by Ron Carter
Then Matthew heard the shouts from the Serapis, and half her crew came surging towards the railing. Matthew snatched up a sword and pistol from the wreckage and charged the railing, turning, shouting to the French marines, “Follow me,” and then Tom was beside him. The marines came like a tidal wave, and they swarmed the oncoming British at the railings. For three brutal minutes the railings were lost in the tangle of bodies and flashing swords and cracking pistols as men fought to the death, close enough to feel the breath and see the terror in the eyes of the wounded and dying, and the British were thrown back onto their own decks.
The marines rallied and regrouped and charged the rails to storm the Serapis, and the British muskets blasted. Once again the two forces met at the railings, with swords flashing and pistols cracking, in a desperate hand-to-hand melee.
Matthew was at the rail and looked at the blood on his sleeves and saw that it was not his own. At that instant a cannonball whirred past his head and smashed into a British seaman on the Serapis railing, and Matthew froze in the realization the ball had come from behind him. He spun to look, and eight hundred yards off their port side he saw the winking of more cannon. Then the balls came smashing into the Richard, and Matthew screamed, “It’s the Alliance,” and jammed, shoved his way through the mass of struggling men to the port rail. He grabbed a lantern and began to swing it wildly back and forth—the universal sign to cease fire.
There was a momentary pause, and then the next broadside came whistling from the Alliance. Matthew turned to look for Jones, and Jones was on the poop deck, swinging his own lantern violently. Then Tom was beside Matthew swinging a lantern, and they all shook their fists and shouted and kept the lanterns swinging until the next broadside came slamming into their rigging. They stopped the lanterns and ignored the Alliance because there was nothing more to do.
Fires were running out of control, and Matthew ran to shove a dislodged hatch cover back into place to prevent debris from falling below decks into the powder magazine or barrels. He turned back and saw Tom in front of the poop deck frantically shoving hand grenades inside his shirt, and then Tom stood and gave a sweep of his arm and shouted to the marines, “I’m going up,” and started up the rigging like a cat. A dozen marines stuffed grenades in their shirts and followed, while twenty others rushed back to the rail with muskets to watch for any British seamen who raised their muskets to bear on Tom.
Fifty-five feet above the decks, caught in the flickering light of the fires on both ships, Tom stopped and wrapped his arms through the rope ladder and touched the smouldering cannoneer’s match to the four-inch fuse of the grenade and threw it. The lighted fuse arced out and down, and one second after the grenade hit and bounced, it exploded and two British seamen staggered and went down.
As fast as he could light the fuses, Tom emptied his shirt of ten grenades, and the marines who followed him into the tangled rigging began throwing theirs. The British on deck took cover behind the mass of shattered wood and fallen yards and canvas. British marksmen stood on the decks of the Serapis and with their muskets took aim on the dim bodies in the rigging. The marines on the Richard fired, and some of the marksmen went down and others flinched and ducked for cover.
Suddenly the cannon from the Alliance stopped, and Matthew watched their running lights become clearer. They’re coming—they’re coming—hold on—hold on . . .
The blasting of the Serapis’s cannon never ceased, and the planking of the old, rotten hull of the Richard began to separate under the endless battering. Water came pouring into the hold, and Matthew felt the deck settle with the weight below, where the crews were frantically pumping but unable to hold the waterline.
Again the British rushed the rails to board, and again the marines met them and pushed them back, while Tom and a dozen others lofted grenades downward from the rigging and musket balls whistled past them. Two groaned and grasped at the ropes, then released and tumbled downward.
In the wild confusion, Matthew suddenly realized Jones had left the poop deck and was on the main deck, commanding three cannon personally, and then Matthew understood they were the only guns on the main deck still working. A cannonball from the Serapis blew decking five feet from Jones, and Jones hunched his shoulders and gave the order to reload, when one of the cannoneers threw up his arms and shouted across the railings, “Quarter—we ask quarter—we surrender.”
Jones jerked his pistol from his belt, closed with the cannoneer in one stride, and swung the pistol. Matthew heard the crack as it struck the seaman’s head, and the man went down without a sound or movement.
