But no such despair was felt in any other American ship. On the others the crews, with dancing muscles, sprang to make sail or knelt with clear eyes to look through the sights of the guns they were aiming anew at the British ships. Putting up his helm, Perry squared away and drove his ship through the British squadron, now bunched so that he had the _Lady Prevost_ and the _Chippewa_ on the left and the _Detroit_, the _Queen Charlotte_, and the _Hunter_ on his right, and all of them but a few yards away as he passed. Into these he fired broadsides, double-shotted, as each came in bearing of the guns. The crew of the _Lady Prevost_ fled below, leaving only their captain, Lieutenant Buchan, standing on the quarter-deck, leaning his wounded face on his hands, and staring with insane eyes upon the scene. The effect of the fire on the others was but little less disastrous. The _Detroit_ and the _Queen Charlotte_, in trying to swing around to meet the Yankee, fouled each other, and Perry, ranging ahead, rounded to and raked them both. Every other American ship had by this time closed in, and, like a fighter who gets his second wind, they were pounding the enemy. It was more than flesh and blood--even the flesh and blood of an Anglo-Saxon--could stand, and eight minutes after Perry had dashed through the British line a man appeared at the rail of the British flagship, and waved a white handkerchief tied to a boarding-pike in token of surrender. That was on September 10, 1813. Until another war came, the people of Northwestern Ohio gathered in groups of hundreds and thousands every year, on the 10th of September, on the islands of Put-in Bay and wherever lakeside groves were found. They came dressed in holiday attire. They brought baskets full of the best provisions that a bountiful region afforded. They erected long tables in the shade and spread their good things thereon. They built an elevated platform fit for speakers, and those who had voices to sing stood up on the platform around one sweet-faced girl dressed as Columbia, and sang the old songs of Perry’s victory--sang songs that told how He pulled off his coat And he plugged up the boat And away he went sailing through fire and smoke. Sang As lifts the smoke what tongue can fitly tell The transports which those manly bosoms swell, When Britain’s ensign down the reeling mast Sinks to proclaim the desperate struggle past! Electric cheers along the shattered fleet, With rapturous hail, her youthful hero greet; Meek in his triumph, as in danger calm. With reverent hands he takes the victor’s palm; His wreath of conquest on Faith’s altar lays, To his brave comrades yields the meed of praise. [Illustration: “We have met the Enemy and they are Ours.” _From the “Naval Monument.”_]