Never, since the beginning of time, has there been a fiercer sea-fight than that between the “Bonhomme Richard” and the “Serapis.” No struggle has been more dogged—no victory greater.

Three—four times during the night-long battle any other man than Paul Jones would have struck his colors. His main-deck battery and crews blown to pieces—his water-line gaping with wounds—his sides battered into one great chasm—still he fought on. His prisoners released—his masts tottering—his rudder gone—his ship afire below and aloft, his resistance was the more desperate. The thought of surrender never occurred to him.

After taking the “Drake” in a gallant fight, burning Whitehaven, and terrorizing the whole British coast, Paul Jones went to Paris, where a commission to the converted East Indiaman, the “Bonhomme Richard,” awaited him. Putting her in the best shape possible, he boldly steered across for English waters. Paul Jones thirsted for larger game.

[25]

When Captain Pearson, with the new frigate “Serapis,” on a fine September afternoon in 1779, sighted Paul Jones, he signalled his merchant convoy to scatter, and piped all hands, who rushed jubilantly to quarters. The opportunity of his life had come, for the capture of the rebel frigate meant glory and a baronetcy. But he reckoned without his host.

Across the oily waters came the cheery pipes of the boatswain’s mate of the “Richard” as Jones swung her up to meet her adversary, and Pearson knew his task would not be an easy one. The wind fell so light that the sun had sunk behind the light on Flamborough Head before the ships drifted up to fighting distance, and it was dark before they were ready to come to close quarters. On the “Bonhomme Richard,” Jones’s motley crew, stripped to the waist, were drawn up at the guns, peering out through the ports at the dark shadow on the starboard bow they were slowly overhauling.

The decks were sanded, the hammocks piled around the wheel, and there at the break of the poop stood the captain, trumpet in hand, turning now and then to give an order to Richard Dale or his midshipmen, quiet and composed, with the smile on his face men saw before the fight with the “Drake.” The[26] clumsy hulk rolled to the ground-swell, and the creaking of the masts and clamping of the sheet-blocks were all that broke the silence of the night. No excitement was apparent, and the stillness seemed the greater for an occasional laugh from the gunners, or the rattle of a cutlass newly settled in its sheath.

Then close aboard from out the blackness came a voice,—

“What ship is that?”

Paul Jones moved to the lee mizzen-shrouds and slowly replied,—

“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.

“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[27] 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[28] 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.

[29]

“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.”

[30]

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.

[31]

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[32] 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[33] 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.