The Grip of Honor
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The surgeon hesitated, looked around again, and, not liking the appearance of things about him, turned and ran below. Not to his station, for that was under water. His mates had been killed. He wandered up and down the decks, doing what he could-which was but little-for the wounded where they lay. Assisted by two or three of the seamen, with his own hands Jones dragged one of the nine-pounders from the disengaged side of the deck across to the starboard side to take the place of a dismounted one; and, while the heavy battery of the Serapis continued its unavailing fire below, these three small guns under his personal direction concentrated their fire upon the mainmast of the Serapis.
The fortuitous position of the Americans in the enemy's tops enabled them to pour a perfect rain of small-arm fire upon the spar-deck of the Serapis with little possibility of effective return. Man after man was shot down by the side of the intrepid Pearson, who, whatever his other lack of qualifications, showed that he possessed magnificent personal courage, until he remained practically alone upon the deck, – alone, and as yet undaunted.
It is impossible to describe the scene. It is not within the power of words to portray the situation, after over two hours of the most frightful and determined combat. No two ships were ever in such condition; no battle that was ever fought was like it. The decks were covered with dead and dying; bands of men in different directions were fighting the fires; the smoke in lowering clouds hung heavily over the ships, for the wind had died and there was scarcely enough to blow it away. The pale moonlight mingled with the red glare from the flames and threw an added touch of lurid ghastliness trembling over the smoke-wrapt sea. From below came the steady roar of the Serapis' guns, from above the continuous crackling of the Richard's small arms. The noises blended in a hideous diapason of destruction, which rose to an offended Heaven in the horrid discord of an infernal region. The prisoners, still under the influence of their terror, toiled at the clanking pumps. The water gushed redly from the bleeding scuppers. Order, tactics, discipline, had been forgotten. Men glared with blood-shot eyes, set their teeth beneath foam-flaked lips, and fought where they stood, – fought in frenzy against whatever came to hand, whether it was the English ship, or the roaring flames, or the rushing waters. They recked nothing of consequences. In their frantic battle-lust they beat upon the sides of the other ship with their bare hands and bloody knuckles, and knew not what they did. Their breath came quick and short; the red of battle was before their vision; they had but one thought. Slay! Kill! One would have said that the brute instinct was uppermost in every heart. But in scenes of this kind it is not the greatest brute that wins, but the greatest soul; and the one man who still preserved his calmness in this orgy of war was the man to win the battle-Jones.
The Alliance had repeated her previous performance, but the men had been worked to such a pitch that they never heeded her; many of them did not know of it. Both ships were thoroughly beaten. It was only a question as to which would realize it first, who would first surrender. Nay, there was no question whatever of Jones' surrender under any circumstances whatsoever. Pearson would give up under some conditions, and those had at last arrived. That was the essential difference between the two men; it was radical.
CHAPTER XXII
Sinking, but Triumphant
And now happened the incident which finally decided the battle. By Jones's orders, quantities of hand grenades, a small, highly combustible, and explosive shell, about the size of a large apple, had been placed in the tops. After the battle in mid-air by which the Americans had gained possession, he shouted out that they be used in accordance with his instructions. Fanning sent a man with a bucket of grenades out on the extreme end of the main-yard-arm. Wrapping his legs around the yard, he sat down, and leaning against the lift, deliberately threw his bomb-shells, one by one, down the open main hatchway of the Serapis. The powder boys of the latter ship had been bringing charges of powder for the various guns from the magazine; and as many of the guns had been put out of action by the American fire, the supply had been greater than the demand. A large pile had been carelessly allowed to accumulate upon the deck. One of the grenades carromed against the hatch combing, and fell into the centre of the charges.
