Anything less like a war vessel could hardly be imagined. The Bon Homme Richard had been an old-fashioned, high-pooped East Indiaman with a towering forecastle. This antiquated makeshift, formerly called the Duc de Duras, had been turned over to Jones for a ship-of-war through the grudging kindness of France. It was the best ship Franklin and the other commissioners of the new American Republic could procure for their greatest sea captain. Jones, out of compliment to Franklin, author of the "Poor Richard" papers, had renamed her; the name was the only thing new about her. She had been pierced for thirty-six guns, twenty-eight twelve-pounders on the main-deck, and eight nine-pounders on the quarter-deck and forecastle. In utter desperation at her entire inadequacy, Jones had recourse to the dangerous experiment, not often resorted to, of mounting six eighteen-pounders in ports pierced for them on the berth-deck, and of course very near the water line. The guns were all of an obsolete pattern and much worn by use, the eighteen-pounders being especially bad; as dangerous, in fact, to friends as foes. Bad as they were, they were all he could obtain, and, with characteristic determination, Jones resolved to make the best of them.
The ship herself was so old and rotten that she was not even fit for an ordinary merchant cruise, much less prepared for the shocks of battle. Through an unfortunate combination of circumstances, all of her senior officers were absent except Dale, the first lieutenant, Stacey, the sailing-master, and Mease, the purser. Among that half of her crew who were soldiers, many had scarcely yet acquired their "sea-legs," and some of them were actually seasick during the battle! The Serapis, with which they were about to engage and to which they were rapidly drawing near, was a brand-new, double-banked frigate, mounting fifty guns on two covered and one uncovered decks, twenty eighteen-pounders, twenty nines, and ten sixes. She was manned by three hundred and fifty well-drilled able seamen and commanded by one of the best officers in the English navy, who was ably seconded by a full quota of capable and experienced subordinates.
Pearson had no more doubt of winning the victory than he had of the rising of the sun next morning. Leaving one factor out of a comparison of the opposing forces, his confidence was absolutely warranted. But Jones had no more doubt of winning the victory than Pearson had. Pearson knew his ship and his crew; Jones knew himself. He was the unconscious factor which vitiated Pearson's conclusions. When a man like the little Scotch-American captain makes up his mind to do a thing, there is only one thing to prevent his doing it, and that is to remove the man! Jones intended to conquer. There never was a man who had more of the spirit of absolute determination, of unconquerable, unshakable, unbreakable pertinacity in continuing a conflict, than he. He never knew when he was beaten; perhaps because he never was. There was something in the sheer determined, persistent pugnacity of the man which absolutely compelled success. He wrenched victory from overwhelming odds, superior force, fortuitous chance,--everything.
The men understood this, too. There is nothing your real hard-bitten dare-devil, your imprudent ruffian, likes so much as a man who is not afraid of him and who will be his master. Your ruffian curses and swears at your man, plots against him, rebels, mutinies, conspires, and in the moment of action follows him like a devotee. The little man standing at the break of the poop, cool, calm, thoughtful, with his student face and somewhat poetic, dreamy smile, did not look like the iron-handed, iron-willed, indomitable master of the motley ruffian band which had been dumped upon his deck--which he certainly was. With the dainty manner of a Frenchman, the courteous deference of a gentleman of the oldest and best school, the calmness of an ancient philosopher, there was in his appearance no outward evidence of the tremendous qualities inherent in the man, save in the sparkling, flashing, piercing eye which plunged through and through those upon whom its glances were fastened, with the keenness of a sword-blade.
His men were wont to say that he could look even a frigate into striking her colors if given an opportunity! The hardest ruffian cringed like a cur before him, and this when he was peaceful and quiet. When he grew angry, which was rare, his passion was like Washington's, blasting and appalling. He was perfectly quiet now, however, and he stood by Dale's side at the break of the poop looking over the bows of the ship toward the enemy.
As they swept forward through the peaceful sea, a fragrance of balm and spicery and myrrh, which seemed to suggest the many voyages of the old ship in the distant tropic latitudes, clung about the decks and pervaded the gentle air already redolent with the sweet scent of new-mown hay from the not distant shore. It was as calm and sweet an autumn night as ever falls across the tired earth. The land breeze blew softly across the decks; the bright radiance of the glorious moon of harvest sparkled and wavered and flickered with sinuous, restless brilliancy on the tossing water ahead. All the busy notes of preparation had died away. There had come over the hearts of all, in that moment before the approaching crisis, a little silence which bespoke a recognition of the gravity of the impending conflict The mellow-toned bell forward was striking the time; two, four, six, seven bells in the second dog watch, half after seven o'clock. The minutes were being rung away for some of the men upon the decks of the great old ship; for many of them the bell would strike no more. Some who had gazed carelessly upon the setting sun would not see it rise again. Laughter ceased, jests failed, and some unwonted lips, while eyes were heavenward turned, murmured the name of God in belated petition. Even the most hardened and indifferent sailor felt the influence of the hour and was still.
Off on the starboard bow, the Pallas was gallantly speeding toward her distant foe. The Alliance, having paid no attention to repeated signals, was still edging in toward the convoy. The Serapis with her topsail to the mast, her men at quarters, ports open, lanterns lighted, was grimly waiting. As Jones's eye fell upon the Alliance, his lips were tightened; a black shadow swept across his face which boded ill for Landais again. When Dale, standing by his side, ventured to break his reverie by a bitter comment upon the defection of the frigate, Jones remarked,--
"Never mind, sir. The fewer we are, the more honor we shall gain by taking them."
But in the main the two officers kept silent watch together. Even the chattering Frenchmen caught the contagion of the portentous moments and stood in quiet ranks prepared and ready. It was no quarrel of theirs, this in which they fought, but their old and ever present hatred of England gave them inspiration enough for the conflict. The breeze freshened slightly; and as the Richard drew nearer the Serapis, the latter swung her ponderous main-yard and slowly filled away. The two ships were sailing at right angles to each other, the Richard slightly ahead of the Serapis, which was moving to cross her bow.
"Shall I go to the batteries now, captain?" asked the first lieutenant.