“THEY SWARMED INTO THE FORECASTLE AMIDST FIERCE CHEERS.”
“Surrender?” cried John Paul Jones. “Why, I am just beginning to fight!”
Then he turned to John Mayrant, who stood ready to rush across the hammock-nettings into the waist of the enemy’s ship. Twenty-seven sailors were nearby, each with a cutlass and two ship’s pistols.
“Board ’em!” he cried.
Over the rail went the seamen—monkey-wise—over the rail, John Mayrant leading with a dirk in his teeth, like a Bermuda pirate. They swarmed into the forecastle amidst fierce cheers, the rattle of musketry, and the hiss of flames. Just at the moment that John Mayrant’s feet struck the enemy’s deck, a sailor thrust a boarding-pike through the fleshy part of his right thigh. Crack! a pistol spat at him, and he fell prostrate.
“Remember Portsea jail! Remember Portsea jail!” cried the dauntless raider, rushing down into the forecastle with his wild, yelping sailors. Pearson stood there; crest-fallen—abashed.
Seizing the ensign-halyards of the Serapis, as the raging torrent of seamen rolled towards him, the brave English sea-captain hauled the flag of his ship to the deck.
The Richard had won!
“He has struck; stop firing! Come on board and take possession!” yelled Mayrant, running to the rail.
Lieutenant Dale heard him, and, swinging himself on the side of the Serapis, made his way to the quarter-deck, where Captain Pearson was standing. “I have the honor, sir, to be the first Lieutenant of the vessel alongside,” said he saluting. “It is the American Continental ship Bon Homme Richard, under command of Commodore Paul Jones. What vessel is this?”