At the end of twenty-four hours, Commodore Paul Jones boards the Alliance. He finds Lieutenant Degge in command; the craven Landais has slipped ashore with all his belongings. Commodore Paul Jones is the last man he cares to face. The latter tells Lieutenant Degge to clap the irons on Landais, should he return, and signal the Serapis.
“You must understand, sir,” responds Lieutenant Degge, “that my crew is honeycombed with mutiny. Captain Landais brought about a conspiracy; two-thirds of the ship’s company are in it.”
“Make me out a list of the leaders, and muster them aft.”
Lieutenant Degge gives Commodore Paul Jones the names of twenty. These are called aft—lowering and sullen. Commodore Paul Jones orders them transferred to the Serapis.
“I’ll send you an even number to take their places,” he says to Lieutenant Degge. “Meanwhile, my old sea-wolves will lick them into patriotic shape. Should they fail, you may find some half dozen of the ringleaders at least, dangling from my yardarms.”
The caitiff Landais, driven from his ship, fumes and blusters. He tries to see the French Ambassador, and is refused. Then he sends a challenge to Commodore Paul Jones.
Lieutenant Dale finds the latter mariner in his cabin, blandly triumphant.
“There,” he cries, tossing the Landais challenge over to Lieutenant Dale—“there, Dick, read that! You will then see what I meant by telling you to wait until my diplomacy had had time to unfold.”
“But you don’t mean to fight the creature?” and Lieutenant Dale glances up from his reading, horrified.
“Fight him; and kill him, sir! Why not? Do you suppose for a moment that poor Caswell is to go unavenged?”