This command was obeyed, and its results were frightfully fatal to the British and their ships. In the battle the Bristol, Sir Peter’s flag-ship, lost forty killed and wounded; Sir Peter himself lost one of his arms; the Experiment, another fifty gun vessel, lost about twice as many. The fire of the fort was directed mainly at the heavy craft. Tom Deering, as he toiled with rammer and sponge at one of the French twenty-six pounders, of which Marion had charge, heard that little officer constantly call to his brother gunners: “Look to the Commodore--look to the heavy ships; they can do us most damage!” In the heat of the action the Acteon, one of the smaller of the enemy’s ships, being hard pressed by the Defence and Tartar, ran aground and immediately took fire. At this point the British Commodore would have been forced to strike his colors, or be destroyed, but suddenly the powder ran out and the fire of the fort slackened and finally ceased altogether. Struck with astonishment at this the British also ceased their fire, thinking the fort had been abandoned. “We must secure ammunition,” cried Colonel Moultrie, his face ashen. Here was victory all but in his grasp, and to have to give it up would be almost fatal in its effect upon his men. “The schooner Defence has a large supply,” said Marion, to his commander, as he wiped the black powder stains from his face. “But she is nowhere in sight,” said Moultrie, sweeping the harbor with his glass. Tom stepped forward, his hand at the salute. “Well,” demanded the colonel. “I saw the Defence chased into Stone Gap Creek awhile ago,” stated the lad eagerly. “She is safe, though, for see,” and he pointed shoreward, “there are her topmasts above the trees.” “Good,” exclaimed Marion, his face lighting up. “But how can we reach her? The enemy’s vessels will not allow her to come out,” said the colonel. “We can go to her,” ventured Tom, hesitatingly, for it seemed presumptuous for him to offer a suggestion to his commander. “The Tartar is lying under the guns of the fort. We could reach the Defence in her. The British could not follow us up the creek; they draw too much water.” The ammunition that remained on board the Tartar, save a few rounds, Tom’s father gladly gave up to Colonel Moultrie, and a few guns resumed service from the fort, but firing slowly. Under mainsail and jib the gallant little sloop then stood out, in the teeth of the British, heading for the creek where the Defence was lying. Major Marion, Tom Deering and Cole stood upon her deck, watching a brig-of-war which had just started to head them off. “She’s a fast sailer,” said Mr. Deering, a shade passing over his face, after he had watched the quality of their pursuer for a few moments. “Do you think she can overhaul us?” asked Major Marion.