Did the courage and hope of the brave American falter at this? Not at all. Spreading that one little triangle of canvas by halyard and sheet to the wind, he loosed the square sails, and with their unrestrained and ragged breadths flapping from the yards, the _Essex_ wore around, and while the shot of the enemy filled the air above her deck with splinters, she bore down upon them until her short guns began to reach them, and the _Cherub_ was driven out of range altogether, while Hillyar made haste to obey his orders about taking as little risk as possible--made haste to spread his canvas and sail away to a point where he would be clear of the deadly aim of the Yankee gunners. The _Phœbe_ “was enabled by the better condition of her sails to choose her own distance, suitable for her long guns, and kept up a most destructive fire on our helpless ship.” So says Farragut. [Illustration: Fight of the _Essex_ with the _Phœbe_ and _Cherub_. _From an engraving by Strickland of a drawing by Captain Porter._] But fearful as was the scene on the doomed _Essex_, the story of the deeds of her heroic crew stir the blood as few other stories of battle can do. “Dying men who had hardly ever attracted notice among the ship’s company, uttered sentiments worthy of a Washington. You might have heard in all directions: ‘Don’t give her up, Logan’--a sobriquet for Porter--‘Hurrah for Liberty!’ and similar expressions.” A man named Bissley, a young Scotchman by birth, on losing a leg, said: “I hope I have this day proved myself worthy of the country of my adoption. I am no longer of any use to you or to her, so good-by!” And with that he plunged through a port. And John Ripley, who had suffered in like fashion, also went overboard deliberately. John Alvinson, having been struck by an eighteen-pound shot, cried: “Never mind, shipmates; I die in defence of free trade and sailors’ ri----” and so his spirit fled while the last word quivered on his lips. William Call lost his leg and was carried down to the berth-deck. As he lay there weltering in his blood awaiting his turn with the doctor, he saw Quarter-Gunner Roach--he who had so bravely headed the boarders--skulking, and “dragged his shattered stump all around the bag-house, pistol in hand, trying to get a shot at him.” And there was Lieutenant J. G. Cowell. He had his leg shot off just above the knee and was carried below. The surgeon on seeing him at once left a common sailor to attend to him, but Cowell said: “No, doctor, none of that; fair play is a jewel. One man’s life is as dear as another’s; I would not cheat any poor fellow out of his turn.” And so he bled to death before his turn came. In the record kept by young Farragut we have a wonderful story of a battle as seen by a lad of twelve. “I performed the duties of captain’s aid, quarter-gunner, powder-boy, and in fact did everything that was required of me,” he wrote.