shore of Manhattan Island.

The scene was one of great beauty. The rays of the bright luminary fell
on the wood-crowned heights of Harlem on one side, and of Morrissania on
the other side of the creek, throwing the promontories into bold relief,
and the bays and inlets, with which the coast is indented, into deeper
shade, while rich fields, and meadows and orchards, as they basked in
the soft morning light, gave the whole landscape an appearance of
calmness and peace, soon to be broken by the rude realities of fierce,
unrelenting warfare.

As soon as we weighed anchor the troops of the enemy, who had been
watching us under arms since dawn, began to march along the shore close
to us, regardless of the danger they ran of destruction, for had we
opened our broadsides, we might have played sad havoc among them. They
were not quite so fantastically dressed as my friends at Cape Henlopen,
but still there was a very great variety of costume, and a lamentable
want of discipline among them. If the front rank did not advance fast
enough, the rear would give them a shove or a kick to urge them on, all
the time making significant and not very complimentary signs to us to
come on shore and fight them, while they tried to express their supreme
contempt for us by every means in their power, shouting out taunting
words, and abusing us in no measured terms.

Our men had two days before stood the battering we got with comparative
calmness, but the taunts and signs of the foe now enraged them beyond
all endurance.

"Wait a bit, my lads, and then won't we give it you!" sung out Dick
Trunnion, a sturdy topman, and many similar expressions were uttered by
others.

"Oh, Muster Hurry, don't yer think the captain would let us go ashore,
and give them chaps the drubbing they deserves?" asked Tom Rockets as I
passed, doubling his fists while he spoke. "I'd like to give them a
hiding."

"Never mind them, lads," said old Grampus, turning his back to the
shore, and looking over his shoulder at the foe with a glance of supreme
contempt. "They knows no better; and fancies because we don't hit we
can't. Poor fellows! I pities them, that I do. They bees little
better than savinges, only they wants the paint and feathers."

I felt very much as Nol said he did; but I suspect that his anger was
rather more excited than he chose to confess. The truth was that these
were mostly raw militia regiments, who had seen little or nothing of
warf