The _Dartmouth_ was already within range, but she held on her way gallantly, never answering the fire that was poured upon her. Again and again the guns of the fort flashed out, and the frigate´s canvas was torn by the shot, but her spars remained untouched. Still Leake held on steadily, his guns still silent and his men sheltering themselves as best they could behind the bulwarks. Only when he came within close range so that every shot might tell, his guns spoke for the first time. Again and again the living sheet of flame leapt from the open ports, and the great shot went crashing into the fort. As the fire of the enemy slackened perceptibly the seamen set up a great cheer, which was caught up by the men of the _Mountjoy_ that had now come nearly alongside and was holding its way up the river. Lying abreast of the fort and within musket shot the crew of the frigate plied the fort with cannon and with small arms, while the _Mountjoy_, followed by the _Phoenix_, came drifting slowly up channel past the castle and safely out of range of its guns. Then the _Dartmouth_, her work being done, was moored in the bend of the river above Culmore, while the merchant ships went slowly up the narrow and winding channel, and the men in the _Swallow´s_ long boat kept them company and bent to their oars with a will. The great guns in the earthen forts along the river gave them welcome as they came, and the musket balls went singing by their ears. It was a sight to see Douglas at the tiller, with a broad smile on his face and the dancing light of battle in his eyes. Once or twice he laughed aloud as some of the smaller spars came tumbling to the deck. And now in the pauses of the great guns and above the rattle of the muskets, they could hear in the summer air the shouts of the citizens from the walls--shouts of triumph and delight. On that scene the chroniclers have dwelt with some pride and much pathos. Every man who could drag himself to the wall was gathered there that summer day. Gaunt and hollow-eyed; so hunger-stricken that they could scarcely stand, wasted by fever and by wounds, they took up the joyous shout of triumph. Stout soldiers gave way to tears upon the necks of their comrades. Their anguish and despair were swallowed up in the hope of present deliverance. Here and there little groups were kneeling as in prayer for the safety of those who were bringing them succour, and never was prayer more earnest offered to the God of battles.