Stacy glanced at the great man, who could remember such things at such a moment. The commodore’s face was pale, and a thin stream of blood trickled down the side of his head.
“Commodore, you are wounded!” he cried.
“It is nothing,” answered Paul Jones calmly.
The ships were now made firmly fast, but in the smoke and darkness it was not perceived on board the Serapis. Captain Pearson gave orders to drop an anchor under his bow, thinking his bold adversary would drift away.
The tide was strong, and both wind and tide were in the same direction, so that the ships drifted rapidly together. Their spars, spare anchors, and every possible object became interlocked, and soon the ships were fast in a mortal embrace. As the Serapis swung round, with her stern to the bows of the Bon Homme Richard, her portlids were lowered to prevent the Americans from boarding her through her ports. The guns were then fired behind the closed portlids, blowing everything before them. The British gunners would then have to lean forward into the shattered sides of the Bon Homme Richard to pass the rammers in the muzzles of their own guns. The ships caught fire repeatedly from each other, and so terrible was the smoke and flame upon the lower decks of the Bon Homme Richard that the men were forced above. They assembled on the foks’l, where they did good service with muskets and hand grenades.
The Serapis now appeared to have the Bon Homme Richard at her mercy. She had completely cleared everything out on the gun deck, and the fire was rapidly gaining on the ship in spite of Dale’s heroic efforts. On the spar deck Paul Jones still worked the two or three nine-pounders, but they were nothing against the tremendous metal of the British ship.
But the forcing of the American gunners to the upper deck enabled them to make it as hot for the British above as the British made it hot for them below. An awful fusillade was kept up on the spar deck of the Serapis, and so terrible was it on the quarter-deck that the brave Pearson, although remaining himself and giving his orders coolly, ordered all the men below. So effectually were the lower-deck batteries of the Serapis worked that the Bon Homme Richard was cut entirely to pieces between decks, especially from the mainmast to the stern. The rudder and stern frame were cut completely off, and soon the shot began to pass clear through the ship without finding anything to strike.
The moon was now bright, and the wind having caused the smoke to drift, Paul Jones perceived the Alliance approaching to windward. He turned to Dale, who had come on deck. “Thank God,” he said, “the battle is now over! Yonder is the Alliance.”
The Alliance came on under a fair wind, but, to the consternation of every one on the Bon Homme Richard, on passing close to leeward she deliberately fired a broadside into the stern. Immediately every voice on the commodore’s ship was raised:
“For God’s sake,” they shouted, “stop firing into us!”
The Alliance, though, as she sailed by, fired into the side and the head of the ship as well as the stern. In vain were three lanterns shown—the signal of reconnoissance; the Alliance paid no attention to the signal, and her fire dismounted one or two guns, killed and wounded several men, and cut the ship up aloft a good deal. One of the men on the Bon Homme Richard yelled:
“The crew has mutinied, and they are taking the ship to the British!” This induced several of the faint-hearted to leave their quarters.
Not so Danny Dixon; although but a powder boy of fourteen, he was as cool as any old hand on board. Paul Jones himself, still bent on carrying the mainmast of the Serapis, was directing the fire of the little nine-pounder.
“One more shot,” he called, “and the mast goes!”
The gunner asked for a wad, but none was at hand. Danny Dixon, quietly stripping off his shirt, handed it to the gunner, saying:
“This ’ere shirt off my back’ll make a good many wads.”
Paul Jones saw the action and heard the words.
“Ah, my brave lad,” he cried, “I shall not forget this.”
“Thankee, sir,” answered Danny with sparkling eyes.
The Bon Homme Richard was getting lower and lower in the water, and at the same time only the most tremendous exertions kept the fire from reaching the upper decks. Suddenly the carpenter, the master at arms and a master gunner came rushing up from below. They had been down in the hold where the prisoners were, and working the pumps to keep the water down, which poured in from shot holes below the water line. One of the pumps had been shot away, and that had demoralized these three men. Lieutenant Dale was on deck, and as the carpenter rushed up, shouting to the commodore, “She’s a-sinkin’, sir, and we can’t do no more at the pumps!” Dale caught the man by the throat.
“You abandoned coward, come below with me instantly! The ship shall not sink!”
Paul Jones heard every word, and, coming up quickly to Dale, said in his ear:
“Put the prisoners to the pumps. They are doubtless so terror-stricken that they are at their wits’ end, and a determined man like you, Dale, can manage the whole hundred of them”—for there were not less than a hundred in the hold.
