The last shell, the last cartridge was shoved into the breech, one more shot was aimed at the enemy from the heated barrels, and then all was still except for the crash of the hostile projectiles, the crackling of the flames and the howling of the wind. The other side, too, gradually ceased firing. With the _Satsuma_ and the _Aki_ in the van and the four other ships following, the enemy's squadron advanced, enveloped in a thin veil of smoke. High up in the stern of the _Connecticut_ and at her mastheads waved the tattered Stars and Stripes. The few gunners, who had served the guns to the end, crept out of the turrets and worked their way up over broken steps. There were fifty-seven of them, all that remained of the proud squadron. Three cheers for their country came from the parched throats of these last heroes of the _Connecticut_. "Three cheers for the United States!" Admiral Perry drew his sword, and "Hurrah" it rang once more across the water to the ships sailing under the flag which bore the device of a crimson Rising Sun on a white field. There memories of the old days of the Samurai knighthood were aroused, and a signal appeared on the rear top mast of the _Satsuma_, whereupon all six battleships lowered their flags as a last tribute to a brave enemy. Then the _Connecticut_ listed heavily to starboard, and the next wave could not raise the heavy ship, bleeding from a thousand wounds. It sank and sank, and while Admiral Perry held fast to a bit of railing and waited with moist eyes for the end, the words of the old "Star-Spangled Banner," which had been heard more than once in times of storm and peril, rang out from the deck of the _Connecticut_. Then, with her flag waving to the last, the admiral's flag-ship sank slowly beneath the waves, leaving a bloody glow behind her. That was the end. _Chapter XI_ CAPTAIN WINSTANLEY Captain Winstanley slowly opened his eyes and stared at the low ceiling of his cabin on the white oil-paint of which the sunbeams, entering through the porthole, were painting numerous circles and quivering reflections. Slowly he began to collect his thoughts. Could it have been a dream or the raving of delirium? He tried to raise himself on his narrow bed, but fell back as he felt a sharp pain. There was no mistake about the pain--that was certainly real. What on earth had happened? He asked himself this question again and again as he watched the thousands of circles and quivering lines drawn by the light on the ceiling. Winstanley stared about him and suddenly started violently. Then it was all real, a terrible reality? Yes, for there sat his friend Longstreet of the _Nebraska_ with his back against the wall of the cabin, in a dripping wet uniform, fast asleep. "Longstreet!" he called. His friend awoke and stared at him in astonishment. "Longstreet, did it all really happen, or have I been dreaming?" No answer. "Longstreet," he began again more urgently, "tell me, is it all over, can it be true?"