The din was fearful. One ceased to think of the loss of life, because in that terrific uproar it seemed only natural men must die. The hue of blood which stained the white planking and the black bulwarks was no longer an ominous color, because that was needed to make the picture of war more perfect; and I believe every person on board the _Niagara_, save the commodore himself, lost, as I did, all thought of self in that pandemonium of destruction. Right and left came broadsides from double-shotted guns; here, there, and everywhere poured in musket-balls from sharpshooters, who, in their excitement, had ceased to take aim. Spars fell from aloft, or crashed on either side as our balls tore them from their fastenings on the enemy’s ships; there were shouts of anger, cries of pain, moans and imprecations, while over all could be heard the crackle of musketry and the roar of heavy guns that was like to burst one’s ear-drums. It was no longer war, but had become a fever of death, wherein each man strove to kill, and regarded not his own life. I would that some worthier hand could set down clearly the varied and rapidly-passing sensations which floated through my brain, for then might it be possible to describe to another what one experiences at such a time. As for myself, I no longer thought of country or of the enemy. There was simply an intense desire to kill; an eagerness to see blood flow--for the time being we were become as brutes. I know, because of having been told at a later day, that we passed straight through the British line; broke it, and, ranging ahead on the other side, rounded to, pouring great broadsides of hot iron into the _Detroit_ and the _Queen Charlotte_, which vessels had fouled each other and were lying at our mercy. I have since read the following description of what we did when I was no longer capable of seeing, or, seeing, was so overcome by feverish excitement as not to be conscious of that which lay fair before my eyes:[5]--