Dale was the very man to carry out this audacious order. He instantly ran below, and, just as Paul Jones had foreseen, the bold promptness of one determined officer, armed and resolute, cowed them all. They went to work at the pumps, when, if they had retained their senses, they might have stepped on board the Serapis.
In a minute or two more Dale was again on deck, and, going up to the commodore, said calmly but in a loud voice, so that the men around could hear him:
“She’s not sinking, sir. I have put that coward of a carpenter to work with an honest man to watch him, and everything will shortly be right.”
This very much reassured the men, who had no idea of the terrible destruction below.
Within a few minutes Danny Dixon came up to the young lieutenant with a solemn face.
“Mr. Dale, please, sir,” he said, “I can’t git no more powder. The gangway to the powder room is all chock-a-block, and the sentinels won’t let me pass. I ain’t afeerd o’ the fire, though its blazin’ pretty close to the magazine. I ain’t afeerd o’ that, sir, but I can’t—”
Before Danny had finished speaking Dale saw a dozen strange faces crowding up the companion way. In an instant the truth flashed upon him—some of the prisoners had escaped from the hold. Drawing his pistol, he marched them immediately back, where again they went to work at the pumps.
Meanwhile numbers of the men were called from their quarters to put out the fire in the magazine. Upon going to it, with Danny Dixon following at his heels, Dale found that the reason the sentinels would not let any one pass to the magazine was on account of the number of strange faces, which they, too, knew to be the prisoners, crowding around, and who might have easily captured the magazine. But Dale, animated by the spirit of his commander, with two or three resolute men like himself kept down both the fire and the water in the hold. As a matter of fact, the Bon Homme Richard was on fire continuously almost from the very beginning of the engagement.
Battle of the Bonhomme Richard and the Serapis.The bold headland of Flamborough is seen on the right. The force of the explosion on theSerapis’sdeck blew the British flag against the wind.
Battle of the Bonhomme Richard and the Serapis.The bold headland of Flamborough is seen on the right. The force of the explosion on theSerapis’sdeck blew the British flag against the wind.
The mainmast of the Serapis was still being pounded by the three small guns on the Bon Homme Richard’s deck, which were worked under the eye of Paul Jones. Sometimes he himself took a part in the handling and pointing of the guns, and his indomitable coolness seemed communicated to the men. The spar deck of the Serapis was still pretty effectually cleared, but she was unbeaten below. The gun captain, though, who had come up from below when the great guns burst, now filled a bucket with hand grenades and climbed into the maintop. The main yard of the Bon Homme Richard lay directly over the main hatch of the Serapis. He then lay out on the main yard, until he got to the sheet block, where he fastened his bucket. Then, with perfect deliberation and unerring aim, he began to throw his grenades at the open hatchway. Every one went straight, and every one exploded. Paul Jones, who was on the poop, called out to him:
“If you could get one down on the gun deck, where there is no doubt some loose powder about—”
“That’s what I’m arter, sir,” responded the sailor coolly, and within two minutes one had rolled down the hatchway and had dropped upon a row of cartridges. An instant and terrific explosion followed. It seemed as if the whole interior of the ship had been blown out. Every gun was silenced, and an awful stillness prevailed for a moment or two. Just then the gunner, who had been below, ran up on the Bon Homme Richard’s deck, and, terrified out of his life, cried, “I don’t see the commodore!” and running, aft, he intended to strike the colors. The ensign had been shot away, however, and was dragging in the water; the man therefore yelled for “Quarter! quarter!”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when he saw a figure at his side, and felt a stunning blow from a pistol’s butt.
“Do you see the commodore now?” cried Paul Jones; “and let me not hear any man on this ship beg, like a cur, for quarter!”
The cry for quarter had been heard on the Serapis, and Captain Pearson called out in the half darkness:
“Do you ask for quarter?”
“No, by heaven!” shouted Paul Jones. “We will give quarter, but we never ask it.”
About this time one of the prisoners stepped through the side of the Bon Homme Richard into the Serapis, and reported the desperate condition of the American ship. Immediately the bugler on the Serapis sounded the call for boarders, and a number of them, armed with pikes and cutlasses, appeared at the bulwarks. But Paul Jones, seizing a boarding pike, stood in the gangway to receive them. It never occurred to the boarders that there was not a large body to repel them, besides the sailors on deck, and they retired. But it is a fact that no man touched a pike except Paul Jones.
