When I came on deck the next morning our yards were a-drip with a clammy
fog, and under it the sea was roughed by a southwest breeze. We were
standing to the northward before it. I remember reflecting as I paused
in the gangway that the day was Thursday, September the 23d, and that we
were near two months out of Groix with this tub of an Indiaman. In
all that time we had not so much as got a whiff of an English frigate,
though we had almost put a belt around the British Isles. Then straining
my eyes through the mist, I made out two white blurs of sails on our
starboard beam.
Honest Jack Pearce, one of the few good seamen we had aboard, was
rubbing down one of the nines beside me.
“Why, Jack,” said I, “what have we there? Another prize?” For that
question had become a joke on board the 'Bon homme Richard' since the
prisoners had reached an hundred and fifty, and half our crew was gone
to man the ships.
“Bless your 'art, no, sir,” said he. “'Tis that damned Frenchy Landais
in th' Alliance. She turns up with the Pallas at six bells o' the middle
watch.”
“So he's back, is he?”
“Ay, he's back,” he returned, with a grunt that was half a growl; “arter
three weeks breakin' o' liberty. I tell 'ee what, sir, them Frenchies is
treecherous devils, an' not to be trusted the len'th of a lead line. An'
they beant seamen eno' to keep a full an' by with all their 'takteek'.
Ez fer that Landais, I hearn him whinin' at the commodore in the round
house when we was off Clear, an' sayin' as how he would tell Sartin on
us when he gets back to Paree. An' jabberin to th'other Frenchmen as
was there that this here butter-cask was er King's ship, an' that the
commodore weren't no commodore nohow. They say as how Cap'n Jones be
bound up in a hard knot by some articles of agreement, an' daresn't
punish him. Be that so, Mr. Carvel?”
I said that it was.
“Shiver my bulkheads!” cried Jack, “I gave my oath to that same, sir.
For I knowed the commodore was the lad t' string 'em to the yard-arm
an' he had the say on it. Oh, the devil take the Frenchies,” said Jack,
rolling his quid to show his pleasure of the topic, “they sits on their
bottoms in Brest and L'Oriong an' talks takteek wi' their han's and
mouths, and daresn't as much as show the noses o' their three-deckers in
th' Bay o' Biscay, while Cap'n Jones pokes his bowsprit into every
port in England with a hulk the rats have left. I've had my bellyful o'
Frenchies, Mr. Carvell save it be to fight 'em. An' I tell 'ee 'twould
give me the greatest joy in life t' leave loose 'Scolding Sairy' at that
there Landais. Th' gal ain't had a match on her this here cruise, an' t'
my mind she couldn't be christened better, sir.”
I left him patting the gun with a tender affection.
The scene on board was quiet and peaceful enough that morning. A knot
of midshipmen on the forecastle were discussing Landais's conduct, and
cursing the concordat which prevented our commodore from bringing him
up short. Mr. Stacey, the sailing-master, had the deck, and the coasting
pilot was conning; now and anon the boatswain's whistle piped for
Garrett or Quito or Fogg to lay aft to the mast, where the first
lieutenant stood talking to Colonel de Chamillard, of the French
marines. The scavengers were sweeping down, and part of the after guard
was bending a new bolt-rope on a storm staysail.
Then the--fore-topmast crosstrees reports a sail on the weather quarter,
the Richard is brought around on the wind, and away we go after
a brigantine, “flying like a snow laden with English bricks,” as
Midshipman Coram jokingly remarks. A chase is not such a novelty with us
that we crane our necks to windward.
At noon, when I relieved Mr. Stacey of the deck, the sun had eaten up
the fog, and the shores of England stood out boldly. Spurn Head was
looming up across our bows, while that of Flamborough jutted into the
sea behind us. I had the starboard watch piped to dinner, and reported
twelve o'clock to the commodore. And had just got permission to “make
it,” according to a time-honoured custom at sea, when another “Sail,
ho!” came down from aloft.
“Where away?” called back Mr. Linthwaite, who was midshipman of the
forecastle.
“Starboard quarter, rounding Flamborough Head, sir. Looks like a
full-rigged ship, sir.”
I sent the messenger into the great cabin to report. He was barely
out of sight before a second cry came from the masthead: “Another sail
rounding Flamborough, sir!”
The officers on deck hurried to the taffrail. I had my glass, but not
a dot was visible above the sea-line. The messenger was scarcely back
again when there came a third hail: “Two more rounding the head, sir!