Aboard the Serapis, Pearson heard the frightened, shouted request for quarter and seized his captain’s horn and bellowed, “Verify the request—do you request quarter? Do you surrender?”
At that split second in time, Jones had but three guns working on his main deck (he did not know how many on the second deck); had four feet of water in the hold and rising; and had taken over twenty point-blank broadsides from the Serapis, as well as four from his own ship Alliance. He had fires burning out of control on two decks, men and shattered wood and rigging thick on his deck, mainmast and mizzenmast both splintered, sails shredded, and he did not know how many of his crew dead or disabled.
He pivoted to face Captain Pearson across the railings, and he thrust his clenched fist into the air and shouted with all his strength, “I have not yet begun to fight.”
For a grain of time the defiant declaration hung in the air, and then it was lost in the sounds of battle, and Pearson gave the order, “Continue firing.”
Again Matthew pointed over their port side at the incoming lights of the Alliance, convinced they had understood their mistake and were coming to join the fight against the Serapis. Then he saw the muzzle flashes, and once again four cannonballs ripped into the port side of the Richard, while a few whistled over her decks and slammed into the Serapis. Matthew ignored the incoming Alliance and raced to take the place of a fallen cannoneer, loading and firing one of the three remaining nine-pounders on the main deck.
Lieutenant Dale felt the Richard settling into the sea and realized it was only a matter of time, and in his mind flashed the faces of two hundred six British seamen locked below decks. He leaped to the nearest gangway and descended through the fires and the shattered timbers and took a bung starter and knocked the locks off the doors and released the prisoners—the unspoken law of the sea. They surged outward, and he retreated to the gangway upwards to freedom and stopped and faced them with a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other.
“You men will go down to the hold and man the pumps to save this ship, and if you do not, my next shot from this pistol will be into the powder stores beside you. Move.” For two seconds that seemed an eternity he faced them before a dozen of them retreated to the gangway downward, and five minutes later the men were in the hold, manning every pump available.
It was ten minutes past nine o’clock.
At nine-twenty, Tom again loaded his shirt with grenades and scrambled back into the tangled rigging and crossed over to the rigging of the Serapis, where Lieutenant Stack had led marine marksmen to shoot down at the British below. With the sparking cannoneer’s match Tom lighted the fuse of the first grenade and tossed it arcing downward. In the flash of the explosion on the deck, for the first time he noticed that a deck hatch cover had been blown partly out of place and there was a black opening, perhaps two feet wide and four feet long, down to the second deck.
Beneath him, marksmen raised their muskets and fired, and one ball left a black streak on the left hip of his trousers. The marine marksmen around him fired back. Tom wrapped his arms into the rigging to light the second grenade and tossed it carefully, and it hit the hatch cover six inches from the hole and rolled onto the deck before it exploded.
On the deck of the Serapis Matthew saw the arc of the burning fuse, and the explosion, and understood, and turned his face upward to peer into the rigging, and he saw Tom. He straightened, holding his
breath, as Tom lighted the next fuse. One second later Tom tossed the grenade, and Matthew watched the sputtering fuse travel downward and disappear into the blackness of the open hatch.
On the second deck, the round grenade hit and rolled and stopped against a box of cartridges, and then it exploded. Instantly the box of cartridges erupted and the one next to it blew, and next to it were two kegs of gunpowder and they blew. In the next three seconds the explosions leaped from box to box of cartridges and barrel to barrel of gunpowder in one continuous, horrendous explosion.
Cannon were blown through their own ports into the sea. Fire blasted fifty feet out of every opening. On the main deck, every hatch cover was blasted out of sight into the black heavens. On the poop deck Captain Pearson grabbed for the rail to keep from being thrown down. It seemed every plank on the main deck rose half a foot, and through the cracks fire could be seen from below. Both the mainmast and the mizzenmast trembled. Not one cannon or one cannoneer on the second deck survived, and every cannon on the main deck was silenced.