It was now about half past ten o’clock. The pallid moon showed the whole dreadful scene. The Pallas, which had very gallantly made the Countess of Scarborough haul down her colors, had her hands full transferring the prisoners from the British ship. As the Alliance, which had been sailing around the combatants and had fired another broadside into the Bon Homme Richard, passed the Pallas, Captain Cottineau begged Landais to go to the assistance of the gallant Bon Homme Richard.
Captain Landais did indeed approach the Bon Homme Richard, but it was only to fire one last broadside, that did as much harm to the American as to the British ship. After that he hauled off and did no more damage.
Then the mainmast of the Serapis began to totter, and it was seen that it must soon go by the board. The small nine-pounders, worked under Paul Jones’s own eye, the shower of skillfully thrown hand grenades, and the sharpshooters in the Bon Homme Richard’s tops, made the deck of the Serapis so hot that scarcely a man dared show himself. On the quarter-deck especially was this so; and the brave Pearson, while keeping his place coolly, ordered the men forward, and remained the only man upon the quarter-deck of his ship.
The Bon Homme Richard now managed to bring one or two more guns to bear, although her hull was almost destroyed by the Serapis. Both ships were in a desperate case, but Paul Jones was no nearer surrender than he was at the beginning of the fight. Pearson, though, realized that he was in the last extremity, and then, and then only, with his own hand he managed to lower the flag he had caused to be nailed to the mast. His action was visible by the light of the full moon, and the lanterns that made blazing points of flame all over the two warrior ships in spite of the drifting clouds of black smoke.
Paul Jones’s first order was:
“Cease firing!” and his next words were, “Where is Dale?”
“Here, sir!” cried Dale, coming up. The young lieutenant’s face was blackened with powder, his epaulet was gone, and he was deathly pale with suppressed excitement.
“Go immediately on board that ship with such men as you may need, and bring off her captain and her ensign,” said Paul Jones.
There was no occasion for a bridge between the two fast-locked and burning ships. Dale ran to the gangway, and with one bound landed on the bloody deck of the Serapis.
Although the fire of the Bon Homme Richard had ceased, those upon the lower decks of the Serapis did not know that the colors had been struck, and they kept up their cannonade through the riddled hull of the Bon Homme Richard. The smoke still drifted in a sulphurous mass, but Dale at once distinguished Captain Pearson’s tall figure, as he stood calmly, with folded arms, on the quarter-deck. Going up to him, Dale removed his cap and said respectfully:
“Sir, I am directed to bring you on board the Bon Homme Richard.”
Captain Pearson inclined his head silently and stepped forward.
Scarcely were the words out of Dale’s mouth when the first lieutenant of the Serapis came up from below. Advancing eagerly, he said to his captain:
“Have the rebels struck, sir?”
Captain Pearson uttered no word, but looked into the lieutenant’s eyes with an expression of agony.
Then Dale spoke.
“No,” he said. “Youhave struck, and this ship is our prize.”
The lieutenant, rudely ignoring Dale, again asked the captain:
“Sir, have they struck?”
For answer, the brave Pearson covered his face with his hands. The lieutenant, turning on his heel, said:
“I have nothing more to say.”
Dale then remarked quietly:
“You will proceed on board the Bon Homme Richard.”
“If you will permit me to go below, I will silence the firing on the lower deck,” said the lieutenant.
“No!” replied Dale firmly.
By that time the Bon Homme Richard’s men had swarmed over the side, and some of the British sailors and officers, running up from below and not knowing that the ship had struck, dashed upon the Americans, and several blows were exchanged. The officers, though, on both sides quelled themêléeand the British sailors then quietly submitted. But another row, worse than the first, was likely to be precipitated by Danny Dixon. He marched up to one of the Serapis’s cabin boys, who was about twice as big as himself, and who was armed with the cabin broom as the most available weapon he could find at short notice. Getting close up, Danny bawled at him:
“You are my prisoner!”
The Serapis boy looked with undisguised contempt at Danny, and for answer said sulkily:
“Go along with you. I ain’t none o’ your prisoner. I’m took by that pirate Paul Jones, I am.”
Before the words were well out of his mouth Danny hauled off and hit the boy a resounding slap in the face. The boy promptly responded by knocking Danny down with his broom.
Just then Bill Green, who had been relieved for a few moments from the wheel, appeared at Danny’s side, and, collaring him with one hand as Danny scrambled up, while with the other he seized the cabin boy’s neckerchief, Bill gave them both a powerful shaking.
