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- 5075
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:05.591Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 5011
- text
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“She is hoisting her colors now, sir,” said Israel.
“Give her the stars and stripes, then, my lad.”
Joyfully running to the locker, Israel attached the flag to the
halyards. The wind freshened. He stood elevated. The bright flag blew
around him, a glorified shroud, enveloping him in its red ribbons and
spangles, like up-springing tongues, and sparkles of flame.
As the colors rose to their final perch, and streamed in the air, Paul
eyed them exultingly.
“I first hoisted that flag on an American ship, and was the first among
men to get it saluted. If I perish this night, the name of Paul Jones
shall live. Hark! they hail us.”
“What ship are you?”
“Your enemy. Come on! What wants the fellow of more prefaces and
introductions?”
The sun was now calmly setting over the green land of Ireland. The sky
was serene, the sea smooth, the wind just sufficient to waft the two
vessels steadily and gently. After the first firing and a little
manoeuvring, the two ships glided on freely, side by side; in that mild
air Exchanging their deadly broadsides, like two friendly horsemen
walking their steeds along a plain, chatting as they go. After an hour
of this running fight, the conversation ended. The Drake struck. How
changed from the big craft of sixty short minutes before! She seemed
now, above deck, like a piece of wild western woodland into which
choppers had been. Her masts and yards prostrate, and hanging in
jack-straws; several of her sails ballooning out, as they dragged in
the sea, like great lopped tops of foliage. The black hull and
shattered stumps of masts, galled and riddled, looked as if gigantic
woodpeckers had been tapping them.
The Drake was the larger ship; more cannon; more men. Her loss in
killed and wounded was far the greater. Her brave captain and
lieutenant were mortally wounded.
The former died as the prize was boarded, the latter two days after.
It was twilight, the weather still severe. No cannonade, naught that
mad man can do, molests the stoical imperturbability of Nature, when
Nature chooses to be still. This weather, holding on through the
following day, greatly facilitated the refitting of the ships. That
done, the two vessels, sailing round the north of Ireland, steered
towards Brest. They were repeatedly chased by English cruisers, but
safely reached their anchorage in the French waters.
“A pretty fair four weeks’ yachting, gentlemen,” said Paul Jones, as
the Ranger swung to her cable, while some French officers boarded her.
“I bring two travellers with me, gentlemen,” he continued. “Allow me to
introduce you to my particular friend Israel Potter, late of North
America, and also to his Britannic Majesty’s ship Drake, late of
Carrickfergus, Ireland.”
This cruise made loud fame for Paul, especially at the court of France,
whose king sent Paul, a sword and a medal. But poor Israel, who also
had conquered a craft, and all unaided too—what had he?
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