United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Fiction
The only person whose countenance showed no satisfaction was Mercer.
Pale as death, he stood at his post over his division of guns; but I saw
that he would rather have died a hundred deaths than engage in the work
he felt it was his duty to perform. From my heart I pitied him. There
was but little time, however, for thinking of that or any other matter.
On came the flotilla of boats. Not a shot had as yet disturbed the calm
tranquillity of the scene. A thin, gauze-like mist was spread over the
distant portions of the landscape. The hot sun struck down on our
heads; the blue expanse of water glittered in his bright rays, and the
sea-fowl skimmed over it, dipping their wings ever and anon, as if to
refresh them in the liquid element. Everything still wore an aspect of
perfect peace. The boats at last got within fifty yards of the ships.
A signal flew out from the mast-head of the Phoenix--the knell of many a
human being. It was the signal to engage.
"Fire away, my lads," was shouted along the decks. It was not necessary
to repeat the order. Never did a crew work their guns with more
alacrity. The shot rushed like a storm of gigantic hailstones among the
ill-fated Americans, tearing up their entrenchments and scattering the
earth and palisades far and wide. In a very short time the
fortifications in which they had trusted were blown to atoms; still we
fired on as fast as our guns could be loaded and run out. The enemy
answered us from various points; but with little effect. In a few short
moments, how changed was the scene from what it had lately been! Now
from point to point, and through every sheltered nook and bay resounded
the roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the shouts of the
combatants, the shrieks and groans and agonising cries of the wounded,
while above all hung a dark, funereal pall of smoke, ascending from the
scene of strife, shutting it out as it were from the bright blue
glorious firmament above, and, if it could be, from the all-searching
eye of the Creator of men who were thus disfiguring His image by their
furious passions, and dishonouring Him by the infraction of all the
precepts of that mild, that beneficent religion, which He in His
unsearchable love sent His only Son to teach them to obey.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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