“Then we have only the twelve-pounders and the long nines to fight him with,” says Commodore Paul Jones. “It is now a thirty-two-gun ship against a forty-four. We shall beat him; and the honor will be the greater.” Then, observing Lieutenant Mayrant to be severely wounded in the head, he becomes concerned for that young gentleman. “Better go below to Brooks,” says he, “and have your wounds dressed.” “I must get square for Portsea jail first,” replies Lieutenant Mayrant, who is of those exchanged ones enlisted at Nantes. Lieutenant Dale, forward with the twelve-pounders, comes aft to ask about the exploded eight guns. “They were rotten when the Frenchmen sold them to us,” says Lieutenant Dale bitterly. “Ay!” responds Commodore Paul Jones. “I’d give half the prize money I shall get from yonder ship to have those Frenchmen here.” Meanwhile the _Serapis_--not yet a prize--is fiercely belching flame and smoke, while her shot tear the vitals out of the _Richard_. The ships have been fighting half an hour--rough broadside work; the _Richard_ with its lighter metal has had the worst of the barter. They have sailed, or rather drifted, a mile and a half, edging closer to one another as they forge slowly to the north and west. The _Serapis_, being the livelier ship, has fore-reached on the _Richard_, and Captain Pearson sees the chance to luff across the latter’s bows. Having torn the _Richard_ open with a raking broadside, Captain Pearson will then go clear around the Yankee, put the _Serapis_ upon the starboard tack, and claim in his turn the weather-gage. It is a brilliant thought, and Captain Pearson pulls down his helm to execute it. Already he sees victory in his fingers. He is radiant; it will make him a Knight Commander of the Bath. While Captain Pearson is manoeuvring for that title, the hot broadside dispute proceeds with unflagging fury. Only the _Richard_ is beginning to bleed and gasp; those ten eighteen-pounders of the _Serapis_ overmaster its weaker batteries. Also, by this time they are doubly weak; for more than half of the _Richard_‘s twelve-pounders have been dismounted, and the balance are so jammed with wreckage and splinters as to forbid them being worked. Lieutenant Dale reports the crippled condition of the _Richard_‘s broadside to Commodore Paul Jones, where the latter stands on the after-deck, in personal command of the French marines, whose captain has crept below with a hurt knee. “We have but three effective twelve-pounders left,” says Lieutenant Dale. “Three?” retorts Commodore Paul Jones, cheerfully. “Now, well-aimed and low, Dick, much good damage may be worked with three twelve-pounders.” Lieutenant Dale wipes the blood and sweat and powder-stains from his face, salutes, and goes back to his three guns; while Commodore Paul Jones, alive to the enemy’s new manouvre, takes the wheel from the quartermaster.