Four in all, sir!”
Here was excitement indeed. Without waiting for instructions, I gave the
command:
“Up royal yards! Royal yardmen in the tops!”
We were already swaying out of the chains, when Lieutenant Dale appeared
and asked the coasting pilot what fleet it was. He answered that it was
the Baltic fleet, under convoy of the Countess of Scarborough, twenty
guns, and the Serapis, forty-four.
“Forty-four,” repeated Mr. Dale, smiling; “that means fifty, as English
frigates are rated. We shall have our hands full this day, my lads,”
said he. “You have done well to get the royals on her, Mr. Carvel.”
While he was yet speaking, three more sail were reported from aloft.
Then there was a hush on deck, and the commodore himself appeared. As he
reached the poop we saluted him and informed him of what had happened.
“The Baltic fleet,” said he, promptly. “Call away the pilotboat with Mr.
Lunt to follow the brigantine, sir, and ease off before the wind. Signal
'General Chase' to the squadron, Mr. Mayrant.”
The men had jumped to the weather braces before I gave the command, and
all the while more sail were counting from the crosstrees, until
their number had reached forty-one. The news spread over the ship; the
starboard watch trooped up with their dinners half eaten. Then a faint
booming of guns drifted down upon our ears.
“They've got sight of us, sir,” shouted the lookout. “They be firing
guns to windward, an' letting fly their topgallant sheets.”
At that the commodore hurried forward, the men falling back to the
bulwarks respectfully, and he mounted the fore-rigging as agile as any
topman, followed by his aide with a glass. From the masthead he sung out
to me to set our stu'nsails, and he remained aloft till near seven bells
of the watch. At that hour the merchantmen had all scuttled to safety
behind the head, and from the deck a great yellow King's frigate could
be plainly seen standing south to meet us, followed by her smaller
consort. Presently she hove to, and through our glasses we discerned
a small boat making for her side, and then a man clambering up her
sea-ladder.
“That be the bailiff of Scarborough, sir,” said the coasting pilot,
“come to tell her cap'n 'tis Paul Jones he has to fight.”
At that moment the commodore lay down from aloft, and our hearts beat
high as he walked swiftly aft to the quarterdeck, where he paused for
a word with Mr. Dale. Meanwhile Mr. Mayrant hove out the signal for the
squadron to form line of battle.
“Recall the pilot-boat, Mr. Carvel,” said the commodore, quietly. “Then
you may beat to quarters, and I will take the ship, sir.”
“Ay, ay, sir.” I raised my trumpet. “All hands clear ship for action!”
It makes me sigh now to think of the cheer which burst from that
tatterdemalion crew. Who were they to fight the bone and sinew of the
King's navy in a rotten ship of an age gone by? And who was he, that
stood so straight upon the quarter-deck, to instil this scum with love
and worship and fervour to blind them to such odds? But the bo'suns
piped and sang out the command in fog-horn voices, the drums beat the
long roll and the fifes whistled, and the decks became suddenly alive.
Breechings were loosed and gun-tackles unlashed, rammer and sponge laid
out, and pike and pistol and cutlass placed where they would be handy
when the time came to rush the enemy's decks. The powder-monkeys tumbled
over each other in their hurry to provide cartridges, and grape and
canister and doubleheaded shot were hoisted up from below. The trimmers
rigged the splinter nettings, got out spare spars and blocks and ropes
against those that were sure to be shot away, and rolled up casks of
water to put out the fires. Tubs were filled with sand, for blood is
slippery upon the boards. The French marines, their scarlet and white
very natty in contrast to most of our ragged wharf-rats at the guns,
were mustered on poop and forecastle, and some were sent aloft to
the tops to assist the tars there to sweep the British decks with
handgrenade and musket. And, lastly, the surgeon and his mates went
below to cockpit and steerage, to make ready for the grimmest work of
all.
My own duties took me to the dark lower deck, a vile place indeed, and
reeking with the smell of tar and stale victuals. There I had charge of
the battery of old eighteens, while Mr. Dale commanded the twelves on
the middle deck. We loaded our guns with two shots apiece, though I had
my doubts about their standing such a charge, and then the men stripped
until they stood naked to the waist, waiting for the fight to begin.
For we could see nothing of what was going forward. I was pacing up and
down, for it was a task to quiet the nerves in that dingy place with
the gun-ports closed, when about three bells of the dog, Mr. Mease, the
purser, appeared on the ladder.
