At this crashing business of broadsiding, the _Richard_ has no chance, and Commodore Paul Jones--a smile on his dauntless lips, eyes bright and glancing like those of a child with a new toy--stands well aware of it. He must board the Englishman, or he is lost. As showing what Captain Pearson’s eighteen-pounders can do, the _Richard_‘s starboard battery--being the one in action--shows nine of its twelve-pounders dismounted from their carriages; while, of the one hundred and forty-three officers and men who belong with the main gun-deck battery under Lieutenant Dale, eighty-seven lie dead and wounded. The gun-deck itself, a-litter with dismounted guns and shot-smashed carriages and tackle, is slippery with blood, and choked by a red clutter of dead and wounded sailors. Commodore Paul Jones turns to his orderly, Jack Downes. “Present my compliments to Lieutenant Dale,” says lie, “and ask him to step aft.” Bloody, powder-grimed, Lieutenant Dale responds. “Dick,” observes Commodore Paul Jones, “he’s too heavy for us. We must close with him; we must get hold of him. Bring what men you have to the spar-deck, and serve out the small arms for boarding.” The breeze veers to the west, and freshens up a bit. This helps the _Richard_ sooner than it does the _Serapis_; Commodore Paul Jones, having advantage of it, wears and makes directly for his enemy. This move, like a stroke of genius, brings him within one hundred feet of the _Serapis_, directly between it and the wind. It is his purpose to blanket the enemy, and steal the breeze from him. He succeeds; the _Serapis_ loses way. It is now the turn of Commodore Paul Jones to go across his enemy’s forefoot, and retort upon the _Serapis_ that manouvre which Captain Pearson attempted against the _Richard_. But with this difference: Captain Pearson’s purpose was to rake; Commodore Paul Jones’ purpose is to board; for he lias now no guns wherewith to rake. The _Serapis_ is held as though in irons, canvas a-flap, by the blanket of the _Richard_‘s broad sails. Slowly yet surely, like the coming of a doom, the _Richard_ forges across the other’s head. The design of Commodore Paul Jones is to lay the _Serapis_ aboard, lash ship to ship, and sweep the Englishman’s decks with his boarders. These, armed to the teeth, as ready for the rush as so many hunting dogs, Lieutenant Mayrant is holding in the waist.