There was a detonating crash, so loud, so terrific, that it actually seemed to blow even the roar of the battle into eternity. Twenty or thirty men were killed or badly wounded, many of them torn to atoms, by the explosion, and the rest of the men on the Englishman's deck were dazed and driven from their stations by the concussion. The clothes of many were actually ripped from their bodies, so that they stood naked and wondering, though they were otherwise unhurt. A long moment of ghastly silence succeeded this accident on the Serapis. Men everywhere paused with bated breath to wait the issue. The Serapis, dragging the Richard, reeled and rocked under the shock. It was a last catastrophe which broke the strength of Pearson's endurance and ended his resistance. He could fight no more. Was it the devil himself who commanded the other ship? The English captain sprang aft to the mizzenmast. A great English standard had been nailed to the timber of the spar. With his own hands he tore it down. The battle was over! At the same moment the mainmast of the Serapis undermined, and, eaten away in its heart by the gnawing attack of the quarter-deck guns of the Richard, came crashing down, a hopeless ruin, carrying some of the Americans into eternity as it fell.
"They have struck their flag!" cried Jones, who had sprung upon the rail at the moment of the explosion and had witnessed Pearson's action. "Cease firing!"
His voice rang through the ship with such a note of proud triumph as has rarely been heard within the fought over confines of the narrow seas.
"They have struck; the ship is ours!" ran from man to man among the Americans. Wild cheers broke into the night in an ever-increasing volume of sound.
"Send Mr. Dale to me," said Jones to young Brooks as the flag came down. The midshipman had been wounded, but still kept his station.
As Dale came running toward his captain, Jones cried, -
"Muster a boarding party and take charge of the prize; the fight is over!"
But no, the battle was not over. A few moments before, an English ship captain among the prisoners had succeeded in escaping through the rents in the shattered sides of the two ships and had told the plight of the Richard to the first lieutenant of the Serapis. With this information the men on the gun-deck had been rallied, and led by their officers had returned to their quarters and had resumed the battle. They, too, were heroes. Mayrant, who ran aft from the forecastle as he saw Pearson strike his flag, jumped on the rail by Jones's orders and followed Dale upon the deck of the English ship. Such was the confusion of the moment that as Mayrant leaped on the deck he was actually run through the thigh by a pike in the hand of a wounded British sailor. Pearson was standing alone as if dazed, on the quarter-deck of his ship, holding one clenched hand against his breast, with the other grasping his trailing flag. In his face was that look of defeat and despair which is the saddest aspect of baffled impotent humanity.
"Have you struck, sir?" cried Dale, stopping before the English captain.
"Yes," was the grim reply; his voice was a broken whisper indicating in the tones his mental agony.
"I am come to take possession."
"Very good, sir," said Pearson, bitterly, as before, and dropping the flag; then he reached for his sword.
Just at this moment, Pascoe, the first lieutenant of the Serapis, came bounding up the hatchway from the deck below.
"A few more broadsides, sir, and they are ours," he cried impetuously. "They are in a sinking-
"The ship has struck, sir, and you are my prisoner," interrupted Dale, quickly, seeing the necessity of promptitude.
"Struck! This ship! Your prisoner!" cried the astonished Englishman.
"Yes, sir. Your sword!" demanded Dale. The man hesitated.
"Disarm him!" cried the American. Two or three of the boarding parties closed around them.
"Sir," asked the lieutenant, turning to his captain, "is it true that we have struck?"
"Yes, sir," answered Pearson, hoarsely.
"My God!" cried Pascoe. There was a momentary silence.
"I have nothing more to say, sir," he added. "I will go below and call off the men," said the lieutenant, turning away.
"No, sir!" interrupted Dale. "You will accompany your captain on board our ship at once. Pass the word to cease firing. The ship has struck."
As the English captain and his first lieutenant stepped over the rail upon the high poop of the Richard, the roar of the guns died away, this time for good. Seizing a dangling rope they swung themselves inboard, and found themselves face to face with a little man in a tattered uniform, hatless, covered with dust and smoke, powder-stained and grimy with the soil of the battle. Blood spattering from a wound in his forehead had coagulated upon his cheek. He was a hideous-looking spectacle. The red firelight played luridly upon him. Nothing but the piercing black eyes which burned and gleamed out of his face in the darkness bespoke the high humanity of the man.
"Is it-" "Captain John Paul Jones, at your service, gentlemen."
"My sword," said Pearson, tendering it to him formally. "I regret," he added ungraciously, "at being compelled to strike to a man who has fought with a halter around his neck."
