ching
gunboats was suddenly enveloped in white smoke. He heard a screaming in
the air, coming nearer and nearer, and growing louder and louder and
more terrifying. He felt a cold chill creep over him. He held his
breath. He was in doubt whether it would be better to get behind a tree,
or lie down, or take to his heels. He could see nothing in the air, but
he knew that a shot was coming. Perhaps it might hit him. He thought of
home, his mother, Azalia, and all the old friends. He lived years in a
second. "I won't run," he said to himself, as the iron bolt came on.
Crash! it went through a great oak-tree, shivering it to splinters, and
flying on into the woods, cutting off branches, and falling to the
ground at last with a heavy _thug!_ ploughing a deep furrow and burying
itself out of sight. There was a roar of thunder rolling along the
river-banks, echoing from woodland to woodland. Then the heavy
eleven-inch gun of the Essex jumped up from the deck, took a leap
backwards, almost jerking the great iron ringbolts from the sides of the
ship, coming down with a jar which made her quiver from stem to stern,
sending a shell, smoking and hissing, down stream, towards the Rebel
gunboat, and striking it amidships, throwing the planks into the water.
"Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted the crew of the Essex. "Hurrah! Hurrah!"
answered the soldiers on shore, dancing about and cheering. Another shot
came screeching towards them as loud as the first; but it was not half
so terrifying. Paul thought it was not worth while to be frightened till
he was hurt, and so he stood his ground, and watched the firing till the
Rebel gunboats turned towards Columbus and disappeared behind the
distant headland, followed by Captain Porter, who kept his great guns
booming till he was almost within range of the Rebel batteries at
Columbus. He was a brave man, short and stout, with a heavy beard. His
father commanded the United States ship Essex in 1812, and had a long,
hard fight with two British ships in the harbor of Valparaiso, fighting
against great odds, till his decks were slippery with blood, till nearly
all of his guns were dismounted, when he was obliged to surrender.

"The son is a chip of the old block," said Admiral Foote the next day to
Captain Porter, commending his watchfulness and promptness to meet the
enemy. Paul saw how necessary it was in military operations to be always
on the watch, and he felt that it was also necessary to be calm and
se