“Lunt has not come back with the pilot-boat, Carvel,” said he. “I have
volunteered for a battery, and am assigned to this. You are to report to
the commodore.”
I thanked him, and climbed quickly to the quarterdeck. The 'Bon homme
Richard' was lumbering like a leaden ship before the wind, swaying
ponderously, her topsails flapping and her heavy blocks whacking against
the yards. And there was the commodore, erect, and with fire in his eye,
giving sharp commands to the men at the wheel. I knew at once that no
trifle had disturbed him. He wore a brand-new uniform; a blue coat with
red lapels and yellow buttons, and slashed cuffs and stand-up collar, a
red waistcoat with tawny lace, blue breeches, white silk stockings, and
a cocked hat and a sword. Into his belt were stuck two brace of pistols.
It took some effort to realize, as I waited silently for his attention,
that this was the man of whose innermost life I had had so intimate
a view. Who had taken me to the humble cottage under Criffel, who had
poured into my ear his ambitions and his wrongs when we had sat together
in the dingy room of the Castle Yard sponging-house. Then some of those
ludicrous scenes on the road to London came up to me, for which the
sky-blue frock was responsible. And yet this commodore was not greatly
removed from him I had first beheld on the brigantine John. His
confidence in his future had not so much as wavered since that day. That
future was now not so far distant as the horizon, and he was ready to
meet it.
“You will take charge of the battery of nines on this deck, Mr. Carvel,”
said he, at length.
“Very good, sir,” I replied, and was making my way down the poop ladder,
when I heard him calling me, in a low voice, by the old name: “Richard!”
I turned and followed him aft to the taffrail, where we were clear of
the French soldiers. The sun was hanging red over the Yorkshire Wolds,
the Head of Flamborough was in the blue shadow, and the clouds were like
rose leaves in the sky. The enemy had tacked and was standing west, with
ensign and jack and pennant flying, the level light washing his sails
to the whiteness of paper. 'Twas then I first remarked that the Alliance
had left her place in line and was sailing swiftly ahead toward the
Serapis. The commodore seemed to read my exclamation.
“Landais means to ruin me yet, by hook or crook,” said he.
“But he can't intend to close with them,” I replied. “He has not the
courage.”
“God knows what he intends,” said the commodore, bitterly. “It is no
good, at all events.”
My heart bled for him. Some minutes passed that he did not speak, making
shift to raise his glass now and again, and I knew that he was gripped
by a strong emotion. “'Twas so he ever behaved when the stress was
greatest. Presently he lays down the glass on the signal-chest, fumbles
in his coat, and brings out the little gold brooch I had not set eyes on
since Dolly and he and I had stood together on the Betsy's deck.
“When you see her, Richard, tell her that I have kept it as sacred as
her memory,” he said thickly. “She will recall what I spoke of you when
she gave it me. You have been leal and true to me indeed, and many a
black hour have you tided me over since this war' began. Do you know how
she may be directed to?” he concluded, with abruptness.
I glanced at him, surprised at the question. He was staring at the
English shore.
“Mr. Ripley, of Lincoln's Inn, used to be Mr. Manners's lawyer,” I
answered.
He took out a little note-book and wrote that down carefully. “And now,”
he continued, “God keep you, my friend. We must win, for we fight with a
rope around our necks.”
“But you, Captain Paul,” I said, “is--is there no one?”
His face took on the look of melancholy it had worn so often of late,
despite his triumphs. That look was the stamp of fate.
“Richard,” replied he, with an ineffable sadness, “I am naught but a
wanderer upon the face of the earth. I have no ties, no kindred,--no
real friends, save you and Dale, and some of these honest fellows whom I
lead to slaughter. My ambition is seamed with a flaw. And all my life
I must be striving, striving, until I am laid in the grave. I know that
now, and it is you yourself who have taught me. For I have violently
broken forth from those bounds which God in His wisdom did set.”
I pressed his hand, and with bowed head went back to my station,
profoundly struck by the truth of what he had spoken. Though he fought
under the flag of freedom, the curse of the expatriated was upon his
head.
Shortly afterward he appeared at the poop rail, straight and alert, his
eye piercing each man as it fell on him. He was the commodore once more.
