There is a skurry across the Ranger’s decks, as the men rush from the port to the starboard battery.
“Stand by, Mr. Starbuck,” calls ont Captain Paul Jones, “to rake her as we cross her stern.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” returns the master-gunner. “She shall have it for’ard and aft, as my old gran’am shells peas cods!”
“Steady, Mr. Sargent!” and again Captain Paul Jones cautions the alert wheelman. “Keep her as she is!”
The guns are swung, and depressed so as to tear the poor Drake open from stern-post to cutwater at one discharge. The Ranger gathers head; slowly she makes ready to cross her enemy’s stern so close that one might chuck a biscuit aboard. It is a moment fraught of life and death for the unhappy Drake.
With her captain and first officer already dead, the situation proves beyond the second officer, on whom the responsibility of fighting or surrendering the ship devolves. His sullen British soul gives way; and he strikes his colors just in time to avoid that raking fire which would else have snuffed him off the face of the sea.
“Out-fought, out-manoeuvred, and out-sailed!” exclaims Captain Paul Jones.
Lieutenant Hall, flushed of combat, comes up.
“We have beaten them, Captain!” exults Lieutenant Hall.
“We’ve done more than that, Mr. Hall,” responds Captain Paul Jones. “We have defeated an aphorism, and made a precedent. For the first time in the history of the sea, a lighter ship, with a smaller crew and a weaker battery, has whipped an Englishman.”