The Serapis is held as though in irons, canvas a-flap, by the blanket of the Richard’s broad sails. Slowly yet surely, like the coming of a doom, the Richard forges across the other’s head. The design of Commodore Paul Jones is to lay the Serapis aboard, lash ship to ship, and sweep the Englishman’s decks with his boarders. These, armed to the teeth, as ready for the rush as so many hunting dogs, Lieutenant Mayrant is holding in the waist.
The Richard is half its length across the bows of the Serapis—still helpless, sails a-droop! Suddenly, by a twist of the helm, Commodore Paul Jones broaches the Richard to on the opposite tack, and doubles down on his prey. It is the beginning of the end. The jib-boom of the Serapis runs in over the poop-deck of the Richard; a turn is instantly taken on it with a small hawser by Lieutenant Dale, who makes all fast to the Richard’s mizzen-mast. The ships swing closer and closer together; at last the two rasp broadside against broadside, the Richard still holding its way. As they grind along, the outboard fluke of the Serapis’ starboard anchor catches in the Richard’s mizzen-chains. First one, then another gives way; the third holds, and the ships lie together bow and stern. Commodore Paul Jones is over the side like a cat; the next moment he lashes the Serapis to the Richard, and the death-hug is at hand.
CHAPTER XVI—HOW THE BATTLE RAGED
Commodore Paul Jones drops overboard his cocked hat. Orderly Jack Downes rushes into the cabin and gets another. Returning, he offers it to Commodore Paul Jones, who waves it away with a laugh.
“Chuck it through the skylight, Jack,” he says; “I’ll fight this out in my scalp.” Then, glancing forward at the sailors, naked to the waist: “If it were not for the looks of the thing, I’d off coat and shirt, and fight in the buff like yonder gallant hearties.”
There is a sudden smashing of the Richard’s bulwarks, a splintering of spars; a sleet of shot, grape and solid and bar, tears through the ship! In the wake of that hail of iron comes the thunder of the guns—loud and close aboard! Commodore Paul Jones looks about in angry wonder; that broadside was not from the Serapis!
“It’s the Alliance!” cries Lieutenant Dale, rushing aft. “Landais is firing on us!”
Not half a cable-length away lies the Alliance, head to the wind, topsails back, half hidden in a curling smother of powder-smoke. There comes but the one broadside. Even as Commodore Paul Jones looks, the traitor’s head pays slowly off; a moment later the sails belly and fill, and the Alliance is running seaward before the wind. Commodore Paul Jones grits out a curse.