Chapter 16

This he endeavored to do, but not a gun could be touched off. "The old sixteen-pounders that formed the battery of the lower gun-deck, did no service whatever, except firing eight shots in all," writes John Paul Jones. "Two out of three of them burst at the first fire, killing almost all the men who were stationed to manage them."

The gunnery of the _Good Richard_ was excellent. Though her battery was one-third lighter than that of the _Serapis_; though her gun-crews were composed--to a great extent--of French volunteers, who had never been at sea before--in quickness and rapidity of fire, the shells from the American fell just as accurately as did those from the Britisher; pointed and gauged by regular, trained English men-of-war seamen. The roar of belching cannon was deafening. The superior weight and energy of the British shot began to tell decisively against the sputtering twelve-pounders of the _Richard_, in spite of the fact that they were being served with quickness and precision. As the two battling sea-monsters drifted slowly along, a pall of sulphurous smoke hung over their black hulls, like a sheet of escaping steam. They were drawing nearer and nearer to each other.

It was now about a quarter to eight. Wounded and dying littered the decks of both Britisher and American, but the fight was to the death.

"Luff! Luff!" cried Captain Pearson, as the _Richard_ began to forge near him. "Luff! Luff! and let fly with all guns at the water-line. Sink the Yankee Pirate!"

But Paul Jones was intent upon grappling with his adversary. Quickly jerking the tiller to one side, he shoved the _Richard_ into the wind and endeavored to run her--bows on--into the side of his opponent. The _Serapis_ paid off, her stern swung to, and, before she could gather way, the _Richard_'s jib-boom shot over her larboard quarter and into the mizzen rigging.

Jones was delighted.

"Throw out the grappling hooks!" cried he, in shrill tones. "Hold tight to the Britisher and be prepared to board!"

In an instant, many clawing irons spun out into the mizzen stays of the _Serapis_; but, though they caught, the lines holding them soon parted. The _Serapis_ fell off and the _Richard_ lurched ahead. Neither had been able to bring her broadsides to bear.

"We can't beat her by broadsiding," cried Jones. "We've _got_ to board!"

_Crash! Crash! Crash!_

Again the cannon made the splinters fly. Again the two game-cocks spat at each other like angry cats, but, the fire from the _Richard_ was far weaker than before.

Commodore Jones walked hastily to the gun-deck.

"Dick," said he to Lieutenant Dale, "this fellow's metal is too heavy for us at this business. He is hammering us all to pieces. We must close with him! We must get hold of him! Be prepared at any moment to abandon this place and bring what men you have left on the spar-deck--and give them the small arms for boarding when you come up."

Lieutenant Dale saluted.

"All right!" cried he. "I'll be with you in a jiffy, Commodore."

As Jones walked hastily to the main deck--the Lieutenant ran to the store-room and dealt out cutlasses, pistols and pikes, to the eager men. The deck was red with blood.

The worst carnage of all was at "number two" gun of the forward, starboard division. From the first broadside until the quarter-deck was abandoned, nineteen different men were on this gun, and, at this time, only one of the original crew remained. It was the little Indian, Antony Jeremiah; or, as his mates called him, "Red Cherry."

"Let me join you," he cried, as he saw Mayrant's boarding party. Seizing a cutlass and dirk, he stood beside the cluster of men, eager and keen to have a chance at the enemy. A soul of fire was that of the little savage--and now he had a splendid opportunity to indulge in the natural blood-thirst of his race, for an Indian loves a good fight, particularly when he is upon the winning side.

The vessels swung on slowly--the fire from the _Serapis_ still strong and accurate; the sputtering volleys from the _Richard_ growing weaker and weaker. Only three of the nine-pounders on the starboard quarter-deck were serviceable; the entire gun-deck battery was silent and abandoned.

"We have him," cheerfully cried Captain Pearson to one of his aides. "But, hello"--he continued, "what sail is that?"

As he spoke the _Alliance_ came bounding across the waves, headed for the two combatants, and looking as if she were to speedily close the struggle.

"The fight is at an end," said Jones, jubilantly.

