ir own boat, the _Minden_, as
near the scene of action as possible, with due regard for their
physical safety, in order that they might suffer the mortification of
seeing their flag go down. Two hours had been assigned, in the British
mind, for the accomplishment of that beneficent result, after which
"terms for Baltimore" might be considered.

For three days Key and his companions watched the landing of nine
thousand soldiers and marines at North Point, preparatory to the
attack on the fort, which was defended by a small force of raw
militia, partly composed of the men who had been so easily defeated at
Bladensburg. They were under command of Colonel George Armistead, who
faced a court-martial if he should not win, for the Washington
administration had peremptorily ordered him to surrender the fort.

Through the long hours of the 13th Key paced the deck of his boat,
watching the battle with straining eyes and a heart that thrilled and
leaped and sank with every thunder of gun and flash of shell. The day
was calm and still, with no wind to lift the flag that drooped around
its staff over Fort McHenry. At eventide a breeze unfurled its folds,
and as it floated out a shell struck it and tore out one of its
fifteen stars.

Night fell. His companions went below to seek rest in such unquiet
slumbers as might visit them, but there was no sleep in the heart of
Key. Not until the mighty question which filled the night sky with
thunder and flame and surged in whelming billows through his own soul
found its answer in the court of Eternal Destiny could rest come to
the man who watched through the long hours of darkness, waiting for
dawn to bring triumph or despair.

Silence came--the silence that meant victory and defeat. Whose was the
victory? The night gave no answer, and the lonely man still paced up
and down the deck of the _Minden_. Then day dawned in a glory in the
east, and a glory in the heart of the anxious watcher. In that first
thrill of joy and triumph our majestic anthem was formed.

Key took from his pocket an old letter, and on its blank page
pencilled the opening lines of the song. In the boat which took him
back to Baltimore he finished the poem, and in his hotel made a copy
for the press. The next day the lines were put into type by Samuel
Sands, an apprentice in the office of the _Baltimore American_, who
had been deserted in the general rush to see the battle as being too
young to be trusted at the front,