"The ship is clear, sir," said Lieutenant Richard Dale, saluting smartly. He was a handsome, dashing young sailor, the picture of sea gallantry, as he ran lightly up the ladder from the main-deck and stopped before the little captain of the Bon Homme Richard, standing on the weather side of the poop, keenly surveying the scene.
"Very good, sir," said the little man, nodding his head but not turning toward his executive officer. "Look yonder," he added, pointing ahead and toward the shore. "What do you make that, sir?"
"It cannot be the Alliance!" exclaimed Dale, in great surprise, as he shaded his eyes and gazed intently in the direction of the setting sun at a large war-ship which was edging in shore toward the harbor of Scarborough, which apparently sheltered a numerous convoy of merchant ships.
"'Tis indeed she!" replied Jones, sternly; "I have repeatedly signalled to Captain Landais to follow in our wake,--to form line ahead. If we get out of this thing safely--" He stopped, repressed his feeling by a strong effort, compressing his lips passionately in a way which promised trouble for Captain Landais and the Alliance, a new and handsome frigate, the best of Jones's squadron. After a momentary pause the commodore, a man of few words in time of action at least, turned toward the stern of his ship.
"Look aft there, too," he added.
"That will be the Pallas, of course," said Dale, as his eye fell upon a smaller ship which was following the Bon Homme Richard. "And the Vengeance, sir?"
"There! Hull down on the horizon, fleeing like a coward," said Jones, bitterly.
"And those two white fellows forward there," continued Dale, "reaching out from the harbor--"
"Are the Serapis and the Scarborough," interrupted the captain, "if the information sent us by O'Neill be correct."