As for ourselves, we had suffered little. One of our guns was dismounted, but it was a Quaker, and no harm was done. The fire dying, the clouds of smoke began to float away and the ships were disclosed. Whitestone and I, peeping over our earthworks, beheld a scene of great animation and excitement. The British were working hard; there was no doubt of it. The bustle on the decks was tremendous. Officers were shouting to men and to each other; men were reloading cannon and making every preparation to renew the bombardment when their officers might order it. One frigate had come too near, and was grounded slightly in shallowing water. Her crew were making gigantic efforts to get her off before our terrible battery could blow her to pieces. The captains were using their glasses to see what was left of us, and I could guess their chagrin when they beheld us looking as formidable and as whole as ever, barring the dismounted Quaker. Our escape from injury was not so wonderful after all. We defenders were only two, and we made a very small target; while if the battery had been crowded with men the death rate would have been prodigious. “There goes the frigate!” I cried. “They’ve got her off! Give her a good-by as she goes, Whitestone!” He was lying next to the fourth gun, and he instantly sent a shot smashing into the vessel. But the shot was like a veritable torch to a powder magazine, for the fleet attacked us again with every gun it could bring to bear. The first bombardment seemed to have aroused fresh spirit and energy for the second, and Whitestone and I, taking no chances with peeps, thrust our fingers into our ears and our heads into the ground. But we could not keep out the heavy crash-crash of the volleys, blending now and then into a continuous roar, which the river and the horizon took up and repeated. King George must have had a pretty powder-and-shot bill to pay for that day’s work. The clouds of smoke gathered in a vast black canopy over river and ships, shore and battery. Under and through it appeared now and then the dark lines of spars and ropes, and always the blazing flash of many great guns. If the stony shores of the Hudson did not suffer most grievously, let it not be charged against the British, for they displayed a spirit and energy, if not a marksmanship, worthy of their reputation. I rejoiced at the vigor of their fire. Its volume was so great, and they must be working so hard, that they could not know the battery was making no answer. By and by the cannoneers waxed weary of loading and firing, and the officers of giving orders. The crash of the great guns became more infrequent. The flash of the powder bore less resemblance to continuous lightning. The smoke began to drift away. Then the defenders of the battery rose up in their courage and strength, reloaded their guns, and opened fire on the fleet.