commodore paul jones goes aboard the beaten serapis. “cut free that sta’board anchor!” he cries. the piled dead and wounded are lifted aside, and that fatal anchor, which for two hours of blood has been as the backbone of battle, goes splashing into the ocean. the ships rock apart; as they separate, commodore paul jones takes a sharp survey of the richard. the survey brings little hope; his good ship that has fought so well for him lies in the water four smothering feet below its trim.

“there are eight feet of water in the hold,” replies lieutenant dale, whom he hails. “the pumps choke; there’s no chance to save the ship.”

then arises a sudden rending and tearing aboard the serapis; there is a great swish! and a snapping of cordage. it is the mainmast crashing to port, a tangle of ropes and spars.

“beg pardon, sir,” says a voice at the elbow of commodore paul jones. “i’d have had it down an hour ago, but there was neither wind nor swell to help me. i had to cut it in two shot by shot to drop it, sir.”

commodore paul jones breaks into a smile. “ah, yes; i remember, mr. lindthwait! i set you at that mainmast with the three long nines. i wish now that i’d given you another target. however, you did extremely well. it should teach you, too, my lad, that a nine is as good as an eighteen, if you’ll only go close enough. that’s it; there’s the whole secret of success in war. be sure and go close enough, and you will conquer.”

midshipman lindthwait salutes respectfully, and lays away that golden rule of the battle art in his memory.

the removal of the richard’s wounded is begun. the calm, windless sea assists; at last no one is left aboard the shot-pierced richard but the dead.

sixty lionhearts, who gave their lives for victory, are laid side by side on the deck. the petticoat flag flies proudly from the ensign gaff. commodore paul jones, from the deck of the serapis, watches the richard to the last. the tears dim his sight, and he is driven more than once to dash them away; for a sailor loves his ship as though it were a woman.

the richard settles by the head; the stern is lifted clear of the water. then, as though seized by some impulse, the richard, bows first, dives for the bottom of the sea. the last that is seen, as the stout old ship goes down, is the virgin petticoat flag of the pretty portsmouth girls. commodore paul jones, bare of head, tears blinding his eyes, waves a last farewell.

“good-bye, my lads!” he cries. “and you, too, my richard; good-bye!”

the pallas comes up, breeze aft. the little ship throws its head into the wind, and captain cot-tineau hails commodore paul jones.

“i have the honor, sir,” says captain cottineau, “to report the enemy’s surrender of his ship.”

captain cottineau points with his speaking-trumpet to the countess of scarboro a furlong astern, the stars and stripes above the union jack.

commodore paul jones congratulates captain cottineau, and tells him to make sail for dunkirk with his prize. captain cottineau, observing the helpless serapis, its deck a jungle of cordage and broken timbers, replies that if commodore paul jones doesn’t mind he’d sooner stand by. commodore paul jones doesn’t mind, and so captain cottineau, with the pallas and the captured scarboro stands by. the loyalty of captain cottineau flushes the bronzed cheek of commodore paul jones. it is a change from the villain landais! ah, yes! landais! the brow of commodore paul jones turns black with anger; for a moment he forgot the scoundrel. he runs his glass along the horizon to seaward. there is no sign of the alliance. long ago the traitor landais turned his recreant bows for france.

an off-shore gale springs up; adrift and helpless, the serapis is carried seventy miles towards the coast of norway. this is fortunate; it carries the ship outside the search of those twenty frigates and ships of the line, which are already furiously ransacking the english coast in quest of commodore paul jones.

the wind veers to the southwest, and blows a hurricane. the serapis is all but thrown upon the coast of denmark, and has work to keep afloat. with one hundred and six wounded, and the dead who went down with the richard, commodore paul jones is short of hands to work his ship. at the best, no more than one hundred and fifty are fit for duty. in the end the battered serapis makes the texel, and a common sigh of relief goes up from those seven hundred and twelve souls—crew and wounded and prisoners—who are aboard the ship.

and now commodore paul jones must lay aside his sword for chicane, abandon his guns in favor of diplomacy. his anchors are hardly down in dutch mud, before sir joseph yorke, english ambassador to holland, demands the serapis from the dutch authorities. also, he declares that they must arrest commodore paul jones “as a rebel and a pirate.”

the dutch display a wish to argue the case with sir joseph, while commodore paul jones double-shots his guns and runs them out; for much in the way of repairs has been effected aboard the serapis, and although it can’t sail it can fight.

sir joseph, at the grinning insolence of the serapis’ broadsides—ports triced up and muzzles showing—almost falls in an apoplectic fit. purple as to face, he sends a second time to the dutch, to learn whether or no he is to have the serapis and the rebel and pirate paul jones.

for five days the dutch drink beer, smoke pipes, and think the matter over. then they tell sir joseph that, while they don’t know what to call commodore paul jones, they have decided not to call him a pirate. rebel, he may be; but in that role of rebel king george and sir joseph must catch him for themselves. the most the dutch will do is order the serapis to leave the texel. at this the empurpled sir joseph becomes more empurpled than ever. it is the best he can get, however; and since, during the night, a fleet of british men of war, hearing of the whereabouts of commodore paul jones, have invested the mouth of the helder and are waiting for him to come out, he begins to be a trifle comforted. if the dutch will but drive the “rebel” from the port, it should do nicely; the english fleet outside will snap him up at a mouthful.

commodore paul jones refuses to be driven out. he sits stubbornly by his anchors, decks cleared, guns shotted, boarding nettings up—an insult to the purple sir joseph and a frowning defiance to the dutch! the dutch and sir joseph look at him, and then at each other. they agree that he is either the most exasperating of rebels, or the most insolent of pirates, or the most impertinent of guests, according to their various standpoints.

meanwhile, the french ambassador is bestirring himself. he makes a stealthy visit to commodore paul jones. the french king has sent him, post-haste, a commission as captain in the french marine. the french ambassador tenders the commission. upon accepting it, commodore paul jones can run up the french flag. the dutch will respect the tri-color, and there will come no more orders for the serapis to quit the texel.

commodore paul jones declines the french commission. neither will he run up the french flag. “i am an officer of the american navy,” says he, “and the french tri-color no more belongs at my masthead than at general washington’s headquarters. i shall stand or fall by the stars and stripes. also, here at the texel i stay, until i’m ready to leave; that i say in the teeth of dutchman and englishman alike.”

when this hardy note goes ashore, the dutch look solemn, sir joseph retires with the gout, while the english outside the mouth of the hel-der, stand oft and on, gnashing their iron teeth.