“Down to the surgeon with you, Richard!” he cried.  “I will look to the battery.”

Dazed, I put my hand to my hair to find it warm and wringing wet.  When I had been hit, I knew not.  But I shook my head, for the very notion of that cockpit turned my stomach.  The blood was streaming from a gash in his own temple, to which he gave no heed, and stood encouraging that panting line until at last the gun was got across and hooked to the ring-bolts of its companion that lay shattered there.  “Serve her with double-headed, my lads,” he shouted, “and every shot into the Englishman’s mainmast!”

“Ay, ay, sir,” came the answer from every man of that little remnant.

The Serapis, too, was now beginning to blaze aloft, and choking wood-smoke eddied out of the Richard’s hold and mingled with the powder fumes.  Then the enemy’s fire abreast us seemed to lull, and Mr. Stacey mounted the bulwarks, and cried out:  “You have cleared their decks, my hearties!” Aloft, a man was seen to clamber from our mainyard into the very top of the Englishman, where he threw a hand-grenade, as I thought, down her main hatch.  An instant after an explosion came like a, clap of thunder in our faces, and a great quadrant of light flashed as high as the ‘Serapis’s’ trucks, and through a breach in her bulwarks I saw men running with only the collars of their shirts upon their naked bodies.

’Twas at this critical moment, when that fearful battle once more was won, another storm of grape brought the spars about our heads, and that name which we dreaded most of all was spread again.  As we halted in consternation, a dozen round shot ripped through our unengaged side, and a babel of voices hailed the treacherous Landais with oaths and imprecations.  We made out the Alliance with a full head of canvas, black and sharp, between us and the moon.  Smoke hung above her rail.  Getting over against the signal fires blazing on Flamborough Head, she wore ship and stood across our bows, the midshipman on the forecastle singing out to her, by the commodore’s orders, to lay the enemy by the board.  There was no response.

“Do you hear us?” yelled Mr. Linthwaite.

“Ay, ay,” came the reply; and with it the smoke broke from her and the grape and canister swept our forecastle.  Then the Alliance sailed away, leaving brave Mr. Caswell among the many Landais had murdered.

The ominous clank of the chain pumps beat a sort of prelude to what happened next.  The gunner burst out of the hatch with blood running down his face, shouting that the Richard was sinking, and yelling for quarter as he made for the ensign-staff on the poop, for the flag was shot away.  Him the commodore felled with a pistol-butt.  At the gunner’s heels were the hundred and fifty prisoners we had taken, released by the master at arms.  They swarmed out of the bowels of the ship like a horde of Tartars, unkempt and wild and desperate with fear, until I thought