The two English vessels, although they had chosen their own position, were in a short time so cut up by the deadly aim of the gunners of the Essex that they hauled off for repairs. The state of affairs having got wind, thousands of spectators assembled on the surrounding heights to witness the combat. Porter's situation was well nigh hopeless, but he was one of those few men whom desperate circumstances only stimulate to greater exertions. Fortune, as if envious of his long success, seemed determined to crush him. Yet he resolved that what adverse fate got out of him, should be on terms that would cover him with more glory than ordinary success could possibly do. Captain Hillyar having completed his repairs, again took his position where the Essex could not bring a gun to bear. Porter finding himself a mere target on the water, determined if possible to board the Phoebe. But his sheets and halyards had been so shot away that not a sail could be set, except the flying jib. Giving this to wind and cutting his cable, he drove slowly down on his foes, and when he got them within range of his carronades, opened a terrible fire. The cannonade on both sides was incessant and awful. The Essex on fire, almost a wreck, and swept by the broadsides of two vessels, still bore steadily down to close, but the Cherub hauled off, while the Phoebe, seeing the advantage she possessed with her long guns, when out of the reach of carronades, kept edging away. It was a painful spectacle to behold, that crippled, dismantled ship, bravely limping up to grapple with her powerful adversary, and that adversary as slowly moving off and pouring in the while a ceaseless, murderous fire. Hulled at almost every shot, her decks ripped up and strewed with the dead, her guns torn from their carriages and rendered useless, it was evident that noble frigate could not be fought much longer. Still Porter would not strike his flag, and he resolved to run his vessel ashore and blow her up. Her head was turned towards the beach, and he had got within musket-shot of it, when the wind suddenly veered and blew him back on the Phoebe and under her raking broadsides. Foiled in his first effort, he now for a moment hoped to get foul and board the enemy, but she kept away, raking the Essex as she retired. The scene on board the frigate at this time was horrible. The cock-pit was crowded with the wounded--men by the dozens were mowed down at every discharge--fifteen had successively fallen at one gun, and scarcely a quarter deck officer was left standing. Amid this scene of carnage and desolation, Porter moved with a knit brow and gloomy heart. As he looked at his crippled condition and slaughtered crew, he felt that he must submit, but when he turned his eye to the flag of his country, still fluttering at the mizen, he could not give the order to strike it. The sympathies of the thousands of spectators that covered the hill-top were with him--as they ever are with the brave.