When at last the British vessels opened on the wallowing Washington, Arnold turned away. I think he felt, as I did, a sort of sickness, as at the sight of a comrade hurried to his death by quick water in which no man can swim.

Not far from us was the sharp outline of Split Rock, cloven from the mainland as by a giant axe. Beyond it we saw the blue folds of bays and headlands that might, if we could reach them, provide a sanctuary.

“Run out those sweeps again,” Arnold shouted to Tom Bickford. He turned back to watch the Washington.

From the side of the Inflexible jutted a cloud of white smoke, through which darted the pale flashes of her guns. The Washington yawed; her foresail split and flapped. The stuttering roar of the broadside came down wind to us, a warning of what we ourselves must soon expect.

“It’s no use!” Arnold said. “Waterbury’s got to do the best he can. If we turn back to help him, we’ll never get the gundelos away. And he’s gone, anyhow! There’s nothing that can save him!”

As we passed Split Rock, the Inflexible drew closer to the Washington and gave her a broadside at close range—a broadside that heeled her over. Arnold shrugged his shoulders, a gesture of resignation. He knew what must happen next, and so did I. So did all of us. I was sorry for Hawley, but glad Nathaniel was aboard the Congress with me.

The Inflexible came about and passed into the wake of the laboring Washington. The two big schooners were on her flank, between her and the New York shore. If the Washington stayed as she was, the Inflexible’s larboard battery would pour its fire along her shattered decks. If she could contrive to turn her broadside to the Inflexible, she would be raked by the two schooners. Whatever she did, she was helpless.

The Inflexible was close under the Washington’s stern. The pounding of her guns, hurling destruction into that battered hulk, sounded like the hollow slamming of iron doors.

The Washington yawed again; her fore-yard broke at the mast, so that the sail hung in useless folds; her guns were silent.

We, watching this sad performance, were silent too. The four vessels behind us were fixed immovably in a welter of smoke. A mastodonic thudding came from them. Every eye was fastened on the striped flag that floated at the peak of the Washington’s tattered mainsail; and when it moved downward, a vague sound, a blend of resignation and relief, arose from our decks. The Washington had struck, and our turn had come.