Imagine his astonishment, chagrin, and mortification! Instead of pounding the English vessel, the French ally discharged a broadside full into the stern of the _Richard_, ran off to the northward, close hauled, and soon was beyond gun-shot.

"Coward!" shouted John Paul, shaking his fist at the retreating ally. "I'll get even with you for this if it takes me twenty years!"

No wonder he was angered, for, with his main battery completely silenced, his ship beginning to sink, nearly half his crew disabled, his wheel shot away, and his consort firing into him, there remained but one chance of victory for John Paul Jones: to foul the enemy and board her.

Luckily a spare tiller had been fitted to the rudder stem of the _Richard_ below the main tiller--before leaving port--because of the fear that the wheel would be disabled. The foresight of the Commodore had effected this; and now--by means of this extra steering-gear--the battered warrior-ship was enabled to make one, last, desperate lunge for victory. It was touch and go with John Paul Jones.

"I could distinctly hear his voice amid the crashing of musketry," says a seaman. "He was cheering on the French marines in their own tongue, uttering such imprecations upon the enemy as I have never before or since heard in French, or any other language. He exhorted them to take good aim, pointed out the object of their fire, and frequently took their loaded muskets from their hands in order to shoot them himself. In fact, towards the very last, he had about him a group of half a dozen marines who did nothing but load their firelocks and hand them to the Commodore; who fired them from his own shoulder, standing on the quarter-deck rail by the main topmast backstay."

Luck now came to the disabled _Richard_. A fortunate puff of wind struck and filled her sails, shooting her alongside of the growling _Serapis_, and to windward. The canvas of the Britisher flapped uselessly against her spars. She was blanketed and lost steering-way. In a moment the jib-boom of the English vessel ran over the poop-deck of the American ship. It was seized, grappled by a turn of small hawsers, and made fast to the mizzen-mast.

"She's ours!" cried John Paul Jones. "Seize that anchor and splice it down hard!"

As he spoke, the fluke of the starboard anchor of the _Serapis_ hooked in the mizzen chains. It was lashed fast, and the _Richard_ had been saved.

_Rattle! Rattle! Crash!_ sounded the muskets of the French marines. The English tried to cut their anchor chains and get free, but all who attempted to sever these hawsers were struck dead by the accurate balls from the marksmen on the poop-deck and round-house of the _Richard_.

"I demand your surrender!" shouted Pearson.

"Surrender?" cried John Paul Jones. "Why, I am just beginning to fight!"

Then he turned to John Mayrant, who stood ready to rush across the hammock-nettings into the waist of the enemy's ship. Twenty-seven sailors were nearby, each with a cutlass and two ship's pistols.

"Board 'em!" he cried.

Over the rail went the seamen--monkey-wise--over the rail, John Mayrant leading with a dirk in his teeth, like a Bermuda pirate. They swarmed into the forecastle amidst fierce cheers, the rattle of musketry, and the hiss of flames. Just at the moment that John Mayrant's feet struck the enemy's deck, a sailor thrust a boarding-pike through the fleshy part of his right thigh. _Crack!_ a pistol spat at him, and he fell prostrate.

"Remember Portsea jail! Remember Portsea jail!" cried the dauntless raider, rushing down into the forecastle with his wild, yelping sailors. Pearson stood there; crest-fallen--abashed.

Seizing the ensign-halyards of the _Serapis_, as the raging torrent of seamen rolled towards him, the brave English sea-captain hauled the flag of his ship to the deck.

The _Richard_ had won!

"He has struck; stop firing! Come on board and take possession!" yelled Mayrant, running to the rail.

Lieutenant Dale heard him, and, swinging himself on the side of the _Serapis_, made his way to the quarter-deck, where Captain Pearson was standing. "I have the honor, sir, to be the first Lieutenant of the vessel alongside," said he saluting. "It is the American Continental ship _Bon Homme Richard_, under command of Commodore Paul Jones. What vessel is this?"

"His Britannic Majesty's late man-of-war the _Serapis_, sir," was the sad response, "and I am Captain Richard Pearson."

"Pardon me, sir," said the American officer, "in the haste of the moment I forgot to inform you that my name is Richard Dale and I must request you to pass on board the vessel alongside."

Pearson nodded dejectedly.

