eral Pickering of 180 tons which was fitted out under a letter
of marque in the spring of 1780. She carried fourteen six-pounders and
forty-five men and boys, nothing very formidable, when Captain Haraden
sailed for Bilbao with a cargo of sugar. During the voyage, before his
crew had been hammered into shape, he beat off a British privateer of
twenty guns and safely tacked into the Bay of Biscay.

There he sighted another hostile privateer, the Golden Eagle, larger
than his own ship. Instead of shifting his course to avoid her, Haraden
clapped on sail and steered alongside after nightfall, roaring through
his trumpet: "What ship is this? An American frigate, sir. Strike, or
I'll sink you with a broadside."

Dazed by this unexpected summons in the gloom, the master of the Golden
Eagle promptly surrendered, and a prize crew was thrown aboard with
orders to follow the Pickering into Bilbao. While just outside that
Spanish harbor, a strange sail was descried and again Jonathan Haraden
cleared for action. The vessel turned out to be the Achilles, one of the
most powerful privateers out of London, with forty guns and a hundred
and fifty men, or almost thrice the fighting strength of the little
Pickering. She was, in fact, more like a sloop of war. Before Captain
Haraden could haul within gunshot to protect his prize, it had been
recaptured by the Achilles, which then maneuvered to engage the
Pickering.

Darkness intervened, but Jonathan Haraden had no idea of escaping under
cover of it. He was waiting for the morning breeze and a chance to
fight it out to a finish. He was a handsome man with an air of serene
composure and a touch of the theatrical such as Nelson displayed in his
great moments. Having prepared his ship for battle, he slept soundly
until dawn and then dressed with fastidious care to stroll on deck,
where he beheld the Achilles bearing down on him with her crew at
quarters.

His own men were clustered behind their open ports, matches lighted,
tackles and breechings cast off, crowbars, handspikes, and sponge-staves
in place, gunners stripped to the waist, powder-boys ready for the word
like sprinters on the mark. Forty-five of them against a hundred and
fifty, and Captain Haraden, debonair, unruffled, walking to and fro with
a leisurely demeanor, remarking that although the Achilles appeared to
be superior in force, "he had no doubt they would beat her if they were
firm and steady and did not throw away their