Captain Cottineau was signalled to and requested to go after the sloop-of-war. About sundown the Richard succeeded in weathering the large frigate and manœuvered between her and the land.
The ships neared each other very gradually, for the breeze was slight. They were on opposite tacks and Commodore Jones readily made out the force and rate of his antagonist. By the light of the dying day—for it was about seven P. M.—he saw that she was a new forty-four; a perfect beauty. It was the Serapis—Captain Richard Pearson commanding—but six months off the stocks and on her first cruise as a convoy to the Baltic fleet of merchantmen: consisting of about forty vessels laden with timber and other naval stores for the use of the British dockyards. Jones had hoped to have an opportunity to attack this flotilla, but his plans had been frustrated by the vigilance and skill of the commander of the men-of-war in convoy.
Even now Landais might have got among the merchantmen in the fast-sailing Alliance, while Jones and Cottineau occupied the attention of the two men-of-war; but the French officer did not have sufficient courage to tackle them, and kept well beyond striking distance.
The Captain of the Serapis stood upon the deck, intently gazing at the on-coming vessel.
“Gad Zooks!” he uttered. “From the size of her spars and her height out of water I take her to be a French fifty of the time of the last war. It’s too dark for me to see whether she has any lower ports or not.” He raised his night glasses to his eyes, and, in the light of the full moon which was now flooding the sea with a silvery haze, saw that his opponent was intent upon a fight.
“It is probably Paul Jones,” said he, lowering the glasses. “If so—there’s tight work ahead. What ship is that?” he cried out in loud tones.
No answer came from the dark hull of the Good Richard, but, as she swung nearer upon the rolling waves, suddenly a flash, a roar, and a sheet of flame belched from her side. The battle was on!
It was a struggle which has been talked of for years. It was a battle about which the world never seems to tire of reading. It was the battle which has made the name of John Paul Jones nautically immortal.
The two warriors of the deep were on the same tack, headed northwest, driven by a slight wind which veered to the westward. The sea was smooth, the sky was clear, the full moon was rising—the conditions for a night struggle were ideal.
Crash! Crash! Crash!