As he did so, the first Lieutenant of the _Serapis_ came up from below, and, looking at Captain Pearson, asked,

"Has the enemy struck, sir?"

"No, sir! _I_ have struck!" was the sad reply.

"Then, I will go below and order our men to cease firing," continued the English Lieutenant.

But Lieutenant Dale interrupted.

"Pardon me, sir," said he, "I will attend to that; and, as for yourself, please accompany Captain Pearson on board the ship alongside."

With reluctant steps the two officers clambered aboard the battered _Good Richard_, where Commodore Jones received them with much courtesy.

Bowing low, Captain Pearson offered him his sword. His first Lieutenant did likewise.

"Captain Pearson," said the victorious John Paul, "you have fought heroically. You have worn this weapon to your own credit and to the honor of your service. I hope that your sovereign will suitably reward you."

The British commander was the image of chagrin and despair. He bowed again, and then walked slowly into the cabin, followed by his crest-fallen Lieutenant.

It was nearly midnight. The full moon above--in a cloudless sky--made it almost as light as day. Seven feet of water were in the hold of the _Richard_; she had sunk so much that many shot-holes were below the water-line and could not be plugged. Nearly sixty of her crew lay dead upon her decks; more than a hundred and twenty were desperately wounded. Every twelve-pounder of the starboard broadside was either dismounted, or disabled. The starboard side, which had been opposite the _Serapis_'s eighteen-pounders, was driven so far in, that, but for a few frames and stanchions which remained, the whole gun-deck would have fallen through. She was afire, and the flames licked upward with an eager hiss.

"Take the wounded aboard the _Serapis_!" commanded Captain Jones. "We must desert our good ship!"

In an hour's time all were upon the deck of the vanquished Britisher. No one was left on the _Richard_ but the dead. The torn and tattered flag was still flying from the gaff, and, as the battered sea-warrior gradually settled in the long swell, the unconquered ensign fluttered defiantly in the slight breeze. At length the _Bon Homme Richard_ plunged downward by the head; her taffrail rose momentarily on high, and, with a hoarse roar of eddying bubbles and sucking air, the conqueror disappeared from view. To her immortal dead was bequeathed the flag which they had so desperately defended.

* * * * *

So ended the great battle. Thus Paul Jones had made his name immortal. And by it he was to be known for all time.

This was not the end of his career, by any means. He never again fought for the infant Republic of the United States. But he became an Admiral in the Russian Navy: battled valorously for the great Empress Catherine against the Turks, and died in Paris, July 18th, 1792.

Buried at the French capital, his body was disinterred in the year 1905, and brought to the United States, to be entombed with military honors, at Annapolis, Maryland.

Paul Jones loved brave men. The braver they were the more he loved them. When he went ashore and happened to meet his old sailors--every one of whom he knew and called by his first name--they seldom failed to strip his pockets of the last shilling. He was generous to a fault and faithful to his friends. His time, his purse, his influence were always at the call of those who had served under him. A typical sea-dog: a brave fighter,--

Then, why not give three times three for John Paul Jones?

Are you ready?

THE ESCAPE

'Tis of a gallant, Yankee ship that flew the Stripes and Stars, And the whistling wind from the west-nor'-west blew through her pitch-pine spars: With her starboard tacks aboard, my Boys, she hung upon the gale; On the Autumn night, that we passed the light, on the old Head of Kinsale.

It was a clear and cloudless eve, and the wind blew steady and strong, As gayly, o'er the sparkling deep, our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow, the fiery waves she spread, And, bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.

There was no talk of short'ning sail, by him who walked the poop, And, under the press of her pounding jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning, moaning water-ways, told the strain that held the tack, But, he only laughed, as he glanced aloft, at the white and silvery track.

The mid-tide met in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land, from Featherstone to Dunmore, And that sterling light in Tusker Rock, where the old bell tolls each hour, And the beacon light, that shone so bright, was quenched on Waterford tower.

What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze? 'Tis time that our good ship hauled her wind, abreast the old Saltees, For, by her pond'rous press of sail, and by her consorts four, We saw that our morning visitor, was a British Man-of-War.

