Waterbury evening Democrat., 1903-03-13

SS%Sss%%a ironclad. Admiral Farragut
 saSsS called for Lieutenant Peyton to go aboard and receive the surren- der.
 "Sir,'. said Watson, to whom he had given the order, Lieutenant Peyton was struck by a splinter from the last shot of the Tennessee, and the sur geon fears he cannot live an hour"
 A few moments later black, pow der stained, dirty, soiled, gory figure clambered up the side of the Hartford with Admiral Buchanan's sword in his hand. As he gave it to Farragut, with the statement that the admiral was too badly wounded to come aboard himself and present his sword in per son, he hesitated moment and looked imploringly at him.
 What is your name, young sir?" asked the old man, struck by some look of resemblance in the others face, in his bearing, in spite of his appearance.
 "Peyton, sir-Willis Peyton, lieuten- ant on the Tennessee, sir. My-brother he is ton the Hartford, sir. Is-he- well7'
 My poor boy,'' said the admiral kindly, taking him by the hand, q am sorry to say
 ''Sir-sir, is he killed?"
 t'Grievously wounded, MT. Peyton; struck by a splinter from the last shot fired by your ship"
 My Godv' cried Willis, staggering back. "And fired that gun myselfv'
 A look of painful commiseration spread over the admiraPs rugged fea- lures. As Willis reeled back, throw ing his hands up to his head as he re- alized his part tn the awful tragedy, the old man put out his hand quickly and caught him.
 Brace up, my lad" he said. 'You are not responsible. Iris only the for tune of war.''
 May I've are your prisoners, sir, but
 "Go to him at once, sir. MT. Whiting, take MT. Peyton down below to see his brother"
 On a cot in the cockpit, in the dim recesses of the ship, his own state room having been crushed in and de- molished by the collision between the Hartford and the Lackawanna, lay Boyd Peyton. He had been struck over the head by heavy timber rip ped from it's fastenings by the explo- sion of the shell and had sustained a fracture of the skull and a severe con cussion of the brain. He lay perfectly still and motionless and as white as death save for the bloody bandages across his forehead. His faint breath ing alone told the watchers that he was alive. Except for that slow, feeble rise and fall of his bare breast he looked as one already dead.
 Willis was a soldier. He had been trained to conceal his emotions in the rough school of war. He had mans pride in such concealment; yet, as he stood there, a grimy, sooted, smoke stained figure, with the soil of the bat tie clinging to him, staring down at the white face of his brother, red crowned in his own blood, a deep groan broke from his lips. It had never been his brother before, but somebody else's- there was difference. The attend ants, the surgeons mates, drew back respectfully; the doctor from where he knelt by the cot looked up at him.
 "It's Peyton's brother" said Whiting briefly; from the Tennessee, you know"
 "Will he live? Is there any chance?' asked Willis hoarsely.
 The doctor stared up at him plying ly. An evasion trembled on his lips. He checked it.
 You are man, sir," he replied, shak- ing his head. 'I'll be honest with you There is only one chance in a thou sand, q million. That last shell did the business. Strange! For he actually passed the fort three times in a hell of fire; once and back again in the Meta comets boat, and then up in the Onei- da, and never got a scratch until that last shot.''
 T fired that shotv' burst from the lips of the man kneeling over his broth er. T was in command of the forward