Grape shot and canister were pouring through our portholes like leaden hail.

The large shot came against the ship's side, shaking her to the very keel, and passing through her timbers and scattering terrific splinters, which did more appalling work than the shot itself.

A constant stream of wounded men were being hurried to the cockpit from all quarters of the ship.

My feelings were pretty much as I suppose every one else felt at such a time.

That men are without thought when they stand among the dying and dead is too absurd an idea to be entertained.