PAUL JONES

BY
MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL

AUTHOR OF
LITTLE JARVIS, MIDSHIPMAN PAULDING, CHILDREN OF DESTINY, MAID MARIAN, THROCKMORTON, ETC.

D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY
INCORPORATED
NEW YORK LONDON
1936

INTRODUCTION.

The writer feels the most sincere diffidence in making use of the mighty name and personality of Paul Jones, who, as Cooper justly says, was not only a great seaman but a great man. An excuse, however, is not wanting. It is justifiable and profitable to bring before the eyes of American youth this heroic figure, and if it be done inadequately, the fault is not in the intention. It is not too much to say that the achievements of Paul Jones, the ranking officer in the Continental marine, had much to do with placing the American navy upon that lofty plane of skill and intrepidity which can only be matched by England, the Mistress of the Seas.

Strangely enough, Paul Jones is but little known to the multitude, and the misrepresentations concerning him that occasionally appear in print to this day are the more inexcusable because few public men ever left a more complete record. This record has been carefully studied by the writer, and, although this story is professedly and confessedly a romance, history has been consulted at every point. Log books, journals, and biographies have been searched, especially the logs, journals, and letters of Paul Jones himself. Much relating to him has been left out, but nothing of consequence has been put in that is not historically true. The language ascribed to him is, whenever possible, that used by him at the time, or afterward, in his letters and journals. When it is wholly imaginary it is made consistent, as far as lies in the writer’s power, with what is known of his mode of expression. The mere recital of Paul Jones’s actual adventures is a thrilling romance, and his character was so powerfully romantic and imaginative that it lends itself readily to idealization. But he is more than the type of mere daring. Technical authors write of him with the most profound admiration, and among naval men of all nations he stands as the model of resource as well as boldness. His plans were far-reaching, and his most hazardous undertakings were inspired by a sublime common sense. John Adams said of him: “If I could see a prospect of half a dozen line-of-battle ships under the American flag and commanded by Commodore Paul Jones engaged with an equal British force, I apprehend the result would be so glorious for the United States, and lay so sure a foundation for their prosperity, that it would be a rich compensation for the continuance of the war.” And Franklin, his steadfast friend, in one noble sentence described him: “For Captain Paul Jones ever loved close fighting.” Washington, Lafayette, Jefferson, and Morris esteemed him, and left evidence of it. Nor did his enemies fail to pay him the compliment of wishing to ruin him, for at one time there were forty-two British frigates and line-of-battle ships scouring the seas for him. He was the first to raise the American flag on the ocean, and so well did he maintain its honor that he kept it flying in the Texel, with thirteen double-decked Dutch frigates menacing him in the harbor, while twelve British ships lay in wait for him outside. He was offered comparative security if he would hoist the French ensign and accept a commission in the French navy. More than that, he was told that unless he agreed to this he must give up the splendid trophy of his valor, the captured British frigate Serapis—“the finest ship of her class I ever saw,” he wrote. But cruel as this last alternative was, Paul Jones unhesitatingly transferred his flag from the beautiful Serapis to the inferior Alliance and got to sea in the face of the British fleet, with his “best American ensign flying,” as he himself wrote at the moment. Well might Paul Jones say proudly to the American Congress: “I have never borne arms under any but the American flag, nor have I ever borne or acted under any commission except that of the Congress of America.”

He served without pay or allowance, and made advances out of his private fortune to the cause of independence. He was wounded many times in his “twenty-three battles and solemn rencounters by sea,” as he expressed it. Yet there is not one word of his wounds in any line of his official correspondence, although the wounds of others are frequently called to the attention of the Congress. He fought whenever he had a chance, and he was never defeated. The two British war-ships he captured were taken in the face of enormous odds and within sight of the three kingdoms, when both seas and shores were swarming with his enemies. The captain who surrendered to him was made a baronet for the defense of the British ship. What, then, must have been the splendor of the attack! Truly, Paul Jones deserved well of his country, and he was not without proof of its gratitude. He was unanimously elected the ranking officer of the American navy by the Continental Congress, which also gave him a gold medal and the thanks of Congress. France showed her appreciation of his services by awarding him the cross of the order of Military Merit, never before given a foreigner, and a gold sword. Thus was the splendid roll of American sea officers made lustrous from the beginning by the name of Paul Jones.