The twilight deepened, until you scarce could see your hands. There was
no sound save the cracking of the cabins and the tumbling of the blocks,
and from time to time a muttered command. An age went by before the
trimmers were sent to the lee braces, and the Richard rounded lazily to.
And a great frigate loomed out of the night beside us, half a pistolshot
away.
“What ship is that?” came the hail, intense out of the silence.
“I don't hear you,” replied our commodore, for he had not yet got his
distance.
Again came the hail: “What ship is that?”
John Paul Jones leaned forward over the rail.
“Pass the word below to the first lieutenant to begin the action, sir.”
Hardly were the words out of my mouth before the deck gave a mighty
leap, a hot wind that seemed half of flame blew across my face, and
the roar started the pain throbbing in my ears. At the same instant the
screech of shot sounded overhead, we heard the sharp crack-crack of
wood rending and splitting,--as with a great broadaxe,--and a medley
of blocks and ropes rattled to the deck with the 'thud of the falling
bodies. Then, instead of stillness, moans and shrieks from above and
below, oaths and prayers in English and French and Portuguese, and in
the heathen gibberish of the East. As the men were sponging and ramming
home in the first fury of hatred, the carpenter jumped out under the
battle-lanthorn at the main hatch, crying in a wild voice that the old
eighteens had burst, killing half their crews and blowing up the gundeck
above them. At this many of our men broke and ran for the hatches.
“Back, back to your quarters! The first man to desert will be shot
down!”
It was the same strange voice that had quelled the mutiny on the John,
that had awed the men of Kirkcudbright. The tackles were seized and
the guns run out once more, and fired, and served again in an agony of
haste. In the darkness shot shrieked hither and thither about us like
demons, striking everywhere, sometimes sending casks of salt water over
the nettings. Incessantly the quartermaster walked to and fro scattering
sand over the black pools that kept running, running together as the
minutes were tolled out, and the red flashes from the guns revealed
faces in a hideous contortion. One little fellow, with whom I had had
many a lively word at mess, had his arm taken off at the shoulder as he
went skipping past me with the charge under his coat, and I have but to
listen now to hear the patter of the blood on the boards as they carried
him away to the cockpit below. Out of the main hatch, from that charnel
house, rose one continuous cry. It was an odd trick of the mind or soul
that put a hymn on my lips in that dreadful hour of carnage and human
misery, when men were calling the name of their Maker in vain. But as
I ran from crew to crew, I sang over and over again a long-forgotten
Christmas carol, and with it came a fleeting memory of my mother on the
stairs at Carvel Hall, and of the negroes gathered on the lawn without.
Suddenly, glancing up at the dim cloud of sails above, I saw that we
were aback and making sternway. We might have tossed a biscuit aboard
the big Serapis as she glided ahead of us. The broadsides thundered, and
great ragged scantlings brake from our bulwarks and flew as high as the
mizzen-top; and the shrieks and groans redoubled. Involuntarily my
eyes sought the poop, and I gave a sigh of relief at the sight of the
commanding figure in the midst of the whirling smoke. We shotted our
guns with double-headed, manned our lee braces, and gathered headway.
“Stand by to board!”
The boatswains' whistles trilled through the ship, pikes were seized,
and pistol and cutlass buckled on. But even as we waited with set
teeth, our bows ground into the enemy's weather quarter-gallery. For the
Richard's rigging was much cut away, and she was crank at best. So
we backed and filled once more, passing the Englishman close aboard,
himself being aback at the time. Several of his shot crushed through the
bulwarks in front of me, shattering a nine-pounder and killing half of
its crew. And it is only a miracle that I stand alive to be able to
tell the tale. Then I caught a glimpse of the quartermaster whirling
the spokes of our wheel, and over went our helm to lay us athwart the
forefoot of the 'Serapis', where we might rake and rush her decks.
Our old Indiaman answered but doggedly; and the huge bowsprit of the
Serapis, towering over our heads, snapped off our spanker gaff and
fouled our mizzen rigging.
“A hawser, Mr. Stacey, a hawser!” I heard the commodore shout, and saw
the sailing-master slide down the ladder and grope among the dead and
wounded and mass of broken spars and tackles, and finally pick up a
smeared rope's end, which I helped him drag to the poop. There we found
the commodore himself taking skilful turns around the mizzen with the
severed stays and shrouds dangling from the bowsprit, the French marines
looking on.
“Don't swear, Mr. Stacey,” said he, severely; “in another minute we may
all be in eternity.”
