Master-at-arms John Burbank looks over the _Richard_‘s side, and makes
a discovery. The ship has settled three feet below its trim. Thereupon
he loses his head, which was never a strong head, but somewhat thick,
and addled:
“The ship is sinking!” he shouts; then, being a humanitarian, he tears
off the orlop-hatch, and calls to the two hundred prisoners shut up
below to save themselves.
At the invitation of Humanitarian Burbank, the prisoners rush up. Fifty
of them have gained the deck when Commodore Paul Jones perceives them.
Pulling a pistol from his belt, he charges forward.
“Who released these prisoners?” he demands.
“The ship is sinking, sir,” replies Humanitarian Burbank. “I released
them to give them a chance for their lives.”
Eye ablaze, Commodore Paul Jones snaps his pistol in the face of
Humanitarian Burbank. Fortunately for that philanthropist, the priming
has been shaken out; while the flint throws off a shower of sparks, the
pistol does not explode. Upon its failure to fire. Commodore Paul Jones
clubs the heavy weapon, and fells Humanitarian Burbank to the deck. The
latter comes to presently, to find himself disrated on the ship’s books,
and his addled pate more addled than before. As Humanitarian Burbank
falls to the deck, Commodore Paul Jones makes a dash for the prisoners,
who, two abreast, are pushing up from the deck below.
“Under hatches with them!” he cries.
This rouses Midshipman Potter, who brings up a half dozen cutlass
men, and those of the prisoners not yet on deck are held below. The
orlop-hatch is again fitted to its place, and Commodore Paul Jones
breathes freer. Two hundred prisoners loose about his decks is not what
he most desires.
“Set them to the pumps, Dick,” he says, addressing Lieutenant Dale.
“Give them plenty of work.” Then, to the fifty prisoners who gained
the deck: “Now, my men, to the pumps, all of you! I’ll have no idlers
about!”
The prisoners go to the pumps readily enough--all save a stubborn
merchant captain, whose ship was captured by the _Richard_ off the port
of Leith.
“Don’t ye go a-nigh the pumps, mates!” sings out the stubborn one. “Let
the damned Yankee pirate sink!”
“Obey the Commodore, sare!” pipes up little Pierre Gerard, presenting
a pistol at the head of the mutineer. “Obey the Commodore, or I shoot,
sare!”
The stubborn Scotch captain does not understand little Pierre’s broken
English, but the pistol is easily construed. For reply, he makes a quick
grab at the weapon. Little Pierre, not to be caught napping, shoots
him promptly through the head. As the stubborn one drops lifeless,
the little Breton wheels on Commodore Paul Jones, lays his hand on his
heart, and makes an apologetic bow.
“I shoot heem, sare, to relieve you of a disagreeable duty,” says little
Pierre.
The other prisoners are not unimpressed by the fate of the stubborn one,
and set to work briskly, if not cheerfully, at the clanking pumps.
As Commodore Paul Jones reaches the quarterdeck, following the incident
wherein Humanitarian Burbank performs, and the stubborn Scotch captain
dies, the ensign-gaff of the _Richard_ is shot away, and the virgin
petticoat flag of the pretty New Hampshire girls trails overboard. This
gives rise to a misunderstanding. Gunner Arthur Randall, missing the
ensign, and his hopes being somewhat low at the time, calls out to the
Englishman:
“Cease firing! We’ve surrendered!”
Captain Pearson, on the quarter-deck of the _Serapis_, hears the cry.
There could have come no more welcome news! Captain Pearson would have
heard gunner Randall if the latter had spoken in a whisper! Face aglow
with joy, Captain Pearson hails the _Richard_:
“Do you surrender?” he demands.
Commodore Paul Jones leaps to the rail of the _Richard_, and sustains
himself by one of the afterbraces.
“Surrender?” he repeats, his brow dark with rage. “Surrender? I would
have you to know, sir, that we’ve just begun to fight!”
Back to the deck springs Commodore Paul Jones, while the face of Captain
Pearson is stricken old and white. For the earliest time he realizes
the desperate heart of that unconquerable one who has him in a
death-grapple, and a premonition of his own defeat pierces his heart
like a dagger of ice. As Commodore Paul Jones regains the deck, he
observes Boatswain Jack Robinson who has waddled aft. The cloud of anger
fades from his brow, and he breaks into a loud laugh that is tenfold
worse than the cloud.
“Eh, Jack, old trump! What say you to quitting?” he cries.
“Why! as to surrenderin’, Commodore,” says Boatswain Jack Robinson,
refreshing himself with a huge chew of tobacco, “I’m for sinkin’
alongside an’ seein’ ‘em damned first! Sink alongside, says I; an’ if
the grapplin’ tackle holds, we’ll take ‘em with us to Davy Jones, d’ye
see! An’ that’ll be a comfort!”
“There’s the heart of oak!” returns Commodore Paul Jones, in vast
approval of Boatswain Jack Robinson’s turgid views; “and when we’re
next ashore in New London, old shipmate, I’ll tell Polly all about it.