The words of Lamartine about the great profession in which Paul Jones served gloriously, and the language of Cooper regarding Paul Jones himself, may be quoted. Lamartine says: “Among the illustrious men who have filled the foremost ranks in great contests, men have always been most dazzled and interested by the heroes of the sea.... The variety and extent of natural and acquired faculties which must of necessity be united in one individual to constitute a great seaman, astonish the mind and raise the perfect sailor beyond all comparison above all other warriors.”

Cooper says: “In battle, Paul Jones was brave; in enterprise, hardy and original; in victory, mild and generous; in motives, much disposed to disinterestedness, although ambitious of renown and covetous of distinction; in his pecuniary relations, liberal; in his affections, natural and sincere; and in his temper, except in those cases which assailed his reputation, just and forgiving.” Moreover, he was a true and patriotic American, and, except Columbus, the Admiral of the Ocean Seas, Paul Jones was the very boldest man who ever sailed blue water.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAUL JONES.

CHAPTER I.

On a bright day in January, 1776, a lithe, handsome young man, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the Continental navy, stood on the dock at Philadelphia gazing keenly down the river. His eyes were peculiarly black and beautiful, and had an expression of command in them that is seldom absent from those of a man born to lead other men. His figure was slight, and he was not above medium height; but he was both graceful and muscular.

The river was frozen, except a tortuous channel cut through the ice and kept open with difficulty. Innumerable masts and spars made a network against the dull blue of the winter sky, and fringed the docks and wharves; while far down the glittering sea of ice lay a small squadron of five armed vessels, which was the beginning of the glorious navy of the United States.

This young lieutenant, Paul Jones by name, looked about for a boat to take him down the river to the squadron; and seeing a ragged, bright-eyed boy about twelve years old sitting in a rickety skiff from which a passenger had just been landed, he called the boy, and, jumping lightly into the boat, said:

The boy pulled away with a will, but kept his eyes fixed on Paul Jones’s uniform and the sword which lay across his knee.

“Them ships is to fight the British, ain’t they?” he asked presently, jerking his head toward the ships then just collected in the river, whose crews and armaments were yet to be provided.

“Yes,” answered Paul Jones, smiling. “If you were a man I would enlist you.”

The boy said nothing more, but pulled steadily toward the Alfred. When they reached the side of the ship her decks were heaped with coils of rope, piles of shot, some unmounted guns, and all the litter of a merchant vessel being converted into a man-of-war. But the Alfred, although not built for fighting, was yet a stanch little ship, and when armed and manned had no cause to run away from any vessel of her class.

Paul Jones studied her with the eye of a seaman, as they approached. Meanwhile a crowd of strange thoughts rushed upon him. “At last,” he thought to himself, “I am at the beginning of my career. A poor Scotch gardener’s son, shipping as a common sailor boy because there were so many mouths to feed at home—coming, at thirteen, to this new country that I have learned to love so well—left a modest fortune, and rising to the command of a ship before I was twenty, I determined to cast my fate with these people, to whom I owe all the kindness I ever knew, and I was proud to be among the first to raise my arm in the defense of these colonies against tyranny. All those I loved as a child in Scotland are dead, and all that is now dear to me is in my adopted country. The cause of these colonies is a just one, and I could no more refuse to fight for that cause than any man born here. The chances for success and promotion are all with the army; our few small vessels can hope for but little in contests with England, the Mistress of the Seas; but I think I was born a sailor, and my heart turns ever toward blue water. The day that I received my commission as a lieutenant in the Continental navy was surely the most blessed and fortunate of my life, and my adopted country shall never have cause to regret giving it me.” Deep in his heart Paul Jones had a strange feeling that glory awaited him; for those destined to immortality have mysterious foreknowledge of it.

Occupied with these thoughts, Paul Jones did not come out of his daydream until the boat’s nose touched the accommodation ladder over the Alfred’s side. He rose with a start, and held out a piece of money to the boy, who blushed, and shook his head.

“I don’t want no money,” he said diffidently, “for helpin’ my country.”

Paul Jones paused and looked steadily at the ragged lad, who looked back steadfastly at him.

