He anchored to
the northward of the bay, so that any fleet coming down the lake
would have to beat up against the wind to reach him; so close to
land that any fleet trying to flank him would come within range
of the forts; and left only one apparent gap that a foe might try
to use, a gap in front of which was a dangerous sunken reef. This
was indeed a baited trap. Finally he put out cables, kedges,
anchors, and springs, so that with the capstan he could turn his
vessels and bring either side to bear on the foe.
All was ready, that morning of September the 11th as the British
fleet, ably handled, swung around the Cumberland Head.
The young commander of the Yankee fleet now kneeled bareheaded
with his crew and prayed to the God of Battles as only those
going into battle pray. The gallant foe came on, and who that
knows him doubts that he, too, raised his heart in reverent
prayer? The first broadside from the British broke open a chicken
coop on the Saratoga from which a game-cock flew, and, perching
on a gun, flapped his wings and crowed; so all the seamen cheered
at such a happy omen.
Then followed the fighting, with its bravery and its horrors --
its brutish wickedness broke loose.
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