When at last the British frigate had come within easy distance, she hailed.
“What vessel is that?” demanded Captain Burdon.
“The Ranger, Paul Jones, commander. We are waiting for you, so strip for the fight.”
As he spoke the American captain gave a signal and the stars and stripes shot up to the masthead; then the helm was suddenly thrown up and the Ranger darted across the bows of the British vessel and poured a raking broadside into her. The captain of the Drake tried to bring the frigate across the Ranger’s stern, but Paul Jones prevented this; the two ships were now yard arm to yard arm and poured a terrific fire into each other’s rigging and hulls.
Ethan Carlyle, whose ability as a gunner had been discovered by Captain Jones long before, had charge of a six pounder in the bow. He and Longsword, stripped to the waists, and all begrimed with powder smoke, served this piece with deadly effect.
In the heat of the battle the gallant young Lieutenant Wallingford rushed up to Ethan.
“Captain Jones desires you to try for her forerigging,” panted he. “If we can cripple her badly aloft we’ll make her strike.”
Longsword had just rammed a charge into the gun, and Ethan sighted it coolly. A rain of musket shots was being poured into them by the soldier volunteers upon the Drake; but the young gunner paid no heed to this. Applying the match the gun roared redly; the foretop-gallant yard of the British ship splintered and hung down the mast in a tangle of rigging.
“Hurrah,” yelled Longsword. “A fine shot, faith!”
“And placed in the right spot,” said Wallingford. Almost as the words left his mouth, this brave young officer uttered a smothered groan, clasped both hands to his breast and sank into the arms of the Irish dragoon.