I rushed back to my guns, for the wind was rapidly swinging the stern
of the Serapis to our own bow, now bringing her starboard batteries into
play. Barely had we time to light our snatches and send our broadside
into her at three fathoms before the huge vessels came crunching
together, the disordered riggings locking, and both pointed northward to
a leeward tide in a death embrace. The chance had not been given him to
shift his crews or to fling open his starboard gun-ports.
Then ensued a moment's breathless hush, even the cries of those in
agony lulling. The pall of smoke rolled a little, and a silver moonlight
filtered through, revealing the weltering bodies twisted upon the
boards. A stern call came from beyond the bulwarks.
“Have you struck, sir?”
The answer sounded clear, and bred hero-worship in our souls.
“Sir, I have not yet begun to fight.”
Our men raised a hoarse yell, drowned all at once by the popping of
musketry in the tops and the bursting of grenades here and there about
the decks. A mighty muffled blast sent the Bon homme Richard rolling to
larboard, and the smoke eddied from our hatches and lifted out of the
space between the ships. The Englishman had blown off his gun-ports.
And next some one shouted that our battery of twelves was fighting them
muzzle to muzzle below, our rammers leaning into the Serapis to send
their shot home. No chance then for the thoughts which had tortured us
in moments of suspense. That was a fearful hour, when a shot had scarce
to leap a cannon's length to find its commission; when the belches of
the English guns burned the hair of our faces; when Death was sovereign,
merciful or cruel at his pleasure. The red flashes disclosed many an act
of coolness and of heroism. I saw a French lad whip off his coat when a
gunner called for a wad, and another, who had been a scavenger, snatch
the rammer from Pearce's hands when he staggered with a grape-shot
through his chest. Poor Jack Pearce! He did not live to see the work
'Scolding Sairy' was to do that night. I had but dragged him beyond
reach of the recoil when he was gone.
Then a cry came floating down from aloft. Thrice did I hear it, like
one waking out of a sleep, ere I grasped its import. “The Alliance! The
Alliance!” But hardly had the name resounded with joy throughout the
ship, when a hail of grape and canister tore through our sails from aft
forward. “She rakes us! She rakes us!” And the French soldiers tumbled
headlong down from the poop with a wail of “Les Anglais font prise!”
“Her Englishmen have taken her, and turned her guns against us!” Our
captain was left standing alone beside the staff where the stars and
stripes waved black in the moonlight.
“The Alliance is hauling off, sir!” called the midshipman of the
mizzen-top. “She is making for the Pallas and the Countess of
Scarborough.”
“Very good, sir,” was all the commodore said.
To us hearkening for his answer his voice betrayed no sign of dismay.
Seven times, I say, was that battle lost, and seven times regained
again. What was it kept the crews at their quarters and the officers
at their posts through that hell of flame and shot, when a madman could
scarce have hoped for victory? What but the knowledge that somewhere
in the swirl above us was still that unswerving and indomitable man who
swept all obstacles from before him, and into whose mind the thought of
defeat could not enter. His spirit held us to our task, for flesh and
blood might not have endured alone.
We had now but one of our starboard nine-pounders on its carriage, and
word came from below that our battery of twelves was all but knocked to
scrap iron, and their ports blown into one yawning gap. Indeed, we did
not have to be told that sides and stanchions had been carried away, for
the deck trembled and teetered under us as we dragged 'Scolding Sairy'
from her stand in the larboard waist, clearing a lane for her between
the bodies. Our feet slipped and slipped as we hove, and burning bits of
sails and splinters dropping from aloft fell unheeded on our heads and
shoulders. With the energy of desperation I was bending to the pull,
when the Malay in front of me sank dead across the tackle. But, ere I
could touch him, he was tenderly lifted aside, and a familiar figure
seized the rope where the dead man's hands had warmed it. Truly, the
commodore was everywhere that night.
“Down to the surgeon with you, Richard!” he cried. “I will look to the
battery.”
Dazed, I put my hand to my hair to find it warm and wringing wet. When
I had been hit, I knew not. But I shook my head, for the very notion of
that cockpit turned my stomach. The blood was streaming from a gash in
his own temple, to which he gave no heed, and stood encouraging that
panting line until at last the gun was got across and hooked to the
ring-bolts of its companion that lay shattered there. “Serve her
with double-headed, my lads,” he shouted, “and every shot into the
Englishman's mainmast!”
