Not so Danny Dixon; although but a powder boy of fourteen, he was as cool as any old hand on board. Paul Jones himself, still bent on carrying the mainmast of the Serapis, was directing the fire of the little nine-pounder.
“One more shot,” he called, “and the mast goes!”
The gunner asked for a wad, but none was at hand. Danny Dixon, quietly stripping off his shirt, handed it to the gunner, saying:
“This ’ere shirt off my back’ll make a good many wads.”
Paul Jones saw the action and heard the words.
“Ah, my brave lad,” he cried, “I shall not forget this.”
“Thankee, sir,” answered Danny with sparkling eyes.
The Bon Homme Richard was getting lower and lower in the water, and at the same time only the most tremendous exertions kept the fire from reaching the upper decks. Suddenly the carpenter, the master at arms and a master gunner came rushing up from below. They had been down in the hold where the prisoners were, and working the pumps to keep the water down, which poured in from shot holes below the water line. One of the pumps had been shot away, and that had demoralized these three men. Lieutenant Dale was on deck, and as the carpenter rushed up, shouting to the commodore, “She’s a-sinkin’, sir, and we can’t do no more at the pumps!” Dale caught the man by the throat.
“You abandoned coward, come below with me instantly! The ship shall not sink!”
Paul Jones heard every word, and, coming up quickly to Dale, said in his ear: