“The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance.  He shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked.”

“Ah, what a lack of charity.  Now hear mine:—­God helpeth them that help themselves, as Poor Richard says.”

“Reprobate pirate, a gale shall yet come to drive thee in wrecks from our waters.”

“The strong wind of your hate fills my sails well.  Adieu,” waving his bonnet—­“tell us the rest at Leith.”

Next morning the ships were almost within cannon-shot of the town.  The men to be landed were in the boats.  Israel had the tiller of the foremost one, waiting for his commander to enter, when just as Paul’s foot was on the gangway, a sudden squall struck all three ships, dashing the boats against them, and causing indescribable confusion.  The squall ended in a violent gale.  Getting his men on board with all dispatch, Paul essayed his best to withstand the fury of the wind, but it blew adversely, and with redoubled power.  A ship at a distance went down beneath it.  The disappointed invader was obliged to turn before the gale, and renounce his project.

To this hour, on the shores of the Firth of Forth, it is the popular persuasion, that the Rev. Mr. Shirrer’s (of Kirkaldy) powerful intercession was the direct cause of the elemental repulse experienced off the endangered harbor of Leith.

Through the ill qualities of Paul’s associate captains:  their timidity, incapable of keeping pace with his daring; their jealousy, blind to his superiority to rivalship; together with the general reduction of his force, now reduced by desertion, from nine to three ships; and last of all, the enmity of seas and winds; the invader, driven, not by a fleet, but a gale, out of the Scottish water’s, had the mortification in prospect of terminating a cruise, so formidable in appearance at the onset, without one added deed to sustain the reputation gained by former exploits.  Nevertheless, he was not disheartened.  He sought to conciliate fortune, not by despondency, but by resolution.  And, as if won by his confident bearing, that fickle power suddenly went over to him from the ranks of the enemy—­suddenly as plumed Marshal Ney to the stubborn standard of Napoleon from Elba, marching regenerated on Paris.  In a word, luck—­that’s the word—­shortly threw in Paul’s way the great action of his life:  the most extraordinary of all naval engagements; the unparalleled death-lock with the Serapis.

CHAPTER XIX.

THEY FIGHT THE SERAPIS.

The battle between the Bon Homme Richard and the Serapis stands in history as the first signal collision on the sea between the Englishman and the American.  For obstinacy, mutual hatred, and courage, it is without precedent or subsequent in the story of ocean.  The strife long hung undetermined, but the English flag struck in the end.

There would seem to be something singularly indicatory I in this engagement.  It may involve at once a type, a parallel, and a prophecy.  Sharing the same blood with England, and yet her proved foe in two wars—­not wholly inclined at bottom to forget an old grudge—­intrepid, unprincipled, reckless, predatory, with boundless ambition, civilized in externals but a savage at heart, America is, or may yet be, the Paul Jones of nations.