dripping with cheers again, we who were wounded there on the deck of the Lawrence.  Lieutenant Yarnell ordered her one flag down.  As it sank fluttering, we groaned.  Our dismay went quickly from man to man.  Presently we could hear the cries of the wounded there below.  A man came staggering out of the cockpit, and fell to his hands and knees, creeping toward us and protesting fiercely, the blood dripping from his mouth between curses.

“Another shot would sink her,” Yarnell shouted.

“Let ’er sink, d—­n ‘er,” said D’ri.  “Wish t’ God I c’u’d put my foot through ‘er bottom.  When the flag goes down I wan’t’ go tew.”

The British turned their guns; we were no longer in the smoky paths of thundering canister.  The Niagara was now under fire.  We could see the dogs of war rushing at her in leashes of flame and smoke.  Our little gun-boats, urged by oar and sweep, were hastening to the battle front.  We could see their men, waist-high above bulwarks, firing as they came.  The Detroit and the Queen Charlotte, two heavy brigs of the British line, had run afoul of each other.  The Niagara, signalling for close action, bore down upon them.  Crossing the bow of one ship and the stern of the other, she raked them with broadsides.  We saw braces fly and masts fall in the volley.  The Niagara sheered off, pouring shoals of metal on a British schooner, stripping her bare.  Our little boats had come up, and were boring into the brigs.  In a brief time—­it was then near three o’clock—­a white flag, at the end of a boarding-pike, fluttered over a British deck.  D’ri, who had been sitting awhile, was now up and cheering as he waved his crownless hat.  He had lent his flag, and, in the flurry, some one dropped it overboard.  D’ri saw it fall, and before we could stop him he had leaped into the sea.  I hastened to his help, tossing a rope’s end as he came up, swimming with one arm, the flag in his teeth.  I towed him to the landing-stair and helped him over.  Leaning on my shoulder, he shook out the tattered flag, its white laced with his own blood.

“Ready t’ jump in hell fer thet ol’ rag any day,” said he, as we all cheered him.

Each grabbed a tatter of the good flag, pressing hard upon D’ri, and put it to his lips and kissed it proudly.  Then we marched up and down, D’ri waving it above us—­a bloody squad as ever walked, shouting loudly.  D’ri had begun to weaken with loss of blood, so I coaxed him to go below with me.

The battle was over; a Yankee band was playing near by.

“Perry is coming!  Perry is coming!” we heard them shouting above.

A feeble cry that had in it pride and joy and inextinguishable devotion passed many a fevered lip in the cockpit.

There were those near who had won a better peace, and they lay as a man that listens to what were now the merest vanity.

Perry came, when the sun was low, with a number of British officers, and received their surrender on his own bloody deck.  I remember, as they stood by the ruined bulwarks and looked down upon tokens of wreck and slaughter, a dog began howling dismally in the cockpit.