“If you two chaps don’t behave yourselves,” he shouted, “I’ll report you both, and I’ll give you a private wallopin’ o’ my own besides. That’s the wust o’ boys—they never knows how to behave theirselves. D’ye see Cap’n Paul Jones and the British cap’n a-maulin’ and a-poundin’ each other? And don’t you know prisoners ought to be treated kind? That’s why the officers sets a example to the men and to the wuthless, triflin’, good-for-nothin’ boys!”
“B—but, Mr. Green,” said Danny, struggling to get his breath in Bill’s brawny grasp, “he said as the commodore were a pirate, and that’s for why I hit him.”
“He did, did he?” snorted Bill, highly incensed, and letting Danny go, while he devoted both hands to the unlucky cabin boy. “Then I wish you’d ’a’ hit him twice as hard; and if it warn’t for them officers over yonder,” he yelled to the Serapis boy, “I’d give you sech a keel haulin’ as nobody but a Dutchman never had afore. You say Cap’n Paul Jones is a pirate, do yer?” Here he lifted the boy completely off his feet, while a well-directed kick emphasized his remarks. “Now, you take that back, or by the almighty Joshua, I’ll heave you overboard!”
The boy, scared out of his life, sputtered:
“I take it back.”
Bill then turned to Danny, and said, excitedly:
“You oughter git some smart money for that ’ere lick he give you, and I’m goin’ to see as the commodore knows about it.”
“But, Mr. Green,” said Danny, slyly, “you said as we was to imitate the cap’ns, and not be maulin’ and poundin’ each other—”
“I didn’t say no sech a thing,” answered Bill, angrily; “I said, as if anybody was to say Cap’n Paul Jones were a pirate you was to knock his eyes down into his shoes, and not to leave a whole bone in his skin. That’s what I said, boy, and you misunderstood me.”
Dale now accompanied the British captain politely to the gangway, where not even a plank was necessary to step on board the Bon Homme Richard. As the young lieutenant glanced up and saw Paul Jones waiting to receive his distinguished prisoners, he saw a red stream had trickled down the side of the commodore’s head, and one of his epaulets was soaked with blood.
“My captain, you are wounded!” cried Dale.
“It is but a trifle,” quickly replied Paul Jones. Captain Pearson at that moment stepped upon the Bon Homme Richard’s deck. He silently unbuckled his sword and handed it to Paul Jones, who received it with one hand, and immediately returned it with the other, saying:
“I return it to you, sir, because you have bravely used it.”
The other British officers and men were then passed rapidly aboard the Bon Homme Richard. The Americans, as if they had only then realized the magnitude of their victory, suddenly stopped work at the pumps, at fighting the fire, and at the usual preparations for taking possession of a ship, and, as one man, they gave three thundering cheers. Paul Jones, taking off his cap, listened to this heroic music with ineffable thoughts crowding upon his mind. The moon was now at the full, and blazed upon the dark bosom of the water with solemn grandeur. Afar off rose the white cliffs off England, while nearer, but still far, were the black hulls and shadowy spars of the Alliance, the gallant Pallas, and the conquered Countess of Scarborough. The air was yet full of the smell of burned powder and smoldering wood. Across the still and blue-black sea they could see the lights of Flamborough Head and Scarborough Castle like star points in the sky.
Paul Jones was roused from the strange mood of triumph, and of sadness too, by a frightful crash which resounded through both ships.
The tottering mainmast of the Serapis gave one mighty lurch, and then fell over the side, striking with a sound like thunder. A deep and terrible silence followed for a moment, and even the exultant cheering of the Americans, which had not quite ceased, was stilled. There was something overwhelming in the sight of the brave and lovely Serapis, that only a few hours before had sailed proudly and defiantly in her beauty and freedom, now beaten, dismasted, and her colors struck. But this one short moment of solemnity was followed by another burst of cheers, and all the fierce commotion of a victorious ship.
The first thing to be done on board the Bon Homme Richard was to attempt to check the fire. The ceilings had caught, and were burning slowly but determinedly. The fire having got within a few inches of the powder magazine, Paul Jones ordered all the powder brought up on deck. There were more than a hundred prisoners on the Bon Homme Richard before the fight, and the men taken from the Serapis brought the number up to over five hundred. Those who were not disabled were put to work at the pumps, where they toiled with the desperate energy of men struggling for their lives. Paul Jones himself escorted Captain Pearson to the cabin, saying:
“I beg that you will make yourself as comfortable as circumstances will admit. You will have the consolation of knowing that no man ever made a better defense of his ship.”
Captain Pearson bowed, and answered:
“Your conduct is most generous—” and hesitated, as if to express surprise at such good treatment.
