"Muster a boarding party and take charge of the prize; the fight is over!"
But no, the battle was not over. A few moments before, an English ship captain among the prisoners had succeeded in escaping through the rents in the shattered sides of the two ships and had told the plight of the Richard to the first lieutenant of the Serapis. With this information the men on the gun-deck had been rallied, and led by their officers had returned to their quarters and had resumed the battle. They, too, were heroes. Mayrant, who ran aft from the forecastle as he saw Pearson strike his flag, jumped on the rail by Jones's orders and followed Dale upon the deck of the English ship. Such was the confusion of the moment that as Mayrant leaped on the deck he was actually run through the thigh by a pike in the hand of a wounded British sailor. Pearson was standing alone as if dazed, on the quarter-deck of his ship, holding one clenched hand against his breast, with the other grasping his trailing flag. In his face was that look of defeat and despair which is the saddest aspect of baffled impotent humanity.
"Have you struck, sir?" cried Dale, stopping before the English captain.
"Yes," was the grim reply; his voice was a broken whisper indicating in the tones his mental agony.
"I am come to take possession."
"Very good, sir," said Pearson, bitterly, as before, and dropping the flag; then he reached for his sword.
Just at this moment, Pascoe, the first lieutenant of the Serapis, came bounding up the hatchway from the deck below.
"A few more broadsides, sir, and they are ours," he cried impetuously. "They are in a sinking--
"The ship has struck, sir, and you are my prisoner," interrupted Dale, quickly, seeing the necessity of promptitude.
"Struck! This ship! Your prisoner!" cried the astonished Englishman.