“You seem to be rather an odd sort of boy—and, by my life, I like such boys,” said he. The quartermaster had then come down the ladder, and stood ready to salute as soon as he caught the young lieutenant’s eye. This man, Bill Green, was a remarkably handsome, bluff sailor of about forty-five, with a fine figure, and was dressed with as much care and neatness as if he were a quarter-deck officer. Paul Jones was instantly struck by his admirable appearance, and more so when he spoke. His voice was full and musical, and his manner extremely polite and respectful, without being in the least cringing. The lad, too, seemed taken by the quartermaster’s pleasant looks, and spoke again, after a moment, looking alternately from him to Paul Jones:

“I’m a very strong boy—and I allus thought I’d like to be a sailor. Won’t you take me now, sir, and let me fight the British?”

“My name’s Danny Dixon, sir, and I ain’t got any father or mother or brothers or sisters; and I’d ruther be a sailor, sir, nor anything.”

“We’ll see if his story is true, and if it is—why, we shall have use for powder boys on this ship, and we might do worse than take this lad.”

“In course, sir,” responded Green. “I’ll find out something about him, and I’m thinkin’ he’d make a good, strong powder monkey and maybe he’s old enough to be helper to the jack-o’-the-dust.”

“I’ll go ashore now, sir, and bring you back some one to prove who I am,” he cried eagerly; and Paul Jones had to step hurriedly out of the boat to keep from being carried back to the dock, so keen was the boy to put off. And in two hours he was back again on the Alfred, and regularly entered on the ship’s books.

“Because,” said Bill Green, who was a foks’l wag, “when we comes to fightin’ the British, most likely the cap’n will call you up and make you a quarter gunner, or sumpin’ on the spot, boy; and you can’t git your share of the prize money if you ain’t entered on the ship’s books, reg’lar.”

Danny luckily did not mention his expectation of becoming a quarter gunner to Paul Jones, who, as first lieutenant, had charge of the ship in the absence of her captain. But he did ask that he might be put on the books so he could get his prize money; which the young lieutenant promised to do, laughing in spite of himself at Danny’s serious expectation of a considerable fortune in prize money.

Captain Saltonstall was to command the Alfred, but he had not yet arrived, and upon Paul Jones rested the duty of preparing the ship for sea. From the day his foot first touched the deck his active spirit pervaded everything, and the officers under him, as well as the men, felt the force of his commanding energy. Besides working all day, he and the other officers stood watch and watch on deck throughout the wintry nights, to prevent desertions; and although every other ship in the squadron had her crew lessened by desertion, not a single man was lost from the Alfred.

“And I’m a-thinkin’, mates,” remarked Bill Green, in the confidence of the foks’l, “as how we’ve got a leftenant as is a seaman; I seen it by the cut o’ his jib; and if he was the cap’n o’ this ’ere ship, he’d lock yardarms with a Britisher if he had half a chance.”

One day, in the midst of the bustle of fitting the ship out, Commodore Hopkins, who was to command the little squadron, came on board the Alfred. He was formally received at the gangway by Paul Jones and shown over the ship by him.

The commodore was a big, burly man, who had spent the best part of his life at sea. He examined the ship carefully, and his silence, as Paul Jones explained what he had done and was doing with the means at his command, made the young lieutenant fear that it had not met with the commodore’s approval. But, secure in the consciousness that he had done his duty, Paul Jones could afford to do without the praise of his superiors. He was not, however, destined to this mortification. Standing on the quarter-deck, surrounded by the officers, Commodore Hopkins turned to Paul Jones, and said:

“Your activity has pleased me extremely, and my confidence in you is such, that if Captain Saltonstall should be unable to reach here by the time the ships can get away, I shall hoist my flag on this ship, and give you the command of her.”

A flush rose in Paul Jones’s dark face, and he bowed with the graceful courtesy that always distinguished him.

“Thank you, commodore,” he said, “and may I be pardoned for hoping that Captain Saltonstall may not arrive in time? And when your flag is hoisted on the Alfred, there will be, I trust, a flag of the United Colonies to fly at the peak, and I aspire to be the first man to raise that flag upon the ocean.”

“If the Congress is as slow as I expect it to be, it will be some time yet in adopting a flag; and there will not be time to have one made for the ship before we sail.”

The young lieutenant had good reason for his expectation. The Congress had practically decided upon the flag, and Paul Jones, out of his own pocket, had bought the materials to make one. Bill Green was an expert with the needle, boasting that he could “hand, reef, and steer a needle like the best o’ them tailor men,” and was fully capable of making a flag.