“You will find, I hope, that all American officers are generous in victory; and should we have the misfortune to be forced to haul down our colors, I trust that we would show the fortitude of the brave who are unfortunate,” said Paul Jones, with dignity—and, with a low bow, he retired from the cabin, leaving Captain Pearson alone.
As soon as the commodore returned to the deck he ordered the lashings to be cut, as the ships continued to catch fire from each other, and there was great danger to the powder on both.
“And both ships must be saved, my lads!” cried he to the men, who were working like Trojans to save the Serapis from the flames.
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the men heartily.
As soon as they were free, the Bon Homme Richard drifted rapidly off. The Serapis was hailed and ordered to follow.
On board the Serapis Dale was in command. Exhausted by his five hours of work and fighting, he sat down on a dismounted gun near the binnacle. The reaction had come. A profound sadness seized him, and he could almost have wept when he saw the destruction around him. But nothing made him forget his duty for a moment. As soon as the ships parted he ordered the wreck of the mainmast to be cleared away, the headyards braced aback, and the helm put hard down. This was promptly done, but still the ship did not pay off. Imagining that her steering gear was cut to pieces, he ordered it examined, but, to his surprise, found it uninjured. Puzzled by so strange a state of things, Dale jumped from his seat, only to fall his length upon the deck. Bill Green ran to him and helped him up; but Dale could not stand upon his feet.
“And natural you can’t, sir, seein’ as your ankle is wounded,” said Bill.
“Is it?” answered Dale, faintly. “I did not know until this moment I was hurt.”
Just then the pilot boat containing Lieutenant Lunt and sixteen men hailed the ship alongside.
“For Heaven’s sake, Lunt, come aboard!” cried Dale; “your services are needed here.”
As Lunt came over the side the sailing master of the Serapis appeared, and, going up to Dale, said:
“Sir, the ship can’t pay off, because she has an anchor under foot.” This was the anchor dropped by Captain Pearson when the ships first fouled. The cable was cut, and the ship instantly answered the helm. She was much cut up aloft, but her hull was sound, and she had no water in her. Preparations were at once made to repair her. A jury mast was rigged in place of the mainmast, and new sails were bent instead of those that had been torn to pieces by hand grenades exploded in her rigging.
The night was now far spent. The moon, that had shone so brilliantly during the fury of the battle, now hung low in the misty night sky that glimmered with a pale and waning light. A white fog was creeping slowly in from the Atlantic, and a fitful wind ruffled the black and phosphorescent water.
The first thing to be attended to, while the carpenters were at work upon the crippled Serapis and the almost wrecked Bon Homme Richard, was the care of the wounded and the burial of the dead. As there was great doubt whether the Bon Homme Richard could be kept afloat until daylight, no wounded were removed from the Serapis, where the British surgeons attended to them. Her dead also were buried from her deck, one of the British lieutenants reading the service of the Established Church, in an agitated voice. On board the Bon Homme Richard, Paul Jones, as he always did, read the Psalms for the dead over the brave men who had fallen around him. Everything was done quickly, but with proper reverence, for, no matter how much encompassed by danger Paul Jones was, he never forgot to give fitting burial to the departed brave. Like all men of feeling heart and deep imagination, Paul Jones, after the inspiration of battle and the glory of victory, always felt a keen distress at the ruin and desolation it wrought. The sight of the gallant men cold in death, that lay in rows upon the reeking deck of the Bon Homme Richard, covered by the flag whose honor they had so gloriously maintained, wrung his heart and filled his eyes with tears. And this man, who had dared death from battle, fire, and water rather than strike his flag, faltered and almost wept as he read the solemn words of the Psalmist before the dead were laid at rest in the ocean.
As each body fell swiftly and silently overboard a heavy blow seemed struck upon the heart of Paul Jones. The officers and men crowded the deck, standing with uncovered heads, while a little way off the Serapis loomed up in the fast rising mist, and from her side a frequent dull splash showed that the same solemn ceremony was taking place upon her decks.
At last it was over. The men with a sudden alacrity folded up the flags, quickly carried the grewsome planks and canvas below, and the boatswain’s pipe sounded cheerily calling the men to work.
The reaction from the burial of the dead at such a time is always great, and the officers and men vie in their quick rebound to cheerfulness. Paul Jones felt this instant and magnetic change. Ten minutes from the time that the last sad ceremonies were over he walked the deck with his usual graceful and alert step, ordering, overlooking, and encouraging everybody.
