The captain of the Serapis fought his ship to the last, but when he saw the Americans sweeping everything before them and already heading for the quarterdeck, he himself seized the ensign halyards and struck his flag. Both ships were in flames, and the smoke was so thick that it was some minutes before men realized his surrender. There was little to choose between the two vessels; each was a floating mass of wreckage.
A little later the English captain went on board the Bon Homme Richard and tendered his sword to the young American. The latter looked hard at the English officer. "Captain Pearson?" he asked questioningly.
The other bowed.
"Ah, I thought so. I am John Paul Jones, once small John Paul of Arbigland in the Firth. Do you remember me?"
Pearson looked at the smoke-grimed face, the keen black eyes, the fine figure. "I shouldn't have known you. Yes, I remember now."
Paul Jones took the sword that was held out to him, and asked one of his midshipmen to escort the British captain to his cabin. He could not help smiling as a curious recollection came to him. He looked up at the masthead above him. There floated a flag bearing thirteen red and white stripes and a blue corner filled with stars. It was the very flag of his dream as a boy.
Thus it was that the sturdy Scotch boy, full of the daring spirit of his Highland ancestors, became the great sea-fighter of a new country, and ultimately wrote his name in history as the Father of the American Navy.