Danny disappeared astern, and presently came up dripping. But he had the torn flag, and was wringing it out as he came along.
“Here she is, sir,” said he, as Paul Jones took it; “and here’s a little rag o’ it, sir, that I hopes you’ll let me keep in my ditty box.”
He showed a scrap a few inches square that he had torn from the shattered flagstaff.
“Yes, you may,” replied Paul Jones. “That is in place of the shirt you took off and gave for a gunwad. I see you have another.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Danny, who had on a shirt about twice too big for him. “Mr. Green, he flung it to me jist now. I dunno where he got it from.”
As the hours passed on the terrible situation of the Bon Homme Richard became plainer. She was literally cut to pieces between decks, from her spar deck to the water line, and there was not planking enough in the whole squadron to patch her up. The wind also began to rise, and Paul Jones, remembering that where eleven British cruisers had been searching for him the day before, knew that probably fifty would be after him by sundown, and that he must make his way toward the Texel as quickly as possible.
About ten o’clock in the morning the fire was at last out, and Paul Jones called Captain Cottineau, with all the carpenters in the squadron, on board, to consult with them as to the possibility of carrying his ship into port, which he could scarcely bring himself to believe was impossible. Captain Landais’s opinion was not asked, nor was he suffered to come on board the Bon Homme Richard. The carpenters examined the ship thoroughly, and all of them agreed that she could not possibly be made to last more than a few hours. Such also was Captain Cottineau’s opinion. When it was communicated to Paul Jones, this man, so insensible to fear, yet felt the loss of his ship so deeply that tears dropped from his eyes; but he realized that the ship was now in a hopeless condition, and that while he might risk his own life further, he could not risk those of the brave men under him. When once his mind was made up to the cruel necessity he acted with characteristic promptness. Immediately all the boats were pressed into service transferring the wounded to the captured Serapis. There was but little worth saving on the Bon Homme Richard, and the Serapis was full of stores of all sorts. It took the whole day and the following night to place the wounded and the prisoners on the Serapis and to repair damages. Even to the last, Paul Jones could not utterly abandon the hope of saving the old ship, made forever glorious in that short September night. He left an officer on board and a gang of men, who were directed to work the pumps as long as possible. The boats were in waiting in order to take them off if the water gained on them too fast. An American ensign was hoisted, and the officer was directed to leave it flying. About nine o’clock Paul Jones, from the quarter-deck of the Serapis, saw the signal made for the boats—the Bon Homme Richard was sinking. The men were taken off, and Paul Jones watched her last moments as one watches by the deathbed of one’s best beloved. She sank lower and lower in the water after she was left, while her ensign fluttered bravely in the wandering breeze. At last, about ten o’clock, as Paul Jones watched her agonizingly through his glass, he saw her give a lurch forward. She went down head foremost, and the last thing seen of her as she settled into her ocean grave was the mizzen to’gallant mast, and the flag at the peak.
“Good-by, brave ship!” cried Paul Jones with a deep sob, as the waters closed over the ship of immortal memory.
CHAPTER XII.
The wind continued to freshen as the squadron, with its two prizes, made for the open sea. Bad weather followed, and for ten days the Serapis, with her make-shift masts, and the other ships, were tossed about the angry North Sea. At last, though, the wind proved kind, and on the morning of the 3d of October anchor was cast off the island of Texel.