Then a cry came floating down from aloft. Thrice did I hear it, like one
waking out of a sleep, ere I grasped its import. "The Alliance! The
Alliance!" But hardly had the name resounded with joy throughout the
ship, when a hail of grape and canister tore through our sails from aft
forward. "She rakes us! She rakes us!" And the French soldiers tumbled
headlong down from the poop with a wail of "Les Anglais font prise!"
"Her Englishmen have taken her, and turned her guns against us!" Our
captain was left standing alone beside the staff where the stars and
stripes waved black in the moonlight.

"The Alliance is hauling off, sir!" called the midshipman of the
mizzen-top. "She is making for the Pallas and the Countess of
Scarborough."

"Very good, sir," was all the commodore said.

To us hearkening for his answer his voice betrayed no sign of dismay.
Seven times, I say, was that battle lost, and seven times regained again.
What was it kept the crews at their quarters and the officers at their
posts through that hell of flame and shot, when a madman could scarce
have hoped for victory? What but the knowledge that somewhere in the
swirl above us was still that unswerving and indomitable man who swept
all obstacles from before him, and into whose mind the thought of defeat
could not enter. His spirit held us to our task, for flesh and blood
might not have endured alone.

We had now but one of our starboard nine-pounders on its carriage, and
word came from below that our battery of twelves was all but knocked to
scrap iron, and their ports blown into one yawning gap. Indeed, we did