“No fear of the Alliance doing anything of the kind,” said Ethan, darting a fierce glance toward that splendid but silent frigate as she rose and fell to the seas, off in the moonlight. “If I were the commander of this squadron I’d hang that fellow Landais from his own yard arm as soon as this action was over!”
The main deck batteries were working famously but soon Dale rushed up from below with news of disaster.
“Three of the long eighteens on the starboard side have exploded, sir,” he reported to Captain Jones. “Most of their crews have been killed or injured.”
The firm mouth of the chief tightened; then he replied:
“Abandon those other eighteens upon the port side. I have always suspected the quality of those pieces, and feared that something like this might happen.”
This order was carried out. From that time on all the heavy guns of the Richard were out of action; to win she must depend upon her lighter ones alone.
For some time Pearson had been trying to get his vessel under the stern of the American ship; Jones prevented this by masterly seamanship. But the Richard answered her helm slowly, while the swift Serapis moved like a hawk. At length the Englishman secured the coveted position and the American’s deck was raked murderously by whole broadsides and showers of musketry. Some of the heavy shot went through and through the Richard’s rotten timbers; great holes were blown in her that gaped like windows.
The marines fore and aft were killed in crowds; and at length the French colonel in charge of them withdrew what few remained to safer positions. In spite of the sand which had been thrown about, the decks of the converted Indiaman were slippery with blood; the killed lay upon every side, and the horrid, hopeless cries of the wounded were dreadful to hear. The guns of the Richard were useless while the Serapis held her present position; the only damage that the Americans were doing was by the small arms’ fire from the top.
With his deck reeling beneath him, and the very frame of his crazy old ship almost rent asunder by the shocks of her own guns, the dauntless commander of the Bon Homme Richard sprang along his shot-swept rail into that sleet of death. He had seen the desperate efforts of Ethan Carlyle and Longsword to drag a gun to a position from which it could be brought to bear upon the enemy, and now lent his aid in placing it.
“Warm work, sir!” panted the Irish dragoon.