Meanwhile a boat had pulled off from the Serapis, and when Paul Jones, who had gone below for a moment to see how the carpenters were getting on, came upon deck, Dale was being helped over the side. Paul Jones went immediately up to him. Dale leaned heavily upon a sailor, and Paul Jones at once saw that his favorite lieutenant was lame.
“My lieutenant, you are wounded!” he cried; and Dale, at hearing the very words he had addressed to the commodore, smiled faintly.
“Yes, sir,” he answered; “I did not know it until a little while ago. I don’t know when I was hurt, or how, but I was forced to give up the command to Mr. Lunt and return to you. But how is your wound?”
“It is nothing—nothing!” cried Paul Jones, but really, although his wound in the head was not dangerous, he had lost much blood, and only his indomitable will kept him upon his feet.
Wretched indeed was the plight of the brave Bon Homme Richard. Immortalized she was, but she had given her life for her victory. So desperate was her condition between decks that many of the sailors, regarding her as a floating coffin, sprang overboard and swam to the still stanch Serapis, and to the Alliance, that now appeared off the weather quarter of the gallant ship she had so treacherously deserted.
It was now nearly daylight, but the fog enveloped everything, and the eye could scarcely penetrate a hundred yards. A wind still blew fitfully, driving the fog hither and thither, but as fast as it was drifted landward another great fog bank would come rolling sullenly in from the open Atlantic. It deadened the sounds of the saw and the hammer and the constant creaking of the pumps as the men toiled at them. Once it almost lifted. It was just at sunrise, and a great golden lance seemed to penetrate it straight from heaven. Like magic, the white mist parted, the sky, the sea, and the air were suddenly flooded with a rose-pink glow, and the fair and lovely light shone full upon the lithe figure of Paul Jones as he stood on the poop with his face turned to the east. His arms were folded, and his inscrutable dark eyes, full of a strange rapture, were uplifted to the sky. Glory was the breath of his life, and here was glory enough for a lifetime, as he saw his own shattered ship, and the Serapis conquered but still majestic.
For five minutes he stood motionless. He was recalling the same hour the day before, and now his proudest wish was fulfilled. Alone and single-handed he had beaten an enemy at least twice as strong as himself. He had made the name of the American navy respected from thenceforward, and his far-seeing mind realized the mighty effect of his victory. After a while he roused himself from his reverie, which was a sort of exaltation, and swept the horizon with his glass. Not a sail was in sight where twenty-four hours before they had whitened the seas around him. The very name of Paul Jones had frightened them into harbor.
But soon the fog descended again, and Paul Jones devoted himself to one intense and long-continued effort to save the smoldering, leaking, but glorious Bon Homme Richard. It was his ardent wish to save his ship, the eloquent witness of his prowess, and to that work he turned with almost superhuman energy. The dim morning wore on. The men were mostly below, fighting the leaks and the fire, and the decks were comparatively deserted, when Paul Jones, still on the poop, caught sight of Danny Dixon running aft as hard as he could clip it.
“Hold on!” cried Paul Jones. “There is work for everybody on this ship. Why are you idle?”
“I ain’t idle, sir,” answered Danny, touching his cap. “The flag as was most shot to pieces is hangin’ astern now, under water; and I thought, sir, as you wouldn’t want to lose that ’ere flag, I’d git it out o’ the water for the honor o’ the ship, sir.”
“You are right; go and get it,” answered Paul Jones, smiling.
Danny disappeared astern, and presently came up dripping. But he had the torn flag, and was wringing it out as he came along.
“Here she is, sir,” said he, as Paul Jones took it; “and here’s a little rag o’ it, sir, that I hopes you’ll let me keep in my ditty box.”
He showed a scrap a few inches square that he had torn from the shattered flagstaff.
“Yes, you may,” replied Paul Jones. “That is in place of the shirt you took off and gave for a gunwad. I see you have another.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Danny, who had on a shirt about twice too big for him. “Mr. Green, he flung it to me jist now. I dunno where he got it from.”
As the hours passed on the terrible situation of the Bon Homme Richard became plainer. She was literally cut to pieces between decks, from her spar deck to the water line, and there was not planking enough in the whole squadron to patch her up. The wind also began to rise, and Paul Jones, remembering that where eleven British cruisers had been searching for him the day before, knew that probably fifty would be after him by sundown, and that he must make his way toward the Texel as quickly as possible.