"Sir," said Jones, with a magnanimity as great as his valor, "you have fought like a hero, and I make no doubt that your sovereign will reward you in the most ample manner. Mr. Brooks, escort these gentlemen to my cabin."
And which was the gentleman then?
The two ships were now cut adrift, Dale remaining on the Serapis to take command. He had sat down a moment for rest, and as he attempted to rise to his feet he fell to the deck, discovering only in that way that he had been severely wounded, – a thing which had escaped his notice in the heat of the action.
By the most heroic efforts of the prize crew on the Serapis and the remaining men on the Richard, the English prisoners were driven back into the hold, the flames subdued, and some semblance of order restored. Cottineau had captured the Pallas after an hour of good hard fighting, and the victory was entirely with the Americans. But it had been purchased at a fearful cost. There is no battle on land or sea in the world's history where the percentage of loss was greater than the battle between the Serapis and the Richard.
About seventy per cent on the Serapis and over fifty per cent on the Richard had been killed or wounded, and the Bon Homme Richard was in a sinking condition. She had been literally beaten to pieces. It was not safe to remain upon her decks. Consequently the prisoners and the wounded, groaning and crying in anguish, were removed to the Serapis. In the early morning of the day following, the brave ship which had earned undying immortality in her worn-out old age, because for three brief hours John Paul Jones and his men had battled upon her decks, sank forever beneath the sea. The great battle-flag under which she had fought had been reset, and fluttered above her as she went down.
The refitting of the prizes for the returning voyage was at once begun. To anticipate events, it is recorded that Captain Landais, the jealous and false-hearted Frenchman who had so treacherously manœuvred the Alliance, was subsequently court-martialled and dismissed from the service. He should have been hanged from her highest yard-arm.
BOOK VI
THE HAND OF GOD
CHAPTER XXIII
On Board the Serapis again
"The battle is on," said O'Neill, in the small boat, to Elizabeth, "and I am not there. Oh, God, give us a little breeze!" he cried. In anticipation he swung the oars inboard, stepped the mast once more, letting the sail hang, and then resumed his place by her side.
"God is good to me," she said at last. "He will not let you be there to be killed. You have had trouble enough, and have run enough risks. He wishes to keep you for me." He shook his head.
"My place is there; my duty is on yonder deck. Would that I had returned to the ship without going up to the castle!"
"Why, then," she said reproachfully, "you would not have seen me!"
"I know," he replied, "but then I would be in my rightful place, fighting where I should be; Coventry would be honored in doing his duty; the admiral would be happy; your marriage would take place-
"And you," she cried, womanlike, placing him in the balance, as opposed to all the rest, – "would you have been happy?"
"Happiness has nothing to do with that," he answered impatiently; "it is a question of duty. I have been a fool."
"Has the fool been rewarded in accordance with his folly?" she asked him. "Nay, look at me before you reply," she cried imperiously, turning his head until his eyes looked into her own. In the face of that girl, in the limpid light of her magic glance, in that mystic night, there was but one answer to be made.
"I say no more," he replied, kissing her softly. "You are right. I have you. You are worth it all. I will try to be a philosopher about all the rest."
Meanwhile the intermittent reports had been succeeded by a steady roar of artillery which reverberated and rolled along the surface of the water. The Scarborough, some distance from the Serapis and the Richard to the northwest, was apparently hotly engaged with the Pallas; while the Alliance seemed to be sailing back and forth between the two groups of combatants, pouring in a random fire upon friend and foe alike. Great clouds of smoke, punctured by vivid flashes of light, overhung the ships.
Back on the heights above the town the people swarmed. O'Neill could picture the old admiral walking up and down the terrace, glass in hand, while he surveyed the battle. There seemed to be little manœuvring going on between the ships, except on the part of the Alliance, and the combat seemed to be a yard-arm to yard-arm fight. Once or twice the roar of the battle died away temporarily, and the smoke blowing off to leeward disclosed the two ships side by side. Sometimes great wreaths of flame, which told that one or the other ship had been set on fire, would leap up into the air.
