The ships are slowly closing, watchful as wrestlers striving for holds, the Richard edging down with the wind, the Serapis holding on.

“What ship is that?” hails Captain Pearson.

There is no reply.

“What ship is that?” comes the second hail.

The response is a storm of solid shot from the Richard’s flaming broadside.

As the Richard goes into action, Commodore Paul Jones swings his glass along the eastern horizon. The Pallas is going down the wind, in hot pursuit of the Countess of Scarboro, yawing and firing its bow-chaser as it runs; while far out to sea lies the traitor Landais, sulking or skulking, it matters little which, his coward topsails just visible against the moonlit sky-line.

With the wind aft, the Richard and the Serapis head northwest, both on the port tack. The moon makes the scene as light as day; the sea is as evenly smooth as a ballroom floor. The Richard goes over on the starboard tack, the Serapis holding as she is; the ships approach each other, the Richard keeping the weather-gage. For twenty minutes it is broadside and broadside as fast as men may handle sponge and rammer. As in the hour of the Drake and Ranger, the Yankees show smarter with their guns.

When the battle begins, the Richard has to its broadside three eighteen-pounders, as against the Serapis’ ten. With the first fire, two of the Richard’s three explode, killing half the men that serve them, and tearing open the main gun-deck immediately above. Lieutenant Mayrant, who has command in the gunroom where the three eighteens are mounted, reports the disaster to Commodore Paul Jones. The latter receives the news beamingly, as though it were the enemies’ eighteen-pounders, and not his own, that have been put out of action.

“Then we have only the twelve-pounders and the long nines to fight him with,” says Commodore Paul Jones. “It is now a thirty-two-gun ship against a forty-four. We shall beat him; and the honor will be the greater.” Then, observing Lieutenant Mayrant to be severely wounded in the head, he becomes concerned for that young gentleman. “Better go below to Brooks,” says he, “and have your wounds dressed.”

“I must get square for Portsea jail first,” replies Lieutenant Mayrant, who is of those exchanged ones enlisted at Nantes.

Lieutenant Dale, forward with the twelve-pounders, comes aft to ask about the exploded eight guns.

“They were rotten when the Frenchmen sold them to us,” says Lieutenant Dale bitterly.

“Ay!” responds Commodore Paul Jones. “I’d give half the prize money I shall get from yonder ship to have those Frenchmen here.” Meanwhile the Serapis—not yet a prize—is fiercely belching flame and smoke, while her shot tear the vitals out of the Richard.

The ships have been fighting half an hour—rough broadside work; the Richard with its lighter metal has had the worst of the barter. They have sailed, or rather drifted, a mile and a half, edging closer to one another as they forge slowly to the north and west.

The Serapis, being the livelier ship, has fore-reached on the Richard, and Captain Pearson sees the chance to luff across the latter’s bows. Having torn the Richard open with a raking broadside, Captain Pearson will then go clear around the Yankee, put the Serapis upon the starboard tack, and claim in his turn the weather-gage. It is a brilliant thought, and Captain Pearson pulls down his helm to execute it. Already he sees victory in his fingers. He is radiant; it will make him a Knight Commander of the Bath.

While Captain Pearson is manoeuvring for that title, the hot broadside dispute proceeds with unflagging fury. Only the Richard is beginning to bleed and gasp; those ten eighteen-pounders of the Serapis overmaster its weaker batteries. Also, by this time they are doubly weak; for more than half of the Richard’s twelve-pounders have been dismounted, and the balance are so jammed with wreckage and splinters as to forbid them being worked. Lieutenant Dale reports the crippled condition of the Richard’s broadside to Commodore Paul Jones, where the latter stands on the after-deck, in personal command of the French marines, whose captain has crept below with a hurt knee.

“We have but three effective twelve-pounders left,” says Lieutenant Dale.

“Three?” retorts Commodore Paul Jones, cheerfully. “Now, well-aimed and low, Dick, much good damage may be worked with three twelve-pounders.”

Lieutenant Dale wipes the blood and sweat and powder-stains from his face, salutes, and goes back to his three guns; while Commodore Paul Jones, alive to the enemy’s new manouvre, takes the wheel from the quartermaster.

To check the ambitious Pearson in his efforts to luff across his forefoot, Commodore Paul Jones pays off the Richard’s head a point. The check is not alone successful, but under the influence of that master hand, the Richard all but gets the Serapis’ head into chancery.

Being defeated in his luff, Captain Pearson next discovers that his brisk antagonist has put him in a dilemma. If he holds on, the Richard will run him down; he can already see the great, black cutwater rearing itself on high, as though to crush him and cut him in two. If h............