“I can’t hear what you say.”
He wanted all of his broadside to bear on the Englishman.
“What ship is that? Answer, or I shall fire.”
The moment had arrived. For answer Jones leaned far over the rail of
the poop and passed the word. A sheet of flame flashed from one of the
“Richard’s” after eighteen-pounders, followed by a terrific broadside
which quaked the rotten timbers of the “Richard” from stem to stern. At
the same time the guns of the “Serapis” were brought to bear, and her side
seemed a mass of flame.
[Illustration: “YARD-ARM TO YARD-ARM”]
On the “Richard,” two of the eighteen-pounders burst at this first
broadside, killing their crews, heaving up the deck above, and driving
the men from the upper tier. The others cracked and were useless. In this
terrible situation Paul Jones knew the chances for victory were against
him, for he had thought his lower battery his mainstay in a broadside
fight.
But if he felt daunted his men did not know it, for, amid the hurricane of
fire and roar of the guns, his ringing voice, forward, aft, everywhere,
told them that victory was still theirs for the gaining. He ordered all
of the men from the useless battery to the main deck; and it was well he
did so,--for so terrific was the fire that the six ports of the “Bonhomme
Richard” were blown into one, and the shot passed clear through the
ship, cutting away all but the supports of the deck above. No one but the
marines guarding the powder-monkeys were left there, but they stood firm
at their posts while the balls came whistling through and dropped into
the sea beyond. But the fire of Paul Jones’s battery did not slacken for
a moment. There seemed to be two men to take the place of every man who
was killed, and he swept the crowded deck of the “Serapis” from cathead
to gallery.
In the meanwhile, the “Serapis,” having the wind of the “Richard,” drew
ahead, and Pearson hauled his sheets to run across and rake Jones’s
bows. But he miscalculated, and the American ran her boom over the stern
of the Englishman. For a moment neither ship could fire at the other,
and they hung together in silence, fast locked in a deadly embrace.
Jones’s crew, eager to renew the battle, glared forward at the shimmering
battle-lanterns of the Englishman, cursing because their guns would not
bear. The smoke lifted, and Paul Jones, who was deftly training one of
his guns at the main-mast of the “Serapis,” saw Pearson slowly climb up
on the rail. The silence had deceived the Englishman, and his voice came
clearly across the deck,--
“Have you struck?”
A harsh laugh broke from the “Richard.”
“Struck!” Paul Jones’s answer came in a roar that was heard from truck to
keelson. “I haven’t begun to fight yet!”
A cheer went up that drowned the rattle of the musketry from the tops,
and the fight went on. Swinging around again the jib-boom of the “Serapis”
came over the poop so that Paul Jones could touch it. Rushing to the mast,
he seized a hawser, and quickly taking several turns with it, lashed the
bowsprit of his enemy to his mizzen-rigging. Grappling-irons were dropped
over on the enemy--and the battle became a battle to the death.
“Well done, lads; we’ve got her now.” And Jones turned to his
nine-pounders, which renewed their fire. Both crews fought with the fury
of desperation. The men at the guns, stripped to the buff, grimed and
blackened with powder, worked with extraordinary quickness. Every shot
told. But the fire of the “Serapis” was deadly, and she soon silenced
every gun but Jones’s two nine-pounders, which he still worked with dogged
perseverance. He sent Dale below to hurry up the powder charges. To his
horror Dale found that the master-at-arms, knowing the ship to be sinking,
had released a hundred English prisoners. The situation was terrifying.
With foes within and without, there seemed no hope. But Dale, with ready
wit, ordered the prisoners to the pumps and to fight the fire near the
magazine, telling them that their only hope of life lay in that. And at
it they went, until they dropped of sheer exhaustion.
The doctor passed Dale as he rushed upon deck. “Sir,” said he to Jones,
“the water is up to the lower deck, and we will sink with all hands in a
few minutes.”
Jones turned calmly to the doctor, as though surprised. “What, doctor,”
said he, “would you have me strike to a drop of water? Here, help me get
this gun over.”
The surgeon ran below, but Jones got the gun over, and served it, too.