On a stormy February day, when the channel had been freed from ice enough for the little squadron to get out, the Alfred was made ready to receive her flag officer. Captain Saltonstall had arrived some days before, to Paul Jones’s intense disappointment. But he was as ready to do his duty as first lieutenant as he had been that hoped-for duty as acting captain.

The commodore’s boat was seen approaching on the wind tossed water. The horizon was overcast, and dun clouds scurried wildly across the troubled sky, with which the pale and wintry sun struggled vainly. The boatswain’s call, “All hands to muster!” sounded through the ship, and in a wonderfully short time, owing to the careful drilling of Paul Jones, the three hundred men and one hundred marines were drawn up on deck. The sailors, a fine-looking body of American seamen, were formed in ranks on the port side of the quarter-deck, while abaft of them stood the marine guard, under arms. On the starboard side were the petty officers, and on the quarter-deck proper were the commissioned officers in full uniform with their swords, and Paul Jones headed the line.

When it was reported, “All hands up and aft!” Captain Saltonstall appeared out of the cabin. Paul Jones, having previously arranged it, called out, “Quartermaster!” and Bill Green, neat, handsome and sailorlike, stepped from the ranks of the petty officers.

From some unknown regions about his clothes Bill produced a flag, rolled up, and, following Paul Jones, stepped briskly aft to the flagstaff. He affixed the flag to the halyards, along with the broad pennant of a commodore, saw that they worked properly, and then stood by. The commodore’s boat was then at the ladder, and the commodore came over the side. Just as his foot touched the quarter-deck the flag with the pennant flew up on the staff like magic, under Paul Jones’s hands, the breeze caught it and flung it wide to the free air, and the sun, suddenly bursting out, bathed it in glory. Every officer, from the commodore down, instantly removed his cap, the drummer boys beat a double ruffle on the drums, and a tremendous cheer burst from the sailors and marines. As Paul Jones advanced, Commodore Hopkins said to him:

“I congratulate you upon your enterprise. The flag was only adopted in Congress yesterday, and this one is the very first to fly.”[1]

“Such was my hope, sir,” answered Paul Jones, modestly. “I wished the honor of hoisting the flag of freedom the first time it was ever displayed; and this man,” pointing to Bill Green, who stood smiling behind him, “sat up all last night in order to make this ensign for the ship—an ensign which will ever be attended with veneration upon the ocean.”

Bill Green came in for his share of congratulation too; and as if the appearance of the flag had bewitched the wind, it suddenly shifted to fair, the sun came out brilliantly, and within half an hour the squadron of five ships—the Columbus, the Andrew Doria, the Sebastian Cabot, and the Providence, led by the Alfred—had spread all their canvas, and were winging swiftly toward the free and open sea.

CHAPTER II.

The first enterprise determined upon was an expedition to the island of New Providence, in the West Indies. On the 17th of February the squadron had set sail from the Delaware, and on the morning of the 1st of March it appeared off the harbor of New Providence. There were two forts to protect the town, but at that moment there was not a soldier on the island. When the American squadron was sighted, though, an alarm gun was fired, and the inhabitants manned the forts and turned the guns on the American vessels just outside the bar. The little American squadron carried only two hundred marines, and it was determined to land them under the fire of the ships; but owing to the bar at the mouth of the harbor the Alfred and the Columbus could not pass in; only the smaller vessels could get in with any prospect of coming out at low tide. From the lack of charts, the Americans had to take great risks in finding safe anchorages. But the pilot taken on board the Alfred declared that he knew of an anchorage, under a key three leagues to windward of the harbor, where the larger vessels might safely await the result of the attack on the town. This news was carried to Commodore Hopkins as he restlessly paced the Alfred’s deck, looking at the white-walled town lying before him in the warm March sunshine.

“But, Mr. Jones,” said he to Paul Jones, who had brought the pilot aboard, “how can we answer for the faithfulness of these pilots? They may cheerfully take the risk of being lost along with us rather than put us in a position to take the town.”

“Quite true, sir,” answered Paul Jones, “but if you will give me leave, I will undertake, with this pilot, to carry the ship to a safe anchorage, and I will answer for it with my commission if I do not take her safely.”

