“Stand by to board!”

The boatswains’ whistles trilled through the ship, pikes were seized, and pistol and cutlass buckled on.  But even as we waited with set teeth, our bows ground into the enemy’s weather quarter-gallery.  For the Richard’s rigging was much cut away, and she was crank at best.  So we backed and filled once more, passing the Englishman close aboard, himself being aback at the time.  Several of his shot crushed through the bulwarks in front of me, shattering a nine-pounder and killing half of its crew.  And it is only a miracle that I stand alive to be able to tell the tale.  Then I caught a glimpse of the quartermaster whirling the spokes of our wheel, and over went our helm to lay us athwart the forefoot of the ‘Serapis’, where we might rake and rush her decks.  Our old Indiaman answered but doggedly; and the huge bowsprit of the Serapis, towering over our heads, snapped off our spanker gaff and fouled our mizzen rigging.

“A hawser, Mr. Stacey, a hawser!” I heard the commodore shout, and saw the sailing-master slide down the ladder and grope among the dead and wounded and mass of broken spars and tackles, and finally pick up a smeared rope’s end, which I helped him drag to the poop.  There we found the commodore himself taking skilful turns around the mizzen with the severed stays and shrouds dangling from the bowsprit, the French marines looking on.

“Don’t swear, Mr. Stacey,” said he, severely; “in another minute we may all be in eternity.”

I rushed back to my guns, for the wind was rapidly swinging the stern of the Serapis to our own bow, now bringing her starboard batteries into play.  Barely had we time to light our snatches and send our broadside into her at three fathoms before the huge vessels came crunching together, the disordered riggings locking, and both pointed northward to a leeward tide in a death embrace.  The chance had not been given him to shift his crews or to fling open his starboard gun-ports.

Then ensued a moment’s breathless hush, even the cries of those in agony lulling.  The pall of smoke rolled a little, and a silver moonlight filtered through, revealing the weltering bodies twisted upon the boards.  A stern call came from beyond the bulwarks.

“Have you struck, sir?”

The answer sounded clear, and bred hero-worship in our souls.

“Sir, I have not yet begun to fight.”

Our men raised a hoarse yell, drowned all at once by the popping of musketry in the tops and the bursting of grenades here and there about the decks.  A mighty muffled blast sent the Bon homme Richard rolling to larboard, and the smoke eddied from our hatches and lifted out of the space between the ships.  The Englishman had blown off his gun-ports.  And next some one shouted that our battery of twelves was fighting them muzzle to muzzle below, our rammers leaning into the Serapis to send their shot home.  No chance then for the thoughts which had tortured