… The next two hours were horrible hours of smoke, groans and thunderous frenzy: of panting, tugging and cursing: of guns that leaped, guns that roared until our eardrums seemed to be wooden plugs wedged into our heads and calked in place with masses of greasy wool, of shot that screamed over and between us, splintered bulwarks and gun-carriages, crushed men into broken wrecks that we stuffed through the nearest gun-port.

Our progress was like that of a wounded dog, bleeding and dizzy, struck and roared at by three bears, yet still able to keep beyond the full sweep of their claws: able, even, to snap desperately at his tormentors.

The three British vessels, now agonizingly near, poured in their broadsides at point-blank range; and we, working both our larboard and our starboard batteries, and our swivels as well, did what we could to hold them off.

Every last man worked on the guns; for a third of our crew was gone: either dead in the waters of the lake, or shot-riddled in the cabin, Doc Means at grisly work upon them. Such was our plight that Arnold wouldn’t leave the tiller, but clung to it like a chained animal.

Steven Nason had charge of a gun on one side of me, Nathaniel on the other. They were dreadful to see, because of the glassy, drunken look that filled their bloodshot eyes. The vessels on which we laid our guns seemed wavering mirages, thanks to our three foodless, sleepless days.

What I couldn’t understand was how any of us could escape the hail of grape and ball that hurtled around us; and what surprised me most was that I had no longing to escape it, but only a weary eagerness to have the end come soon.

I think the British vessels planned to close with us and board us. They seemed to swell abruptly, though at the moment I thought this strange enlargement was one of the tricks my eyes had played me for an hour past. The blasts from their guns hit harder; there was a crackling in the air like the snapping of whiplashes; men went down, along the deck, as though invisible hands had caught them by the ankles and tripped them. Some went down hard: others staggered drunkenly, then sprawled grotesquely underfoot.

Beside me Nathaniel clutched nothingness and stood swaying, his hands groping and groping. When I caught his arm, he went down like a felled tree, dragging me with him.

I fumbled at his chest, but there seemed to be no blood on him. The sponger from my gun-crew pulled at my shoulder. I got up and laid the gun on the Inflexible. She seemed to have a thousand sails, each with a thousand shot-holes in it. The gunner fired the gun.

I licked caked powder from my lips and wondered desperately what to do about Nathaniel.