“Very well, then,” replied the commodore; “if you will assume the responsibility, I will trust the ship.”

It had then fallen dead calm, and all through the long spring day they waited for a puff of wind. The short twilight of the tropics was upon them before the wind sprang up again. At the first breeze the Alfred set every sail that would draw, and, followed by the Columbus, headed for the key. The sky was a deep rose-red in the west, and overhead of a pale and luminous green. The full moon was rising, round and yellow, over the town, and a few solitary stars twinkled in the vast expanse of the sky. Paul Jones, followed by the pilot, went aloft to the foretopmast head, where a clear view of everything was to be had. In the deep and breathless silence every occasional sound could be heard, and scarcely a word was uttered except the orders, as the ship ran down the chain of islands, with a fair wind, in the moonlit night. Bill Green was at the wheel, while three or four officers, stationed at various points along the deck, repeated the orders called out in Paul Jones’s clear and penetrating voice, so that no mistake might be made. A man on the port side and another on the starboard kept the lead going constantly. Commodore Hopkins and Captain Saltonstall paced the deck together.

“Port a little—hard aport—steady!” While the man with the lead on the starboard side would sing musically, in the peculiar cadence used in sounding:

This meant they were in five and three quarter fathoms—plenty of water for the ship. The sailor sounding on the port side would sing in the same key:

Paul Jones, with every nerve strained, listened to the soundings, the sweet call ringing softly in the half darkness as the ship glided through the purple night. Sometimes she was in the full light of the moon, and then a shadow would descend upon the sea, and she would slip through it like a phantom ship. Two cables’ length off, the Columbus followed in her wake. Once the man sang out:

Every soul on board gave a gasp—the water was getting shoal; and Paul Jones shouted quickly from the fore-topmast, “Starboard—starboard your helm!” The next sounding was four and a half fathoms, and at last, just as the moon emerged in splendor from a thin white cloud, the Alfred rounded the key, and the cable rattled out noisily as the anchor was dropped in six fathoms of water. Paul Jones felt as if a hand clutching his heart had been suddenly loosed. He had piloted the ship safely, and had anchored her; his commission was safe; and he was from that moment the best known junior officer in the squadron.

Next morning the marines were landed, a large quantity of arms and stores were captured and embarked, and the squadron set sail for home.

CHAPTER III.

The morning of the 9th of April dawned clear and lovely. The American squadron, on its return from New Providence, was making its way cautiously along the New England coast, and although every part of it was swarming with British vessels, it was determined to take the squadron into Long Island Sound by the way of Narragansett Bay.

Paul Jones went about his arduous duties as first lieutenant with his usual steady determination, but at heart he cherished a secret dissatisfaction. His bold and enterprising spirit was not adapted to submission. He could obey, but his destiny was to command. Commodore Hopkins was a brave man, but he was not above the average in either enterprise or intelligence. Several strategic mistakes that he made during the affair at New Providence had not escaped the searching eye of Paul Jones, and he felt a dread of encountering the British then, for fear that the American commodore would not be equal to so great an occasion. He knew that they would have to run the gauntlet of Commodore Wallace’s fleet off Newport, and his brave heart trembled at the idea that all of glory possible would not be reaped.

The day passed, though, without any adventures. Numerous white sails were seen, but the squadron, sailing well together, was not molested. Although not disposed to decline a fight, the value of the arms and ammunition on board to the Continental army made Commodore Hopkins quite willing to “let sleeping dogs lie.” But this was contrary to the temperament of Paul Jones. He realized instinctively his capacity for meeting extraordinary dangers with extraordinary resources of mind and courage, and he could not but despise the risks that other men shunned.

Toward night they entered the blue waters of Narragansett Bay. A young moon hung trembling in the heavens, the sky was cloudless, and the stars shone brilliantly.

Although Paul Jones, being first lieutenant, had no watch on deck, he remained above. About midnight the lookout on the quarter made out Block Island, and almost at the same moment a cry was heard from the Cabot, known as “the black brig,” of “Sail, ho!”

“What do you think it is, Mr. Jones?” asked Commodore Hopkins, with night glass in hand, examining the shadowy form of a ship under light canvas about half a mile off.

“I think it is a British frigate, sir,” replied Paul Jones, after looking intently at her. “She is too small for a ship of the line, and she does not carry sail enough for a merchant vessel with a good wind. She is simply cruising about, and probably looking for us.”