Up spoke our noble Captain--then--as a shot ahead of us passed,-- "Haul snug your flowing courses! Lay your topsail to the mast!" Those Englishmen gave three loud cheers, from the deck of their covered ark, And, we answered back by a solid broad-side, from the side of our patriot barque.

"_Out booms! Out booms!_" our skipper cried, "_Out booms! and give her sheet!_" And the swiftest keel that e'er was launched, shot ahead of the British fleet, 'Midst a thundering shower of shot,--and with stern-sails hoisting away, Down the North Race _Paul Jones_ did steer, just at the break of day.

--_Old Ballad._

CAPTAIN SILAS TALBOT

STAUNCH PRIVATEERSMAN OF NEW ENGLAND

(1751-1813)

"If you want ter learn how ter fight, why jest fight."--_Dock-end Philosophy._

CAPTAIN SILAS TALBOT

STAUNCH PRIVATEERSMAN OF NEW ENGLAND

(1751-1813)

"Talk about your clipper ships, chipper ships, ripper ships, Talk about your barquentines, with all their spars so fancy, I'll just take a sloop-o'-war with Talbot, with Talbot, An' whip 'em all into 'er chip, an' just to suit my fancy.

"So, heave away for Talbot, for Talbot, for Talbot, So, heave away for Talbot, an' let th' Capting steer, For, he's the boy to smack them, to crack them, to whack them, For he's th' boy to ship with, if you want to privateer."

--_Ballads of Rhode Island._--1782.

A trading vessel, laden with wheat, from Cardigan in Wales, was lying to in the English Channel. Nearby rolled a long-bodied American Privateer, while a boat neared the trader, in the stern of which sat a staunch, weather-beaten officer in a faded pea-jacket. It was the year 1813 and war was on between England and the United States.

When the blustering captain entered the cabin to survey his prize, he spied a small box with a hole in the top, on which was inscribed the words, "Missionary Box." He drew back, astonished.

"Pray, my bold seaman," said he, turning to the Welsh captain, "what is this?"

"Oh," replied the honest, old sailor, heaving a sigh, "'tis all over now."

"What?" asked the American privateersman.

"Why, the truth is," said the Welshman, "that I and my poor fellows have been accustomed, every Monday morning, to drop a penny each into that box for the purpose of sending out missionaries to preach the Gospel to the heathen; but it's all over now."

The American seemed to be much abashed.

"Indeed," said he, "that is very good of you." And, pausing a few moments, he looked abstractedly into the air, humming a tune beneath his breath.

"Captain," said he, at length, "I'll not hurt a hair of your head, nor touch your vessel."

So saying, he turned on his heel, took to his boat, and left the Welshman to pursue its even course. And--as the privateer filled away to starboard--a voice came from the deck of the helpless merchantman,

"God bless Captain Silas Talbot and his crew!"

But we do not know what the owners of the privateer said to the humane skipper about this little affair when he returned to New York. They might have uttered hard words about a Welshman who scored upon him by means of a pious fraud. At any rate Silas Talbot had done a good deed.

This valorous privateer was born at Dighton, Massachusetts, on the Sakonet River about the year 1752; beginning his career at sea as a cabin-boy. At twenty-four he was a captain in the United States army and fought in the Revolutionary war, for a time, on land. But--by reason of his nautical training--he was placed in command of a fireship at New York, and was soon promoted to be Major--but still with duties upon the water and not the shore. While here, a soldier came to him, one day, with his eyes alight in excitement.

"Major," said he, "there's a chance for a splendid little enterprise. Just off the coast of Rhode Island, near Newport, lies a British vessel, moored to a kedge. She mounts fifteen guns and around her is stretched a stout netting to keep off a party of boarders. But we can cut it and get through, I'll warrant. And the game is worth the candle."

Young Talbot was delighted at the thought of a little expedition.

"I'll tell you how we'll cut through," said he. "We'll fix a small anchor at the bowsprit of our sloop. Then, we'll ram her into the netting at night, and--if our vessel can punch hard enough--we'll have forty Americans upon the deck before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'"

The soldier laughed.

"Major Talbot," said he, "you are a true fighting man. I'll have a crew for you within twenty-four hours and we'll take the good sloop _Jasamine_, lying off of Hell Gate. Ahoy for the capture of the Englishman!"

