er height
out of water I take her to be a French fifty of the time of the last
war. It's too dark for me to see whether she has any lower ports or
not." He raised his night glasses to his eyes, and, in the light of
the full moon which was now flooding the sea with a silvery haze, saw
that his opponent was intent upon a fight.

"It is probably Paul Jones," said he, lowering the glasses. "If
so--there's tight work ahead. What ship is that?" he cried out in loud
tones.

No answer came from the dark hull of the _Good Richard_, but, as she
swung nearer upon the rolling waves, suddenly a flash, a roar, and a
sheet of flame belched from her side. The battle was on!

It was a struggle which has been talked of for years. It was a battle
about which the world never seems to tire of reading. It was _the_
battle which has made the name of John Paul Jones nautically immortal.

The two warriors of the deep were on the same tack, headed northwest,
driven by a slight wind which veered to the westward. The sea was
smooth, the sky was clear, the full moon was rising--the conditions
for a night struggle were ideal.

_Crash! Crash! Crash!_

Broadside after broadside rolled and shrieked from ship to ship, as
the air was filled with flying bits of iron.

_Crash! Crash! Crash!_

Travelling very slowly, for the wind was little more than sufficient
to give them steering-way in the tide, the two antagonists drifted
along for twenty minutes, at cable length (600 to 900 feet--about the
distance of the 220 yard dash). But suddenly--_Boom!_ an explosion
sounded in the gun-room of the _Good Richard_. Two of her
eighteen-pounders had blown up back of the trunnions; many of the crew
lay dead and dying, the after part of the main gun-deck was shattered
like a reed: Senior Midshipman and Acting Lieutenant John Mayrant--who
had command of this battery--was severely wounded in the head by a
fragment of one of the exploded shells, and was scorched by the blast
of flame.

"Abandon your guns!" shouted First Lieutenant Dale, "and report with
your remaining men to the main-deck battery!"

"All right!" answered Mayrant, as he bound a white kerchief around
his bleeding head. "I'll be with you just as soon as I give them one
more shot."

This he endeavored to do, but not a gun could be touched off. "The old
sixteen-pounders that formed the battery of the lower gun-deck, did no
service whatever, except firing eight shots in all," writes John Paul
Jo