CHAPTER XII.

ON THE VERGE OF SUCCESS.

"'Why, here's a blow,' Said Dacres, as he hauled his flag below."

Although the _Guerriere_ was a hopeless wreck, her captain, with true bulldog courage, kept the British ensign floating from the stump of her fallen mizzen-mast.

The blow must have been severe to the gallant English officer, for he had fully believed the _Guerriere_ to be invulnerable.

The _Constitution_ drew away, but kept firing continuously, and soon secured a raking position.

Dacres' eyes filled with tears.

"It is no use," he exclaimed to his first officer. "Haul down the flag."

"Must we surrender?" asked the officer.

"If I had only myself to consult I should say no. I would rather sink with the _Guerriere_ than live dishonored."

"There is no dishonor in our defeat, captain; but we are all ready to fight until not a man lives."

"I know it; but that would be murder on my part. Haul down the flag."

The captain went below.

He could not see the flag for which he had fought so bravely lowered in defeat.

"Captain Orne, your compatriots have humbled me to-day," he said when he saw the American prisoner. "You are free."

Orne could not express the jubilation he felt, for there was something pitiful in the anguish shown by the brave English captain.

Lieutenant Read was dispatched by Captain Hull to board the prize.

He saw Orne, whom he recognized, and clasped his hand in silence.

Captain Dacres staggered to the deck.

"Captain Hull presents his compliments," said the American lieutenant, "and wishes to know if you have struck your flag."

Captain Dacres looked at the ship, its decks strewn with dead, and slippery with human blood, its shattered masts, and he answered dryly:

"Well, sir, I don't know what to say. Our mizzen-mast is gone; our mainmast is gone; and I think, on the whole, you had better report that we have struck our flag."

Read saluted the captain, and stepped to the side of the ship, but turned back.

"Would you like the assistance of a surgeon, or surgeon's mate, in caring for your wounded?" he asked the captain.

"Well, sir, I should suppose you had on your own ship business enough for all your medical officers."

"Oh, no," responded the American. "We have only seven wounded, and their wounds have been dressed some time ago."

Captain Dacres dare not attempt to answer, for had he done so his voice would have been choked with sobs.

"Only seven wounded," he murmured, and remembered that on the deck he had twenty-three dead or mortally wounded, while his surgeons were busy attending to fifty-six who were desperately injured.

Captain Orne returned with Lieutenant Read to the _Constitution_.

He reported to Captain Hull, and was asked to describe the state of the _Guerriere_.

"I came on deck about half-past seven," he said, "and beheld a scene it would be impossible ever to forget.

"All the ship's masts were gone, and as she had no sails to steady her, she was rolling like a log in the trough of the sea."

"Were many killed and wounded?" asked Captain Hull.

"The crew were busy throwing the dead overboard," answered Orne; "the decks were covered with blood, and looked more like a ship's slaughter house. The cockpit is filled with wounded men."

It was hard to feel pleasure at such a report, and yet the patriotism of Hull could scarcely repress a cheer. But he asked Orne one other question:

"How are the survivors acting?"

"Badly--utterly demoralized. Some of the petty officers got at the liquor and gave it out to the men. Many are drunk, and what with their ribald songs, the noise and confusion, the groans of the dying, it is like a perfect hell, sir."

"Were such a thing as defeat to happen to the _Constitution_," said Hull, "I would with my own hand shoot the first man who touched liquor."

The captain walked the deck uneasily for a few moments.

"Tempest!" he called, and there being no answer, he turned to one of his boys. "Tell Mr. Tempest I want to speak with him."

In a few moments the young officer of the _Lively Bee_ appeared.

"I want you to undertake a most difficult duty."

"I am prepared, sir."

"I knew it. Are you ready?"

"Quite, sir."

"I want you to board the _Guerriere_--she is sinking fast--and transfer all her officers and crew to our ship."

"Yes, captain; it shall be done."

"But--the men have got to the grog, you may have difficulty. You have authority to shoot any one who disregards your orders."

"The wounded shall be removed first."

"That is right. But stay; the officers must have precedence, even over the wounded."

When Tempest left the captain's cabin, Orne remarked, _sotto voce_:

"That young man will never return alive."

"Perhaps not; but I want to try his mettle."

"He is brave."

"Ay, as brave as any man who ever trod a deck."

In the first boatload Tempest sent from the British ship was Captain Dacres.

As the defeated captain entered the victor's cabin he unclasped his sword from his hip and handed it silently to Captain Hull.

The American put it gently back.

"No, no, captain; I'll not take a sword from one who knows so well how to use it. But I will trouble you for that hat."

Captain Dacres looked perplexed.

Hull laughed, as he added:

"Have you forgotten our bet made a year ago on the Delaware?"

"No, sir; I now recall it. That hat is yours; but it seems to me you want a new pair of breeches more than a hat," and the Englishman pointed to the torn breeches worn by Hull.

"Ah, you have noticed my personal casualty; but, Dacres, it was my own doing. Don't write to England and say you inflicted the damage."

Tempest, as was expected, had a hard time with the prisoners, who had taken more grog than allowed by the rules of the service.

One of the petty officers staggered up to the young officer.

"By Jove, younker, I'll have you thrown overboard," he said.

A lot of drunken gunners, naked to the waist and armed with cutlasses, cheered him and crowded around Tempest to carry out the threat.

The young man never moved!

He raised his pistol and leveling it at the head of the officer said:

"Give me your sword."

The man meekly obeyed.

With a sword in one hand, a pistol in the other, he faced the drunken gunners.

"The first man who attempts to touch me, dies. Lay down your weapons on the deck."

"By St. George, hark to the child!" said one of the men. "Are you afraid? See, I'll take his plaything from him."

The man stepped forward, but Tempest was too quick for him, and a well-aimed thrust with the sword placed the man _hors de combat_.

"Lay down your weapons," he shouted, as he drew his sword from the dead man's body.

The men obeyed sullenly.

They had met their master, and knew it.

Tempest knew that the prisoners were not to be trusted while any of them were armed.

He, however, did not show his distrust, but walked about, giving orders for the removal of all on board the _Guerriere_, together with their effects.

A drunken officer, a mere petty official, crept up behind the young privateer, pistol in hand.

Tempest suddenly turned, and with a sweep of his sword cut the pistol from the man's hand.

But he had struck deeper than he knew at that moment, for with the pistol went the fellow's hand as well.

The sword cut had severed his wrist.

There was no more opposition, and the last man was in the boat.

Only Tempest remained on board the once proud war vessel.

He searched every deck, he descended to the cockpit, and when satisfied that not a living creature remained on board he fired the ship in a dozen places.

Then he returned to the deck, to see that the boat was several fathoms away.

He called, but there was no response; evidently he had not been heard.

He signaled for help.

In a few moments the flames would reach the magazine.

Once more he called, but his voice was drowned in the noise of the crackling of the timbers and the roar of the flames.

He had secured an English flag and waved it, hoping to attract attention.

Just on the verge of success he seemed doomed to a terrible death.

He saw the boat stop. Had the crew seen him?

He shouted.

He waved the flag, but again he saw the oars dip the water, and he gave up all hope. With a cry of despair he flung himself into the water, and at the same moment a terrific explosion told him that the fire had reached the magazine, and that the _Guerriere_ was destroyed.

Showers of timber and ropes, pieces of sails and ship's stores fell around him, and a dead body was hurled with frantic force against him, sickening him even more than the terrible strain and exhaustion.

With a cry to Heaven for help, he buffeted the waves in one last despairing effort.