“My lieutenant, you are wounded!” he cried; and Dale, at hearing the very words he had addressed to the commodore, smiled faintly.
“Yes, sir,” he answered; “I did not know it until a little while ago. I don’t know when I was hurt, or how, but I was forced to give up the command to Mr. Lunt and return to you. But how is your wound?”
“It is nothing—nothing!” cried Paul Jones, but really, although his wound in the head was not dangerous, he had lost much blood, and only his indomitable will kept him upon his feet.
Wretched indeed was the plight of the brave Bon Homme Richard. Immortalized she was, but she had given her life for her victory. So desperate was her condition between decks that many of the sailors, regarding her as a floating coffin, sprang overboard and swam to the still stanch Serapis, and to the Alliance, that now appeared off the weather quarter of the gallant ship she had so treacherously deserted.
It was now nearly daylight, but the fog enveloped everything, and the eye could scarcely penetrate a hundred yards. A wind still blew fitfully, driving the fog hither and thither, but as fast as it was drifted landward another great fog bank would come rolling sullenly in from the open Atlantic. It deadened the sounds of the saw and the hammer and the constant creaking of the pumps as the men toiled at them. Once it almost lifted. It was just at sunrise, and a great golden lance seemed to penetrate it straight from heaven. Like magic, the white mist parted, the sky, the sea, and the air were suddenly flooded with a rose-pink glow, and the fair and lovely light shone full upon the lithe figure of Paul Jones as he stood on the poop with his face turned to the east. His arms were folded, and his inscrutable dark eyes, full of a strange rapture, were uplifted to the sky. Glory was the breath of his life, and here was glory enough for a lifetime, as he saw his own shattered ship, and the Serapis conquered but still majestic.
For five minutes he stood motionless. He was recalling the same hour the day before, and now his proudest wish was fulfilled. Alone and single-handed he had beaten an enemy at least twice as strong as himself. He had made the name of the American navy respected from thenceforward, and his far-seeing mind realized the mighty effect of his victory. After a while he roused himself from his reverie, which was a sort of exaltation, and swept the horizon with his glass. Not a sail was in sight where twenty-four hours before they had whitened the seas around him. The very name of Paul Jones had frightened them into harbor.
But soon the fog descended again, and Paul Jones devoted himself to one intense and long-continued effort to save the smoldering, leaking, but glorious Bon Homme Richard. It was his ardent wish to save his ship, the eloquent witness of his prowess, and to that work he turned with almost superhuman energy. The dim morning wore on. The men were mostly below, fighting the leaks and the fire, and the decks were comparatively deserted, when Paul Jones, still on the poop, caught sight of Danny Dixon running aft as hard as he could clip it.
“Hold on!” cried Paul Jones. “There is work for everybody on this ship. Why are you idle?”
“I ain’t idle, sir,” answered Danny, touching his cap. “The flag as was most shot to pieces is hangin’ astern now, under water; and I thought, sir, as you wouldn’t want to lose that ’ere flag, I’d git it out o’ the water for the honor o’ the ship, sir.”
“You are right; go and get it,” answered Paul Jones, smiling.