“Ay, ay, sir,” came the answer from every man of that little remnant.
The Serapis, too, was now beginning to blaze aloft, and choking
wood-smoke eddied out of the Richard's hold and mingled with the powder
fumes. Then the enemy's fire abreast us seemed to lull, and Mr. Stacey
mounted the bulwarks, and cried out: “You have cleared their decks, my
hearties!” Aloft, a man was seen to clamber from our mainyard into the
very top of the Englishman, where he threw a hand-grenade, as I thought,
down her main hatch. An instant after an explosion came like a, clap of
thunder in our faces, and a great quadrant of light flashed as high as
the 'Serapis's' trucks, and through a breach in her bulwarks I saw men
running with only the collars of their shirts upon their naked bodies.
'Twas at this critical moment, when that fearful battle once more was
won, another storm of grape brought the spars about our heads, and that
name which we dreaded most of all was spread again. As we halted in
consternation, a dozen round shot ripped through our unengaged side,
and a babel of voices hailed the treacherous Landais with oaths and
imprecations. We made out the Alliance with a full head of canvas, black
and sharp, between us and the moon. Smoke hung above her rail. Getting
over against the signal fires blazing on Flamborough Head, she wore ship
and stood across our bows, the midshipman on the forecastle singing out
to her, by the commodore's orders, to lay the enemy by the board. There
was no response.
“Do you hear us?” yelled Mr. Linthwaite.
“Ay, ay,” came the reply; and with it the smoke broke from her and the
grape and canister swept our forecastle. Then the Alliance sailed away,
leaving brave Mr. Caswell among the many Landais had murdered.
The ominous clank of the chain pumps beat a sort of prelude to what
happened next. The gunner burst out of the hatch with blood running down
his face, shouting that the Richard was sinking, and yelling for quarter
as he made for the ensign-staff on the poop, for the flag was shot away.
Him the commodore felled with a pistol-butt. At the gunner's heels were
the hundred and fifty prisoners we had taken, released by the master
at arms. They swarmed out of the bowels of the ship like a horde of
Tartars, unkempt and wild and desperate with fear, until I thought that
the added weight on the scarce-supported deck would land us all in the
bilges. Words fail me when I come to describe the frightful panic of
these creatures, frenzied by the instinct of self-preservation. They
surged hither and thither as angry seas driven into a pocket of a
storm-swept coast. They trampled rough-shod over the moaning heaps of
wounded and dying, and crowded the crews at the guns, who were powerless
before their numbers. Some fought like maniacs, and others flung
themselves into the sea.
Those of us who had clung to hope lost it then. Standing with my back
to the mast, beating them off with a pike, visions of an English
prison-ship, of an English gallows, came before me. I counted the
seconds until the enemy's seamen would be pouring through our ragged
ports. The seventh and last time, and we were beaten, for we had not men
enough left on our two decks to force them down again. Yes,--I shame
to confess it--the heart went clean out of me, and with that the pain
pulsed and leaped in my head like a devil unbound. At a turn of the hand
I should have sunk to the boards, had not a voice risen strong and clear
above that turmoil, compelling every man to halt trembling in his steps.
“Cast off, cast off! 'The Serapis' is sinking. To the pumps, ye fools,
if you would save your lives!”
That unerring genius of the gardener's son had struck the only chord!
They were like sheep before us as we beat them back into the reeking
hatches, and soon the pumps were heard bumping with a renewed and a
desperate vigour. Then, all at once, the towering mainmast of the
enemy cracked and tottered and swung this way and that on its loosened
shrouds. The first intense silence of the battle followed, in the midst
of which came a cry from our top:
“Their captain is hauling down, sir!”
The sound which broke from our men could scarce be called a cheer. That
which they felt as they sank exhausted on the blood of their comrades
may not have been elation. My own feeling was of unmixed wonder as I
gazed at a calm profile above me, sharp-cut against the moon.
I was moved as out of a revery by the sight of Dale swinging across to
the Serapis by the main brace pennant. Calling on some of my boarders, I
scaled our bulwarks and leaped fairly into the middle of the gangway of
the Serapis.
Such is nearly all of my remembrance of that momentous occasion. I had
caught the one glimpse of our first lieutenant in converse with their
captain and another officer, when a naked seaman came charging at me. He
had raised a pike above his shoulder ere I knew what he was about, and
my senses left me.