Just then the pilot boat containing Lieutenant Lunt and sixteen men hailed the ship alongside.
“For Heaven’s sake, Lunt, come aboard!” cried Dale; “your services are needed here.”
As Lunt came over the side the sailing master of the Serapis appeared, and, going up to Dale, said:
“Sir, the ship can’t pay off, because she has an anchor under foot.” This was the anchor dropped by Captain Pearson when the ships first fouled. The cable was cut, and the ship instantly answered the helm. She was much cut up aloft, but her hull was sound, and she had no water in her. Preparations were at once made to repair her. A jury mast was rigged in place of the mainmast, and new sails were bent instead of those that had been torn to pieces by hand grenades exploded in her rigging.
The night was now far spent. The moon, that had shone so brilliantly during the fury of the battle, now hung low in the misty night sky that glimmered with a pale and waning light. A white fog was creeping slowly in from the Atlantic, and a fitful wind ruffled the black and phosphorescent water.
The first thing to be attended to, while the carpenters were at work upon the crippled Serapis and the almost wrecked Bon Homme Richard, was the care of the wounded and the burial of the dead. As there was great doubt whether the Bon Homme Richard could be kept afloat until daylight, no wounded were removed from the Serapis, where the British surgeons attended to them. Her dead also were buried from her deck, one of the British lieutenants reading the service of the Established Church, in an agitated voice. On board the Bon Homme Richard, Paul Jones, as he always did, read the Psalms for the dead over the brave men who had fallen around him. Everything was done quickly, but with proper reverence, for, no matter how much encompassed by danger Paul Jones was, he never forgot to give fitting burial to the departed brave. Like all men of feeling heart and deep imagination, Paul Jones, after the inspiration of battle and the glory of victory, always felt a keen distress at the ruin and desolation it wrought. The sight of the gallant men cold in death, that lay in rows upon the reeking deck of the Bon Homme Richard, covered by the flag whose honor they had so gloriously maintained, wrung his heart and filled his eyes with tears. And this man, who had dared death from battle, fire, and water rather than strike his flag, faltered and almost wept as he read the solemn words of the Psalmist before the dead were laid at rest in the ocean.
As each body fell swiftly and silently overboard a heavy blow seemed struck upon the heart of Paul Jones. The officers and men crowded the deck, standing with uncovered heads, while a little way off the Serapis loomed up in the fast rising mist, and from her side a frequent dull splash showed that the same solemn ceremony was taking place upon her decks.
At last it was over. The men with a sudden alacrity folded up the flags, quickly carried the grewsome planks and canvas below, and the boatswain’s pipe sounded cheerily calling the men to work.
The reaction from the burial of the dead at such a time is always great, and the officers and men vie in their quick rebound to cheerfulness. Paul Jones felt this instant and magnetic change. Ten minutes from the time that the last sad ceremonies were over he walked the deck with his usual graceful and alert step, ordering, overlooking, and encouraging everybody.
Meanwhile a boat had pulled off from the Serapis, and when Paul Jones, who had gone below for a moment to see how the carpenters were getting on, came upon deck, Dale was being helped over the side. Paul Jones went immediately up to him. Dale leaned heavily upon a sailor, and Paul Jones at once saw that his favorite lieutenant was lame.