The feelings of the young officer can be imagined. Adrift in that little boat, watching the awful combat, not even the presence of the woman he loved could compensate him for his absence, in spite of his attempted philosophy. The fever of the conflict possessed him. His breath came hard; the sweat stood on his forehead. He prayed as never before for a breeze to take him to the fight. He murmured incoherent words which told to the tender listener something of the terrible struggle which raged within his bosom. So the long hours wore away.
Toward eleven o'clock they heard a terrific explosion, and then the roar of the battle slackened, and finally died away. When the smoke drifted off, the two ships were lying side by side. Further off, almost hull down, were the Scarborough and the Pallas, who had ceased their fight some time before. The battle was over. Who had won? It was a question he could not answer.
But it was late, and the breeze so long wished for now sprung up once more, and the little boat gathered way and began to slip through the water again. The sky had become overcast; it grew very dark; the wind freshened steadily, and finally blew so strong that it required all the skill and address of which O'Neill was possessed to keep his unsteady little craft from capsizing. Finally he was forced to drop the sail and take to the oars to keep afloat at all. About two o'clock in the morning a squall of rain came down, and they lost sight of the ships. Toward morning the wind moderated again, and they were enabled to set sail once more. But the ocean was covered with a dense mist; they were in the thick of it, and could see nothing. As nearly as he could judge without the aid of a compass, O'Neill headed the boat toward the place where they had last made out the two ships.
"We ought to pick them up in a few moments now," he said to the cowering, frightened, exhausted girl crouching down in the stern sheets in her wet, sodden garments, which clung to her shivering figure. The night had been too much for her; her physical strength had almost given way, though nothing could abate the affection he saw shining still in her tired eyes. "Therefore, in a few moments we shall know our fate."
"How is that?" she said, rousing herself a little.
"If Commodore Jones has been captured," he answered, "I have but to give myself up and redeem Coventry and-you know the rest."
"Yes," she replied wearily and listlessly; "let it come. We have fought a good fight, you and I; we can do no more; and the other alternative?"
"Why, in that case," he said, "we shall be there, under our own flag; he, too, will be saved, and the rest of our troubles are over."
"What think you of the prospect?" she asked, brightening a little.
"It is difficult to say. The Serapis and the Scarborough should easily be more than a match for our whole squadron. The Richard is almost worthless as a fighting ship, as I said. Landais, who commands the Alliance, is insane. I can't prophesy what Cottineau will do with the Pallas. We have but one advantage."
"And is that a great one?"
"The greatest; it may have decided the battle in our favor."
"What is that, then?" she asked.
"It is not 'what,' but 'who,'" he answered, smiling.
"Who, then?"
"John Paul Jones himself! He alone is worth a thousand."
The light from the rising sun, assisted by the fitful wind, began to dispel the mists of the morning.
"See!" cried the girl, pointing. "There, right ahead of us! Are not those the sails of a ship? What ship?"
Wraithlike, as she pointed at a rift in the mist, and wreathed in clouds of vapor, there appeared, for a second, the light canvas of a great ship. Following her outstretched finger, he caught a fleeting glimpse of it, but saw nothing to reassure him as to the result of the battle; the sight struck terror to his heart. Such canvas as that was never set above the decks of the Richard. As he looked the mist closed around them again; the ship had vanished.
"Ah, 'tis gone, but I am certain I saw it. Which was it?" she continued, hastily rousing herself at the prospect of decision. "'Tis a ship, is it not? But which one?"
"The mist is thinning again. 'Twill clear away in a moment," he answered evasively. "We shall see more distinctly then; she was making toward us, I think." He could not bear to dash her hopes with the assurance that it was not the Richard, though he had resigned himself to death in consequence of his glimpse at once. It was useless to try to fly; the mist was rising in every direction, and before they could have gone a hundred yards they would be visible to the ship in front of them, now shoving her huge bulk through the thinning clouds of vapor which enshrouded her. The next moment it rolled away. The sunlight flooded the heavens in transformation; the breeze tossed the sea into a thousand white-capped waves. It was morning. Some one on the ship saw the little boat with its two occupants at once; an officer leaped to the rail.
"Boat ahoy!" rang out over the water. The great white frigate, deep sunken, as if deeply laden, was moving sluggishly through the water, and was almost upon them.
"The ship!" screamed the girl, wildly.
