39. CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE NAVAL BATTLE.
“God bless us!” said Mr. Langdon, upon beholding the
fire of the American ships of war illuminating the heavens,
the earth, and the water. A great crashing of timbers
followed, and was succeeded by a deafening detonation.
This was replied to by the British ships, and then the fire
became general, and without intermission; and, save the
partial obscurity, fitfully produced by the rolling volumes
of smoke, the whole scene, by reason of the streams of fire
belched forth, was painfully visible.
“Father!” said Edith, “it's the British with whom the
brave Commodore is contending. And he is defending our
soil, our homes, and liberties, assaulted by a foreign enemy.
God will bless us, as he has ever done when our cause was
just.”
“There goes another broadside from the old Vesuvius!”
said Lord Slysir, leaning forward with intense interest.
“And there falls the old Commodore's flag! And he would
have kept me on board with him.”
“Our flag is still there!” cried Alice. “It was shot
down, but the Commodore has replaced it.”
“Oh, merciful Parent!” said Mary, “save their lives and
put an end to this strife.”
“Nonsense, child!” said Slysir. “It is in this way the fate
of empires is determined. Diplomacy first—that is thought,
calculation; action next—that is demonstration, and then
follow the results. Regard it as merely a game of chess, and
those who fall, the pawns, knights, rooks, etc., removed.
The fruits of victory are reaped by many generations—as for
instance, that of Hastings; but those who win them, or
those who fall in the game, could not, under any circumstances,
survive their allotted three score and ten years.
Such is the importance of diplomacy—such the necessity of
thinking men devoting themselves to the affairs of the
world. By St. George! there goes the Persia! Down,
head foremost!”
This was true.
“They have recommenced the cannonade on the land,”
said Wiry Willy.
“Alas!” said Alice, “how can my father and his friends
return to this side of the river, while thus assailed on land
by the fanatics, and intercepted by a hostile fleet on the
water!”
“President Randolph is a great player,” said Lord Slysir:
“he is bold, and boldness is greatness both in war and
diplomacy. There is always danger of checkmate, playing
with such men.”
“Look!” exclaimed Edith.
One of the ships of the enemy had taken fire, and bright
flames were leaping from its hatches.
“That is the Combustible,” said his Lordship. “It is the
farthest off, too, and seems to be aground. Ah! your
infernal Commodore is firing red-hot shot, sure enough. I
thought he was not in earnest.”
“Not in earnest!” exclaimed Alice; “and when the hostile
fleet of England presumes to menace the Chief Magistrate
of this country! And that, too, in our own waters.
Brave and glorious Commodore! Long may the Star-Spangled
Banner wave triumphantly over your venerable
head!”
“The British are retiring,” said Edith, seeing the distance
widening between the fleets.
“No!” said Lord Slysir. “It is only a manœuvre. Admiral
Bang is brave; and besides, he is aware I am a witness
of his conduct. It must be those red-hot balls. He
could not suppose such barbarous missiles would be used
by a civilized and Christian nation.”
“And can any species of carnage be consistent with civilization
and Christianity?” asked Mary.
“All the great improvements in the art of war, as well
as in the other arts,” said his Lordship, “have kept pace
with the progress of civilization. As to the amicable effect
Christianity should produce upon the nations, it is true its
mission is alleged to be one of peace and love; but, it cannot
be denied, if history be credited, that more wars and
bloodshed have been produced by the disputes of religionists
than by any other causes.”
“And, my Lord,” said Mr. Langdon, “the very wars you
allude to were mostly the work of designing diplomacy.
But war is the history of man—peace is the dream of the
wise.”
“See!” exclaimed Edith, “there are two more ships on
fire! And one on our side.”
“Alas, it is true!” said Alice. “But the British flag
has been lowered, while the American Stars and Stripes are
still flying.”
“The fire has ceased on both,” said Willy, “and I can
see the small boats plying between them and the other
ships. They are saving the crews.”
This was true. And there seemed to be a diminution of
the work of destruction. Nevertheless, this flagging of the
strife was only of short duration. Some of the steamships
had drawn off to repair damaged machinery, and others to
turn, or to tow into better position the ships that had no
propelling power. These arrangements completed, the
battle was renewed with desperate resolution.
The Wabash continued to belch forth its red-hot balls;
and the Vesuvius, although a large number of the men were
constantly employed extinguishing the flames, that burst
forth in many places, fired broadside after broadside with
surprising rapidity. And, over all, and in the height of the
conflict, there arose a dark cloud in the sultry south, emitting
brilliant flashes from heaven, and stunning the earth
with its jarring thunders. Above and below, the slaughter
of man by man, and the war of the elements, presented a
spectacle that awed the beholders into silence. It seemed
as if the hour of doom, the era of universal destruction,
had arrived. Ship after ship either burst into flames, or
went down beneath the wreck-covered waters. The lightning
flashed, the thunder pealed, and the rain fell in fitful
showers.
And during this awful scene, two frightful calamities
occurred. The magazine of the Vesuvius became ignited
by a red-hot ball, and the ship was blown to atoms. Men,
and bombs, and cannon, were hurled a great distance in the
air, and were distinctly visible by the lightnings in the heavens.
One of the guns, it was afterwards asserted, exploded
in the clouds; and it was declared that human beings,
at the height of a thousand fathoms, gesticulated frantically.
This catastrophe put an end to the naval battle. A solitary
British ship, the Antelope, escaped. The rest were
either destroyed or captured.