The Cabot being in the lead, night signals were made to her to engage the attention of the stranger, which had tacked, and was now making straight for the American squadron. Paul Jones then, as first lieutenant, saw the captain’s orders carried out to clear the Alfred for action as quietly as possible. No drums were beat, and the men went silently to their quarters. The batteries were lighted up, but by keeping the ports closed as little was shown as possible. A string of battle lanterns was laid in a row on the gun deck by little Danny Dixon, who wagged his head knowingly at Bill Green, who happened to be passing, and remarked:

“No, there won’t,” answered Bill, gruffly. “This ’ere commodore, he ain’t got a very good appetite for fightin’. Now, if Mr. Jones was commandin’—”

Just as the words were out of his mouth the quartermaster turned suddenly and saw Paul Jones’s stern eyes fixed on him. The first lieutenant, on making his last round, had come unexpectedly upon Bill, who knew better than to express such opinions about the commodore.

A dead silence followed. Paul Jones did not speak, but the look in his eye commanded discretion to Bill, who immediately began fumbling about the lanterns and instructing Danny in his duty.

The incident, though, made a deep impression upon Paul Jones. “If that is the feeling among the men, there is little hope of capturing the British ship,” he thought bitterly to himself.

He then went above, and just as his foot touched the deck he heard the frigate, which was now close upon them, hail the black brig.

Every ear was strained to catch the answer. It came ringing over the smooth water:

It was now about half past two o’clock in the morning. The moon had gone down, and in the darkness the Glasgow evidently was ignorant of the character of the five vessels strung out together. The Cabot had now got very close on the lee bow of the Glasgow, and suddenly poured a broadside into her. Instantly the British ship seemed to wake up to her danger. She bore up and ran off to clear for action, but within a quarter of an hour she came up gallantly to engage the whole American squadron.

Paul Jones was in command of the gun deck. The Alfred was so heavily laden that she was down in the water almost to her portsills; the sea, however, being smooth, he was enabled to work his batteries whenever the manœuvres of the ship made it possible. The two ships finally got into such a position that they kept up a furious cannonade until daybreak. The Glasgow was hulled a number of times, her mainmast was crippled, and her sails and rigging almost destroyed; she had fifty-two shot through her mizzen staysail, one hundred and ten through her mainsail, and eighty-eight through her foresail, besides having her royal yards carried away. But she had disabled the Cabot at the second broadside, and then, concentrating her fire on the Alfred, the wheel block and ropes of the American ship were carried away, and she came up into the wind, giving the Glasgow a chance to pour in several raking broadsides before the ship could be brought on the wind again. Daylight coming, the Glasgow made signals to the rest of the British fleet, then plainly in sight, and the American drew off.

The action might be considered a draw, taking into account the damage done the British ship, and that she evidently had had enough of it. To the impetuous soul of Paul Jones though it seemed from the first to be what he afterward pronounced it—“the disgraceful affair with the Glasgow.”

From that hour there was no longer any confidence possible between him and Commodore Hopkins. The commodore had acted according to his best judgment; but he was not a Paul Jones. As Bill Green expressed it in the foks’l: “When the Glasgow went off howlin’ like a broken-legged dog, there oughter been somebody to stop her; and, mates, if Mr. Paul Jones had ’a’ been in command, we’d ’a’ had some prize money sure, as well as savin’ our credit.” Although there was a subtile estrangement between Commodore Hopkins and Paul Jones, each respected the other’s character. But it was more agreeable to the commodore to have Paul Jones anywhere than on the Alfred, so that in a very short while he was placed in command of the sloop of war Providence.

In manning the sloop, Commodore Hopkins gave Paul Jones the privilege of taking his petty officers from the crew of the Alfred. As soon as this was known Bill Green begged hard to be of the number, and so he was permitted to go.

In the bustle and excitement of the change Paul Jones had quite forgotten Danny Dixon. While making his final preparations in his cabin to change his quarters to the Providence, Danny appeared at the door with his best clothes on and a bundle in his hand.

“Nothin’, sir,” answered Danny, “’cep’ I’m ready to go, sir, whenever you are.”