Time seemed suspended while the seamen on both ships stopped, frozen, eyes wide in shock at the explosion that had shaken the great ship from stem to stern, and then the ragged firing resumed. Matthew looked upward to watch Tom, and he didn’t realize he had raised one clenched hand and was holding his breath as Tom disengaged his arms from the ropes and began working his way back to the Richard.
From beneath, once again the British raised their muskets and fired, and Matthew saw Tom jerk, and then his shoulders slowly settled and his head fell forward and he clung to the tangled ropes. Matthew screamed, “Tom!” and leaped to the railing and started up the twisted ropes and rigging. He paid no heed to the musket balls whistling upward about him, and he was not aware the marines fired back and the British muskets stopped. Forty seconds later he was beside Tom, and he saw the great gout of black blood above the belt on his right side. He lifted the wiry body enough to slip the wrist and hand from the looped rope, and he put Tom over his shoulder and started back down.
He neither knew nor cared that the Alliance had finally arrived and by purest accident had taken a raking position on the Serapis that struck fear into Captain Pearson, or that at that moment the mainmast of the big man-of-war had shivered, or that Pearson was certain his ship was mortally wounded and sinking.
Matthew reached the deck of the Richard, and strong, gentle hands lifted Tom from his shoulder. They gathered sail canvas into a cushion and laid him on it, and Matthew leaned over the still form, hand spread on the chest, feeling for a heartbeat.
“Tom?” he said. “Tom—can you hear me?”
Matthew did not hear the shouted inquiry from Jones to Pearson, “Will you strike your colors?”
“Tom!” Matthew seized the limp hand.
He paid no attention when Captain Pearson answered Jones, “I will strike. I surrender my command.”
Matthew gave hand signals, and men who had seen the grenade drop from the rigging into the open hatch tenderly picked up the cushion of canvas. Matthew led them to his quarters, and they laid Tom on Matthew’s bunk. Matthew did not notice that the cannon had fallen silent. The battle was over.
“Get the ship’s surgeon,” he said, and two of them left.
Matthew leaned over the thin, leathery face and touched Tom’s cheek gently with his fingers. Behind him, men wiped at their eyes and said nothing. The door opened and the balding doctor dropped to one knee beside the still form, and he tucked two fingers carefully under Tom’s jaw and closed his eyes to concentrate. He frowned, and adjusted his fingers. He rolled Tom onto his side and ripped the bloody shirt wide open, and his face fell when he saw the purple welt surrounding the hole made by the .75-caliber ball. He closed his eyes and for a moment shook his head, then turned to Matthew. “Did you see it happen?”
“Most of it.”
“Was the ball travelling upward?”
“Yes.”
Slowly the surgeon rose and stood with his hands at his sides, and Matthew stood to face him.
“The ball is somewhere in his chest. I think by his heart.” He paused, hating his next words. “I can’t get it out.”
“Is he dead?”
The surgeon shook his head. “There is a slight heartbeat but it’s fading.”
“Is there any chance?”
“None.”
“Thank you.” Matthew dropped to his knees beside the bunk and leaned over to peer intently at the weathered face, as though to memorize every line.
Behind him, the men quietly backed away and walked out the door, except for the last man, who paused. “Some of us saw what he did. We won’t forget.”
The door closed, and Matthew brought the lamp from the table to the nightstand, and drew a chair over by the bunk, and settled onto it and leaned forward, one hand on Tom’s. Time meant nothing, and Matthew was vaguely aware when the door behind him opened and closed softly. Time passed and then Jones’s voice came from behind. “Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“They told me what he did.”
Matthew did not turn or speak.
“The British surrendered. That man saved us.”
Matthew nodded his head.
“We’re sinking. We’ll have to move him to the Serapis by morning.”
“I’ll stay with him.”
Jones quietly left and Matthew glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes past eleven o’clock p.m., Thursday, September 23, 1779.
At two o’clock a.m. Jones returned to stand quietly in the yellow lamp glow. “We’re moving everything to the Serapis. We have perhaps five or six more hours.”