About ten o’clock in the morning the fire was at last out, and Paul Jones called Captain Cottineau, with all the carpenters in the squadron, on board, to consult with them as to the possibility of carrying his ship into port, which he could scarcely bring himself to believe was impossible. Captain Landais’s opinion was not asked, nor was he suffered to come on board the Bon Homme Richard. The carpenters examined the ship thoroughly, and all of them agreed that she could not possibly be made to last more than a few hours. Such also was Captain Cottineau’s opinion. When it was communicated to Paul Jones, this man, so insensible to fear, yet felt the loss of his ship so deeply that tears dropped from his eyes; but he realized that the ship was now in a hopeless condition, and that while he might risk his own life further, he could not risk those of the brave men under him. When once his mind was made up to the cruel necessity he acted with characteristic promptness. Immediately all the boats were pressed into service transferring the wounded to the captured Serapis. There was but little worth saving on the Bon Homme Richard, and the Serapis was full of stores of all sorts. It took the whole day and the following night to place the wounded and the prisoners on the Serapis and to repair damages. Even to the last, Paul Jones could not utterly abandon the hope of saving the old ship, made forever glorious in that short September night. He left an officer on board and a gang of men, who were directed to work the pumps as long as possible. The boats were in waiting in order to take them off if the water gained on them too fast. An American ensign was hoisted, and the officer was directed to leave it flying. About nine o’clock Paul Jones, from the quarter-deck of the Serapis, saw the signal made for the boats—the Bon Homme Richard was sinking. The men were taken off, and Paul Jones watched her last moments as one watches by the deathbed of one’s best beloved. She sank lower and lower in the water after she was left, while her ensign fluttered bravely in the wandering breeze. At last, about ten o’clock, as Paul Jones watched her agonizingly through his glass, he saw her give a lurch forward. She went down head foremost, and the last thing seen of her as she settled into her ocean grave was the mizzen to’gallant mast, and the flag at the peak.
“Good-by, brave ship!” cried Paul Jones with a deep sob, as the waters closed over the ship of immortal memory.
The wind continued to freshen as the squadron, with its two prizes, made for the open sea. Bad weather followed, and for ten days the Serapis, with her make-shift masts, and the other ships, were tossed about the angry North Sea. At last, though, the wind proved kind, and on the morning of the 3d of October anchor was cast off the island of Texel.
The sight of a splendid British frigate with an American ensign flying proudly over the Union Jack, and a twenty-gun sloop of war in the same plight, was an inspiring sight to the few Americans and friends of the cause of independence at the Texel. News of the victory had preceded the arrival of the ships, and it was a matter of the keenest interest how Holland, a neutral power, would receive these victorious enemies of England, which literally ruled the seas. The fact is, the brave and prudent Hollanders felt deeply sympathetic with the young republic of the West in her fight against Holland’s ancient maritime enemy; but the court and the court party were absolutely under British influence, and it was not long in manifesting its animosity to the flag that Paul Jones carried.
Scarcely were the ships at anchor before news came that a British line of battle ship was waiting outside of the Texel. According to the rules of war, the American ship should have remained long enough to have what was necessary done for her in the cause of humanity. The British ambassador, Sir Joseph Yorke, was highly incensed at the American ship being accorded succor, and openly and bitterly spoke of Paul Jones as “that pirate.” But the “pirate,” when he went up to Amsterdam a few days after his arrival, received such an ovation from the enthusiastic Americans and the brave Dutchmen as any man on earth might have been proud of. Huzzas and waving handkerchiefs saluted him from the French and Americans in Amsterdam, while the Dutchmen bowed low to him. When he appeared upon the Exchange, wearing proudly his American uniform and his Scotch bonnet, edged with gold, the crowds pressed around him so that he was forced to retire into a room fronting the public square. The plaudits of the crowd becoming uproarious, he was obliged to show himself at the window and bow, after which he hastily retreated.
This reception very much affronted Sir Joseph Yorke, who, on the 9th of October, wrote to the Dutch Government demanding that the American ships “be stopped,” and declaring Paul Jones to be “a rebel and a pirate.” Other measures than writing letters were used to “stop” him. The battle ship watching off the Texel had been joined by eleven other ships of the line and frigates. Eight were stationed at the north entrance to the harbor, where they expected Paul Jones would come out, and four at the south entrance. Here, on every fine day, they might be seen cruising back and forth. Small squadrons were also on the lookout for him on the east coasts of England and Scotland, the coast of Norway, the Irish Channel, the west coast of Ireland, and in the Straits of Dover. In all, there were forty-two British ships after Paul Jones, and two of them were lost while on the watch for him.