Meanwhile, our ensign’s trailing astern. Set it aboard by the halyards,
fish and splice the gaff, and put it back in its place. Give the
Englishmen a sight of that red, white and blue flag, Jack; it takes the
fight out of ‘em.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” responds Boatswain Jack Robinson, as he begins the task
of recovering and replacing the ensign. “That flag does seem to let the
whey out of a Britisher.”
This is gratuitous slander on the parts of both Commodore Paul Jones and
Boatswain Jack Robinson; for those villified ones have been fighting
for hours, and are still at it with the quenchless valor of so many
mastiffs.
There is that at hand, however, that will daunt their iron courage and
feed even their stout hearts to dismay. High up at the weather earring
of the _Richard_‘s main topsail yard, Midshipman Fanning has been
faithfully practicing with hand-grenades at that inviting triangular
hole, where the hatch-cover of the _Serapis_ was shot-slewed to one
side. It is not an easy mark, that black, three-cornered hole, and thus
far Midshipman Fanning has missed. It is now that success crowns his
work; a smoking, spitting hand-grenade goes cleanly through, and fetches
up on the _Serapis_‘s lower gun deck. The explosion instantly occurs; it
is as though the fuse were carefully timed for it.
If this were all it would be bad enough, but worse comes with it.
There are scores of cartridges cumbering the deck to the rear of the
batteries; for the powder monkeys of the _Serapis_, earning their pay
and allowances, have been bringing powder from the magazines much faster
than the gunners can burn it in their eighteen-pounders. The exploding
hand-grenade sets off this powder. There is a blinding sheet of flame; a
report like smothered thunder; the deck of the _Serapis_ is all but torn
from its timbers! Fifty of the crew are killed or crippled, while
the slewed hatch-cover is blown overboard. No trouble now to hit that
yawning black hatchway. With such a target there can be no talk of
missing, and Midshipman Fanning and gunner Gardner, from their high
perch on the main topsail yard, fill the stomach of the _Serapis_ with
a bursting, death-dealing shower. And so the end comes tapping at the
door.
Lieutenant Mayrant, with his boarding party, stands waiting the signal.
Commodore Paul Jones notes the devastation wrought by Midshipman
Fanning’s hand-grenades.
“Boarders away!” he cries.
Lieutenant Mayrant and his men go swarming over the hammock nettings
of the _Serapis_, the red Indian port-fire, Anthony Jeremiah, among the
foremost.
As Lieutenant Mayrant reaches the deck of the _Serapis_, an English
sailor thrusts him through the thigh with a pike. Lieutenant Mayrant
shoots the pikeman though the heart. The latter falls dead, pike
rattling along the deck.
“Remember Portsea jail, lads!” shouts Lieutenant Mayrant, as he strides
limpingly across the body of the dead pikeman. “Remember Port-sea jail!”
Nine in ten of the boarding party are of those ones exchanged at Nantes.
With savage cries, they shout back, “Remember Portsea jail!” and the
work of their vengeance is begun.
Commodore Paul Jones has his eyes on Lieutenant Mayrant and his
boarders. His attention is claimed by orderly Jack Downes, who plucks
him by the elbow.
“Beg pardon, sir!” says orderly Jack Downes. “Captain Landais with the
_Alliance_.”
Sure enough, the _Alliance_ for a second time has crept down upon them,
unnoticed in the heat and absorbing fury of the fray. The consort ship
is wearing across the _Richard_‘s bows. What will Landais do? Does he
come as friend or foe? The Frenchman has his answer ready, and pours
a broadside into the _Richard_ as he crosses. Then he sheers off, and
again heads for the open ocean. That coward broadside kills and wounds
Master’s Mate Caswell and seven men. Commodore Paul Jones is rigid with
rage and wonder.
“The man is mad!” says Lieutenant Dale.
“I cannot understand!” returns Commodore Paul Jones. “There is still his
crew! Why don’t they clap him in irons, or cut him down?”
There is a shout from the deck of the _Serapis_. Captain Pearson, his
last hope gone, has struck his colors with his own hand. The shout is
from the wounded Lieutenant Mayrant, who hails Lieutenant Dale.
“Stop the firing, sir,” cries Lieutenant May-rant, for the Richard’s
top-men are still blazing away merrily. “He has struck his flag. Come on
board, and take possession!”
Lieutenant Dale leaps to the deck of the beaten _Serapis_. He sends
Captain Pearson aboard the _Richard_. Downcast, eye full of dejection,
Captain Pearson approaches Commodore Paul Jones. “With bowed head,
saying never a word, he tenders the conqueror his sheathed sword.
Commodore Paul Jones takes it and gives it to Midshipman Potter, who is
at his elbow.
“I accept your sword, Captain,” says Commodore Paul Jones. “And I bear
testimony that you have worn it to the glory of the English navy.”
Captain Pearson makes no response. Bowed of head, mute of lip, he stands
before Commodore Paul Jones, despair eating his heart.