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.
THE TERRIER AND THE MASTIFF
The first of the great American captains to give his life to the cause of liberty was Nicholas Biddle. And the action in which he lost it is the finest example of daring and hardihood in the little known pages of naval history. His part in that glorious action must ever remain unknown as to its details since but five out of his crew remained alive to tell of it, and we are chiefly indebted to the British accounts for the information which has been handed down.
Nicholas Biddle began his naval career by being shipwrecked on a desert shoal at the age of thirteen. But being rescued, with his four companions, at the end of two months, his ardor was so little dampened that as soon as opportunity offered he immediately went forth in search of further adventures on the sea. A war between England and Spain being imminent, he went to London, and succeeded in getting a midshipman’s warrant on the ship of Captain – afterwards Admiral – Sterling.
But just before the declaration of independence of his own country, a voyage of discovery to the North Pole was proposed by the Royal Geographical Society, and this opportunity seemed to hold forth infinitely more possibilities for advancement than the daily port routine of a British frigate of war.
So, Admiral Sterling refusing Biddle’s mild request to be transferred to one of the vessels, the young man took it upon himself to doff his gold-laced uniform and present himself upon the “Carcase” in very shabby sailor clothes, upon which he was forthwith entered upon her books as a sailor before the mast. He was in glorious company, though, for Horatio Nelson – afterwards to be the greatest admiral England has ever known – shared his humble lot as a jacky, although his prospects in the service were more brilliant than Biddle’s. The expedition, having accomplished its purpose, returned to England in 1774, both young Nelson and Biddle having been appointed coxswains for meritorious service.
When hostilities in the United States began, Biddle, of course, resigned from the British navy and offered his services to the Continental Congress. His first commission was the command of the “Camden,” a galley fitted out by the State of Pennsylvania for the defence of the Delaware River. He was then made a captain in the naval service, and took command of the “Andrew Doria,” of fourteen guns and one hundred and thirty men.
Just before Commodore Hopkins’s fleet hoisted anchor, Biddle had an opportunity to show his intrepidity in a very personal way. Two men who had deserted from his vessel had been taken and were placed in prison at Lewistown. Biddle sent an officer and a squad of men ashore to bring them off. But the officer returned to the ship and reported that the deserters had joined with the other prisoners, and barricaded the door, swearing that no man alive would take them. Biddle put on his side-arms and, taking only a young midshipman