Within the Texel he had powerful enemies in the British ambassador and the royal court. In spite of both, though, by courage and firmness he forced the Dutch authorities to grant him the asylum that the laws of civilized warfare give to ships in distress. He demanded, and was given, leave to establish a hospital under the American flag on shore for his wounded, to dispose as he pleased of his five hundred prisoners, and to have the drawbridges at the fort hauled up whenever he desired. Thus menaced as Paul Jones was with dangers outside, he had still many to encounter within the port. He had great trouble in getting the Serapis refitted, and then he was told plainly by the French ambassador that he must accept a French commission and fly the French flag if he desired to hold on to the ship which was the noble spoil of his victory; otherwise he must transfer his flag to the Alliance, a ship in every way inferior to the Serapis. Landais, it may be said in passing, had been detached from the ship and ordered to Paris to answer for his conduct. It was bitter enough to the British ambassador to see the American colors flying on an American ship—the Alliance—but it was intolerable to see it over a beautiful British frigate like the Serapis; and he had influence enough with the Dutch Government to have this intimation given the French ambassador, who was obliged to notify Paul Jones.
The Bon Homme Richard had found an ocean grave, and grievous as this blow was to Paul Jones, more grievous still was it to give up the lovely Serapis, which, as he wrote Benjamin Franklin, was the finest ship of her class he had ever seen. But he did not hesitate a moment. Never during the battle for independence would he serve under any except the American flag, or bear any but an American commission. So, with a sore heart but an unflinching determination, he gave the Serapis up to his French allies, and with Dale and his old company of the Bon Homme Richard he transferred his flag to the Alliance. But day by day his enemies grew stronger, and the Dutch yielded more and more to the angry domination of the British. Every obstacle was put in his way to prevent the refitting of his ship, while at the same time he was told that, if he did not go to sea with the first fair wind, the Dutch fleet of thirteen double-decked frigates would force him out. And that would be to force him into the very jaws of destruction, so they thought, with twelve British ships cruising in full sight.
But, menaced from within and without, the indomitable spirit of Paul Jones only maintained itself the more undauntedly. As every morning dawned the American colors were hoisted at the mizzen peak of the Alliance, and flew steadily until the sunset gun was fired—and that in the face of twenty-three Dutch and British ships, any one of which was more than a match for the Alliance.
However the officials might treat him, the sympathy of the people was with Paul Jones and his gallant companions. The Dutch naval officers paid him marked respect and attention, although they were ready, at the word of command, to fire into him. He had other consolations too. His letters from Franklin were frequent and affectionate. One of them Paul Jones handed Dale to read. It said: “For some days after the arrival of your express nothing was talked of except your cool conduct and persevering bravery during the terrible combat.” And Franklin had sternly denounced Landais, who was now held in universal contempt.
The American cause was extremely popular among the masses in Holland, and the sailors were always well treated on shore. Whenever Bill Green could get leave, he usually spent it at a clean and orderly Dutch tavern, where, surrounded by stolid Dutchmen gravely smoking their long pipes, Bill would hold forth upon the glories of the fight with the Serapis. About this time he picked up a new song, which he brought on board the Alliance, written out in a fair and clerkly hand, with innumerable flourishes.
“I s’pose,” remarked the boatswain, skeptically, “you’ll want us to believe as you wrote that out with your own flipper?”
“Why, yes, I did,” answered Bill, somewhat sheepishly.
“Well, then,” continued the boatswain, “it’s a shame for you to be nothin’ but a quartermaster. The purser hisself, he don’t write no such handwritin’ as that. But pipe up the song, though.”
Bill, to avoid awkward discussions, piped up with unusual promptness, and sang as follows:
“Heave the topmast from the board,And our ship for action clear.By the cannon and the swordWe will die or conquer here.The foe, of twice our force, nears fast:To your posts, my faithful tars!Mind your rigging, guns, and spars,And defend your Stripes and StarsTo the last.
“Heave the topmast from the board,
And our ship for action clear.
By the cannon and the sword
We will die or conquer here.
The foe, of twice our force, nears fast:
To your posts, my faithful tars!
Mind your rigging, guns, and spars,
And defend your Stripes and Stars
To the last.
“At the captain’s bold commandFlew each sailor to his gun,And resolved he there would stand,Though the odds were two to one,To defend his flag and ship with his life.High on every mast displayed,‘God, Our Country, and Our Rights.’E’en the bravest braver made,For the strife.
“At the captain’s bold command
Flew each sailor to his gun,
And resolved he there would stand,
Though the odds were two to one,
To defend his flag and ship with his life.
High on every mast displayed,
‘God, Our Country, and Our Rights.’
E’en the bravest braver made,
For the strife.