"It is the Serapis!" answered O'Neill, in a hollow voice.
"Ah!" she said, sinking back exhausted. "After all, it is over. I shall never survive you."
"Boat ahoy, there!" again cried the officer, standing on the rail, pistol in hand. "Answer my hail, or I fire. Who are you?"
"I am your prisoner, escaped last night from that ship," cried O'Neill. "I wish to deliver myself up."
"Come alongside, then," said the officer, turning inboard and giving a sharp command. The way of the ship was checked; she was thrown up into the wind, and as her broadside slowly swung opposite O'Neill, he saw that her mainmast was gone and that she was frightfully cut up, and bore evidence of having participated in a tremendous action. Away off to the northeast a little cluster of ships were seen on the horizon, too far off to distinguish them. There was no sign of the Richard that he could see. In a few seconds the boat was brought alongside the gangway. Elizabeth clambered up the ladder with his assistance, and they stepped upon the decks. A frightful scene presented itself.
Upon one side amidships, dead men, half-naked, covered with coagulated blood, were literally piled up in a great heap. The deck itself was covered with grime and blood; and a handful of men, most of them wounded in some way, were distributed about the ship, endeavoring to effect some restoration to order. Guns here and there were dismounted; ropes cut in every direction were lying entangled in wild confusion about the fife-rails and masts. The broken mainmast thrust its jagged end a few feet into the air, above the deck; the rest of it was gone.
Spars everywhere were shattered, and great rifts appeared in the flapping canvas. The rail and bulwarks were broken and smashed on every side. There was not a single boat left swinging at the davits. Splintered woodwork showed where numberless shots had taken effect, and charred pieces of timber on every hand added heartbreaking evidence of conflagration's devastating touch. From the depths beneath the deck came low groans and murmurs of pain, accentuated by the sharp shriek of some deeper sufferer, or the delirious raving of some fevered patient. Elizabeth shrank back appalled.
"How horrible!" she murmured. "Take me away; I cannot stand it!" He caught her in his arms; a little more, and she would have fainted.
"Good heavens!" he said. "In all my battles I never saw such a ship! What a frightful scene! They didn't get off without a fight," he added slowly. An officer, with head bound up in a handkerchief and his arm in a sling, was approaching them.
"Sir," said O'Neill, saluting the while, "I am the officer who escaped last night. I deliver myself up to- Why, it's Stacey!" he cried, in great surprise, recognizing a brother officer of the Richard. "What do you here, man?"
"'Fore Gad, it's O'Neill!" cried the other. "Glad are we to see you, man. But this lady-this is no place for her."
"She goes with me," said O'Neill, briefly. "But you?"
"This is where I belong."
"And they have captured you, I suppose?"
"No; the ship is ours."
"And the old Richard?" cried O'Neill.
"Abandoned and sunk after the surrender," answered the young officer. "She was cut to pieces by the Serapis's fire, but we have this ship."
"Thank God!" answered O'Neill, fervently. "And Captain Jones?"
"Aft there on the quarter-deck."
"Come, Elizabeth," he cried, seizing her by the arm; and, he assisting her, they made their way with difficulty, in the confusion, to the quarter-deck.
"Ah, O'Neill, thank God I see you alive again!" said Jones, springing forward, his face beaming. "We got there in time, then, I see."
"Yes, sir, thanks to this lady," answered O'Neill, pointing to Elizabeth.
"Madam, you are fit for a sailor's bride," said the little captain.
"'Tis high praise, sir, from Captain Jones, I protest," she answered, rallying herself in the relief of assured safety.
"Would God that I had been with you in this battle!" cried O'Neill, gloomily.
"We missed you. I wished often for you," answered the captain. "The poor old Richard was torn to pieces under our feet. We could not stay on her longer, so we had to come here."
"And I not there! I suppose that I have forfeited everything forever for going up to the castle. Shall you break me, sir?"
"Nothing, nothing, shall be done, my poor boy," answered the captain, kindly. "You have been punished enough by not having been with us in the greatest battle ever fought on the sea. But it seems to me you have not entirely lost the game. You, too, have a prize in tow. How go your love affairs?" he whispered.