“Why, sir, ain’t I a-goin’ with you on the Providence?” replied Danny, in a surprised voice. “When I heard you had done got your orders, I went and made up my kit. Mr. Green, the quartermaster, come along, sir, and he says you axed for him to go with you, and that you had said you was goin’ to make me a boatswain’s mate, and for me to git my kit. I wanted to go with you anyhow, sir, though I didn’t expect to be nothin’ but a ship’s boy; but when you axed for me—”

The boy’s simplicity was so genuine that Paul Jones could not laugh at him. He only said, smiling a little:

“Very well. Green is to be my quartermaster, and I’ll see the captain, and perhaps he may let me have you.”

“Thankee, sir,” replied Danny gratefully, and sitting down outside the cabin door he kept his earnest eyes fixed on Paul Jones, like a dog on his master. Presently Paul Jones came out, and after a few words with the captain, Danny was told that he might go along with the new commander of the Providence. Paul Jones was touched by the boy’s devotion, and took him for the captain’s cabin boy.

Paul Jones had good reason to be satisfied with all the people he had brought from the Alfred. Bill Green, besides being a first-class quartermaster, was such a pleasant, cheery, waggish fellow that he kept everything forward in a good humor. Moreover, he had a very valuable talent—he could sing beautifully, and had a store of sea songs, some of which he had picked up in the British navy, where he had served some time, and others were patriotic songs which were often composed and much sung in those days. But Bill had a weakness—he always professed to have composed all his songs himself, and to have written them out, when it was a well-known fact that he could not write a word. He had signed the ship’s books with a cross instead of his name, which he explained by saying: “The officer, he was in a hurry, and it was gittin’ on toward my watch, and I didn’t have no half hour to spend writin’ ‘Bill Green,’ so I jest made a cross mark, not thinkin’ as how nobody would suspicion I couldn’t write; and then, it takes so much o’ my time to write my songs, I ain’t got none for to write my name.” All this was received with many sly winks by the men, but they were willing to humor the handsome quartermaster in anything, he was such a favorite with them. Bill, also, like other artists, liked to be urged. This, too, was fully understood, and he always yielded to pressure.

The Providence was a good sailer, but she carried only twelve small guns and seventy men. She was employed in transporting men and stores along the shores at the eastern entrance of Long Island Sound, and as this was done in the face of overwhelming British fleets, the address and seamanship of young Captain Jones was fully proved. So great was his success in eluding the British, that the Cerberus frigate made it an especial object to capture the little sloop. She got the Providence under her guns several times, but the sloop always managed to edge away. Once, while the Providence was convoying a brig loaded with military supplies for General Washington, the Cerberus caught sight of her and crowded on sail to overhaul her. Captain Jones signaled to the brig to get out of the way as fast as possible, while he manœuvred with studied awkwardness in sight of the Cerberus. On came the powerful frigate to crush the little sloop, but as soon as Paul Jones saw the brig safe, he made for shoal water, where the frigate dared not follow him, and escaped as night came on.

Early in August he was regularly commissioned as captain, and sailed for the Bermudas, on his first independent cruise. By that time the officers and men under him had come to know what manner of man he was, and looked forward to a glorious cruise with him.

It was characteristic of Paul Jones to make the best of all his opportunities, and he managed out of a feeble sloop to make an efficient and fast-sailing cruiser. He trimmed the ship so that she sailed well both on and off the wind, and he was thus in condition either to fight or run away, whichever he chose.

The officers and men were in fine spirits, and the very first evening out, as they sailed along with a spanking breeze, Bill Green piped up an inspiring song to his mates on the foks’l, which echoed even to the quarter-deck. The officers listened with pleasure, while Bill sung in his full, round, and musical baritone the following song:[2]

“When the anchor’s weighed and the ship’s unmoored,

And landsmen lag behind, sir,

The sailor joyfully skips on board,

And, swearing, prays for wind, sir.

Towing here,

Yeoing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free.

Is a sailor’s life at sea.

“When we sail with a freshening breeze,

And landsmen all grow sick, sir,

The sailor lolls with his mind at ease,

And the song and the glass go quick, sir.

Laughing here,

Quaffing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free,

Is a sailor’s life at sea.

“When the wind at night whistles over the deep,

And sings to landsmen dreary,

The sailor, fearless, goes to sleep,

Or takes his watch most cheery.

Boozing here,

Snoozing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free,

Is a sailor’s life at sea.