In two days' time, all was ready for the expedition. The sloop _Jasamine_ slowly drifted into the harbor of New York, an anchor spliced to her bowsprit, a crew of sturdy adventurers aboard; and, filling away in a stout sou'wester, rolled down the coast in the direction of Rhode Island. Reaching the vicinity of Newport, she lay to behind a sheltering peninsula, waiting for the night to come, so that she could drop down upon the Englishman under the cloak of darkness.

Blackness settled upon the still and waveless water. With muffled oars the sloop now glided towards the dark hull of the British gun-boat; her men armed to the teeth, with fuses alight, and ready to touch off the cannon at the slightest sign of discovery. All was still upon the towering deck of the war-vessel and the little lights twinkled at her bow.

But what was that?

Suddenly a voice came through the darkness.

"Who goes there?"

No answer came but the dip of the oars in unison.

"Who goes there? Answer, or I fire!"

Again the slow beat of the oars and nothing more.

_Crash!_

A musket spoke from the jutting bow in front of the sloop and a bullet struck in the foremast of the staunch attacker, with a resounding z-i-n-n-g!

"We're discovered," whispered Talbot. "Pull for your lives, men, and punch her like a battering-ram. When we've cut through the netting, let every fellow dash upon her decks, and fight for every inch you can."

As he ceased speaking, the bow of the sloop struck the roping stretched around the man-o'-warsman, and a ripping and tearing was plainly heard above the crash of small arms, the shouts of men, and the rumble of hawsers. Two cannon spoke from the side of the Englishman, and, as their roar echoed across the still ocean, the guns of the _Jasamine_ belched forth their answer.

The anchor attached to the bowsprit had done what was desired. It tore a great hole in the stout netting, ripped open a breach sufficiently wide for entrance to the deck, and, as the cannon grumbled and spat at the sloop,--the bowsprit was black with jack-tars scrambling for an opportunity to board the Britisher.

"Now, men," shouted Major Talbot, above the din. "Swing our craft sideways! Let go the port guns, and then let every mother's son rush the foe! And your cry must be, 'Death and no quarter!'"

As he ceased, the good _Jasamine_ was forced sideways into the man-o'-warsman, and, propelled by the current, drifted against her with tremendous force, crushing the remaining nets as she did so. A few of the Americans were already on the deck in a terrific struggle with the half-sleepy English seamen, but--in a moment--Talbot, himself, at the head of his entire crew, came leaping across the side.

Now was a scene of carnage. The cutlasses of both Yankee tar and British, were doing awful execution, and pistols were cracking like hail upon the roof. Back, back, went the English before the vigorous assault of the stormers, and, as the deck was now piled with the dead and dying, the commander of the man-o'-warsman cried out,

"I surrender! Cease, you Yankee sea-dogs. You're too smart for me!"

So saying, he held up a handkerchief tied to his cutlass, and the battle ceased.

The story of the fight of Silas Talbot's was now on every lip, and all praised the daring and courage of this valorous Major, who was as bold as a lion, and as courageous as any seaman who sailed upon the sea.

Promotion came rapidly to the soldier-sailor. In 1779 he became a colonel and was placed in command of the _Argo_, a sloop of about one hundred tons, armed with twelve six-pounders, and carrying but sixty men. 'Tis said that she looked like a "clumsy Albany trader," with one great, rakish mast, an immense mainsail, and a lean boom. Her tiller was very lengthy, she had high bulwarks and a wide stern--but, in spite of her raw appearance, she could sail fast and could show a clean pair of heels to most vessels of twice her size.

Shortly after taking charge of this privateer, word was brought that Captain Hazard of the privateer _King George_ was off the coast of Rhode Island.

"That's what I want," cried Captain Talbot, slapping his knee. "This fellow Hazard is an American. He was born in Rhode Island, and, instead of joining in our righteous cause against the Mother Country, he has elected to fight against us. For the base purpose of plundering his old neighbors and friends, he has fitted out the _King George_ and has already done great damage on the coast. Let me but catch the old fox and I'll give him a taste of American lead. I'll put a stop to the depredations of this renegade."