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Craven

(Mobile Bay, 1864)

Over the turret, shut in his iron-clad tower,Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame;Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour,Now was the time for a charge to end the game.
There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim,A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign;There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swimThe flag was flying, and he was head of the line.
The fleet behind was jamming; the monitor hungBeating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed.Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung;Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed.
Into the narrowing channel, between the shoreAnd the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank;She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar,A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.

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