When some faint order was again restored upon the Richard her chances of victory increased, while those of the English, driven under cover, proportionably waned.  Early in the contest, Paul, with his own hand, had brought one of his largest guns to bear against the enemy’s mainmast.  That shot had hit.  The mast now plainly tottered.  Nevertheless, it seemed as if, in this fight, neither party could be victor.  Mutual obliteration from the face of the waters seemed the only natural sequel to hostilities like these.  It is, therefore, honor to him as a man, and not reproach to him as an officer, that, to stay such carnage, Captain Pearson, of the Serapis, with his own hands hauled down his colors.  But just as an officer from the Richard swung himself on board the Serapis, and accosted the English captain, the first lieutenant of the Serapis came up from below inquiring whether the Richard had struck, since her fire had ceased.

So equal was the conflict that, even after the surrender, it could be, and was, a question to one of the warriors engaged (who had not happened to see the English flag hauled down) whether the Serapis had struck to the Richard, or the Richard to the Serapis.  Nay, while the Richard’s officer was still amicably conversing with the English captain, a midshipman of the Richard, in act of following his superior on board the surrendered vessel, was run through the thigh by a pike in the hand of an ignorant boarder of the Serapis.  While, equally ignorant, the cannons below deck were still thundering away at the nominal conqueror from the batteries of the nominally conquered ship.

But though the Serapis had submitted, there were two misanthropical foes on board the Richard which would not so easily succumb—­fire and water.  All night the victors were engaged in suppressing the flames.  Not until daylight were the flames got under; but though the pumps were kept continually going, the water in the hold still gained.  A few hours after sunrise the Richard was deserted for the Serapis and the other vessels of the squadron of Paul.  About ten o’clock the Richard, gorged with slaughter, wallowed heavily, gave a long roll, and blasted by tornadoes of sulphur, slowly sunk, like Gomorrah, out of sight.

The loss of life in the two ships was about equal; one-half of the total number of those engaged being either killed or wounded.

In view of this battle one may ask—­What separates the enlightened man from the savage?  Is civilization a thing distinct, or is it an advanced stage of barbarism?

CHAPTER XX.

THE SHUTTLE.

For a time back, across the otherwise blue-jean career of Israel, Paul Jones flits and re-flits like a crimson thread.  One more brief intermingling of it, and to the plain old homespun we return.

The battle won, the squadron started for the Texel, where they arrived in safety.  Omitting all mention of intervening harassments, suffice it, that after some months of inaction as to anything of a warlike nature, Paul and Israel (both, from different motives, eager to return to America) sailed for that country in the armed ship Ariel, Paul as commander, Israel as quartermaster.