The doctor passed Dale as he rushed upon deck. “Sir,” said he to Jones, “the water is up to the lower deck, and we will sink with all hands in a few minutes.”
Jones turned calmly to the doctor, as though surprised. “What, doctor,” said he, “would you have me strike to a drop of water? Here, help me get this gun over.”
The surgeon ran below, but Jones got the gun over, and served it, too.
To add to the horror of the situation, just at this moment a ball from a new enemy came screaming just over the head of Paul Jones, and the wind of it knocked off his hat. The carpenter, Stacy, ran up breathlessly.
“My God, she’s firing on us—the ‘Alliance,’ sir!” And the captain glanced astern where the flashes marked the position of the crazy Landais, firing on his own consort.
If ever Paul Jones had an idea of hauling his colors, it must have been at this moment.
He had been struck on the head by a splinter, and the blood surged down over his shoulder—but he didn’t know it.
Just then a fear-crazed wretch rushed past him, trying to find the signal-halyards, crying wildly as he ran,—
“Quarter! For God’s sake, quarter! Our ship is sinking!”
Jones heard the words, and, turning quickly, he hurled an empty pistol at the man, which struck him squarely between the eyes, knocking him headlong down the hatch.