When we got back to the schooner, we found her lifting her anchors.
Several of the smaller craft were now ordered up the bay, to open on the
batteries nearer to the town. We were the third from the van, and we all
anchored within canister range. We heard a magazine blow up, as we stood
in, and this brought three cheers from us. We now had some sharp work with
the batteries, keeping up a steady fire. The schooner ahead of us had to
cut, and she shifted her berth outside of us. The leading schooner,
however, held on. In the midst of it all, we heard cheers down the line,
and presently we saw the commodore pulling in among us, in his gig. He
came on board us, and we greeted him with three cheers. While he was on
the quarter-deck, a hot shot struck the upper part of the after-port, cut
all the boarding-pikes adrift from the main-boom, and wounded a man named
Lemuel Bryant, who leaped from his quarters and fell at my feet. His
clothes were all on fire when he fell, and, after putting them out, the
commodore himself ordered me to pass him below. The old man spoke
encouragingly to us, and a little thing took place that drew his attention
to my crew. Two of the trucks of the gun we were fighting had been carried
away, and I determined to shift over its opposite. My crew were five
negroes, strapping fellows, and as strong as jackasses. The gun was called
the Black Joke.
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