping and talking under the breath, and here and there an oath as some nervous chap tightened the ropes of his resolution.  Then suddenly, as we swung about, a murmur went up and down the deck.  We could see with our naked eyes the men who were to give us battle.  Perry shouted sternly to some gunners who thought it high time to fire.  Then word came:  there would be no firing until we got close.  Little gusts of music came chasing over the water faint-footed to our decks—­a band playing “Rule Britannia.”  I was looking at a brig in the line of the enemy when a bolt of fire leaped out of her and thick belches of smoke rushed to her topsails.  Then something hit the sea near by a great hissing slap, and we turned quickly to see chunks of the shattered lake surface fly up in nets of spray and fall roaring on our deck.  We were all drenched there at the bow gun.  I remember some of those water-drops had the sting of hard-flung pebbles, but we only bent our heads, waiting eagerly for the word to fire.

“We was th’ ones ’at got spit on,” said a gunner, looking at D’ri.

“Wish they’d let us holler back,” said the latter, placidly.  “Sick o’ holdin’ in.”

We kept fanning down upon the enemy, now little more than a mile away, signalling the fleet to follow.

“My God! see there!” a gunner shouted.

The British line had turned into a reeling, whirling ridge of smoke lifting over spurts of flame at the bottom.  We knew what was coming.  Untried in the perils of shot and shell, some of my gunners stooped to cover under the bulwarks.

“Pull ’em out o’ there,” I called, turning to D’ri, who stood beside me.