To add to the horror of the situation, just at this moment a ball from a
new enemy came screaming just over the head of Paul Jones, and the wind
of it knocked off his hat. The carpenter, Stacy, ran up breathlessly.
“My God, she’s firing on us--the ‘Alliance,’ sir!” And the captain glanced
astern where the flashes marked the position of the crazy Landais, firing
on his own consort.
If ever Paul Jones had an idea of hauling his colors, it must have been
at this moment.
He had been struck on the head by a splinter, and the blood surged down
over his shoulder--but he didn’t know it.
Just then a fear-crazed wretch rushed past him, trying to find the
signal-halyards, crying wildly as he ran,--
“Quarter! For God’s sake, quarter! Our ship is sinking!”
Jones heard the words, and, turning quickly, he hurled an empty pistol at
the man, which struck him squarely between the eyes, knocking him headlong
down the hatch.
Pearson heard the cry. “Do you call for quarter?” he shouted.
For answer Paul Jones’s nine-pounder cut away the rail on which he was
standing.
Then came the turn in the fight. Horrible as had been the slaughter
on the “Richard,” the quick flashes from his tops told Paul Jones that
his marines had not been placed aloft in vain. He saw the crew on the
spar-deck of his enemy fall one by one and men fleeing below for safety.
Raising his trumpet, he cheered his topmen to further efforts. In their
unceasing fire lay his only hope.
One of them in his maintop with great deliberateness laid aside his
musket and picked up a leather bucket of hand grenades. Jones watched him
anxiously as, steadying himself, he slowly lay out along the foot-rope of
the main-yard. His captain knew what he meant to do. He reached the lift,
which was directly over the main hatch of the “Serapis.” There he coolly
fastened his bucket to the sheet-block, and, taking careful aim, began
dropping his grenades down the open hatchway. The second one fell on a
row of exposed powder charges. The explosion that followed shook sea and
sky, and the air was filled with blackened corpses. The smoke came up in
a mighty cloud, and soon the forks of flame licked through it and up the
rigging.
That was the supreme moment of Paul Jones’s life, for he knew that victory
was his.
The fire from the “Serapis” ceased as if by magic. The explosion had
blown a whole battery to eternity, and, as the smoke cleared a little,
he could see the figure of Pearson leaning against the pin-rail, almost
deserted, his few men running here and there, stricken mad with fear. Then
the English captain stumbled heavily, as though blind, over the slippery
deck towards the mizzen, where the flag had been nailed, and with his own
hands tore it frantically from the mast.
A mighty victory for Paul Jones it was. But now, as the flames mounted
higher through the rifts of smoke, he could see at what a cost. His dead
lay piled upon the poop so that he could not get to the gangway. His
masts were shot through and through, and strained at the stays at every
lift of the bow. The fire, though beaten from the magazine, still burst
from the forward hatches, firing the tangled rigging and outlining them
in its lurid hues against the black beyond. The water had risen, and the
freshening breeze lashed the purple foam in at the lower-deck ports. For
hours the men fought against their new enemy; but towards five in the
morning their captain decided that no human power could save her. He then
began moving his wounded and prisoners to the “Serapis”.
The first gray streaks of dawn saw Paul Jones upon the poop of the
“Serapis,” looking to the leeward, where the “Richard” lay rolling
heavily. Her flag, shot away again and again, had been replaced and
floated proudly from its staff. Lower and lower she sank into the water,
mortally wounded, a heavy swell washing in at the lower gun-ports. At
length, heaving her stern high in the air, her pennant fluttering a last
defiance to the captured “Serapis,” she slowly disappeared, dying grandly
as she had lived.
After Pearson’s release, the British government offered ten thousand
guineas for Paul Jones, dead or alive. Forty-two British frigates chased
him and scoured the Channel; but Jones passed within sight of them, the
American flag flying at the mast, and reached France in safety, where
he became the hero of the hour. And so long as the Stars and Stripes fly
over American war-ships will the men who know hold up as their ideal of
a dogged warrior and gallant seaman the hero of Flamborough--Paul Jones.