Matthew nodded.
“Is he still alive?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll come when it’s time.”
Jones turned to go, and then he heard a sigh and a whisper. “Matthew?” He turned and watched.
Matthew was instantly on his knees beside the bunk, one hand holding Tom’s, the other against his cheek, ear close to Tom’s face. “I’m here, Tom.”
The eyes fluttered open for a moment. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
A smile formed. “I promised Margaret.”
“Don’t talk, Tom. Listen. They surrendered. You saved us.”
Matthew watched the look of deep weariness settle on the pale face.
“Not me. Him. He saved us.”
The voice was fading. Matthew gently slipped his arm beneath the neck and raised the head to him as he would a child and listened intently as the mouth worked to form whispered words.
“Came back. Promised to tell you.”
Matthew’s ear was inches from Tom’s mouth.
“Saw John. Splendid. Tell Margaret saw John.”
A sob caught in Matthew’s throat, and he felt the warm tears on his cheeks as he began to slowly rock back and forth, holding the frail body.
Tom’s eyes opened wide and his face took on a radiance. “Elizabeth. There waiting. And Jacob! A man. Grown. My Jacob! Knew me—called me by name. All white and shining. Peaceful.”
He settled back in Matthew’s arms and he was smiling and his eyes were alive, filled with wonder. “John said tell you. Going back now. Elizabeth waiting. Jacob.”
Matthew watched the glow fade from the face as Tom left his body and it slowly relaxed, smiling, eyes wide.
Matthew did not know how long he remained on his knees, holding Tom to his chest while the tears wet his face and fell into the tangled hair. Finally he laid the head back on his pillow and tucked the hair into place, and pulled the blanket up to the chin, but did not cover the face. He studied Tom for a time before he covered the face.
He turned at a sound from behind and Captain Jones was still there. Matthew stood and wiped his face with his sleeve and looked calmly into Jones’s face.
“Matthew,” Jones said softly, “may I inquire?”
Matthew waited.
“Did he mention John?”
“My father. Tom
brought him back from the Concord battle. He died the next day.”
“Elizabeth?”
“Tom’s wife. Dead nearly thirty years. Huron Indians.”
“Jacob?”
“His son. Died with his wife.”
“Do you believe he saw them?”
Matthew looked directly into Jones’s eyes. “He saw them.”
Jones swallowed and remained silent and unmoving for a time, then spoke once again. “At the first, he said he didn’t save us. Someone else did. Who?”
Matthew did not flinch. “The Almighty.”
“But it was Tom who climbed the rigging—threw the grenade.”
“Tom knows who saved us.”
Jones did not move for a long time, staring into Matthew’s eyes, and then he walked towards the door.
“Captain,” Matthew said.
Jones turned.
“I would like to take Tom home for burial, near his wife. Could you instruct the surgeon to prepare the body?”
Jones swallowed but could not speak. He nodded his head and walked out the door into the night.
______
Notes
This chapter addresses what is historically one of the most famous sea engagements in modern times. The American ship Bonhomme Richard, forty-two guns, under the command of Commodore John Paul Jones, engaged the British man-of-war Serapis, fifty guns, off Flamborough Head on the east coast of England as dusk approached on the evening of September 23, 1779. The Richard was a French vessel that had previously been a merchantman for thirteen years under the name Le Duc de Duras, plying between Europe and China. Although refitted, the ship was slow and cumbersome, with many water-logged and rotting timbers, and was substantially inferior in both size and quality to the Serapis. Nonetheless, Jones closed with the larger ship and cut across her bow, causing the Serapis to ram the Richard. Jones ordered his crew to lash the railings of the two ships together, and the tides swung them until they were side by side, bound together, bows pointing in opposite directions.
In total darkness, the cannon roared at point-blank range for more than two hours before a member of Jones’s crew called for quarter and Captain Pearson, commander of the Serapis, asked Jones to repeat the request. It was at that point Jones shouted back that he had not asked for quarter, followed by the now immortal words, “I have not yet begun to fight.”