“When the sky grows black and the winds blow hard,

And landsmen skulk below, sir,

Jack mounts up to the topsail yard,

And turns his quid as he goes, sir.

Hauling here,

Bawling there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free,

Is a sailor’s life at sea.

“When the foaming waves run mountain high,

And landsmen cry, ‘All’s gone!’ sir,

The sailor hangs ’twixt sea and sky,

And jokes with Davy Jones, sir.

Dashing here,

Splashing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free,

Is a sailor’s life at sea.

“When the ship, d’ye see, becomes a wreck,

And landsmen hoist the boat, sir,

The sailor scorns to quit the deck

While there’s a single plank afloat, sir.

Swearing here,

Tearing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free,

Is a sailor’s life at sea.”

A loud chorus of cheers greeted the song, and Bill retired, covered with glory and embarrassment.

CHAPTER IV.

It was on the first day of September that the Providence sighted a large ship, which was mistaken for an Indiaman, homeward bound. She proved to be the Solebay, frigate, with twenty guns mounted on one deck. On seeing the Providence, the Solebay made for her, and the sloop had to take to her heels. But the Solebay proved to be a magnificent sailer on the wind, and the Providence had evidently more than her match in speed. The Providence, small as she was, had cleared for action, for, as Paul Jones declared, “I will give her one round, if I go to the bottom for it.” The men highly approved of this sentiment, and the little four-pounders were run out to salute the flag the Providence carried—because her fire was little more than a salute.

The day was warm and clear, and the breeze fresh. The little Providence was legging it briskly over the water, but the Solebay gained upon her every hour. The chase had begun about noon, and by four o’clock the frigate was within pistol shot. Paul Jones was on the horse block of his little vessel, and Bill Green was at the wheel. Danny Dixon had gravely prepared for action upon the sly hints given by his friend and patron, Bill. The boy had stripped to the waist, and, wrapping a handkerchief about his head, instead of his hat, was all ready to take his place at the head of the line of powder boys.

As the frigate gained more and more on the little Providence, every heart sank except that of the dauntless captain. Paul Jones, however, remained calm, and even confident.

“Look,” said he, “their guns in broadside are fast. They think they can take us by firing a bow chaser, but they are mistaken. What would be easier than to bear away before the wind under their broadside?”

The Providence had all her light canvas set, and was flying like a bird from her pursuer; but the pursuer was nevertheless perceptibly gaining.

“We will show our ensign as well as give her a volley,” cried Paul Jones gayly, and the next moment the American colors fluttered out.

“Lying, lying,” said Paul Jones, turning to his officers. “Would that we had such a vessel in our little navy! She is British, depend upon it. Her lines tell it too plainly.”

The Solebay though imagining that she was weathering on the chase and sure to capture the saucy American, soon hauled down her American colors and ran up the Union Jack.

The officers saw by the light in Paul Jones’s eyes that he still had a trump card to play. All this time he was walking the quarter-deck with his light and springy step, his face wearing a smile. Presently he called out himself to Bill Green, at the wheel:

The next moment the helm was put up, and before the astonished people on the Solebay knew what was happening, the American sloop of war ran directly under her enemy’s broadside and went off dead before the wind. The keen eyes of Paul Jones had noticed that in the Solebay’s fancied certainty of capturing the American she had not even cast loose and manned her batteries in broadside, thinking a shot or two from her bow guns would bring the Providence to when she was overhauled. But the Providence had a captain the like of which the Solebay had never met before, and he could dare and do unlooked-for things.

In vain the frigate came about in haste and confusion. Her prey was gone, and the Americans were cheering and jeering.

“Boy,” said Bill Green in a hoarse whisper to Danny Dixon, who was passing near him: “I can’t do no cheerin’ at the wheel, so you cheer for me; and if you don’t pipe up as loud as the best of ’em I’ll tan your hide for you the wust you ever see, jest as soon as my relief comes.”

Danny was disposed to cheer anyhow, but Bill Green’s promise of a licking in case he did not do his full duty in the matter, tended to encourage him. He took his stand by the foremast and a series of diabolical whoops and yells resounded. “Hooray!” bawled Danny. “Hooray for Cap’n Paul Jones! Hooray for the Providence! Hooray for Mr. Bill Green! Hooray for the powder monkeys on this ’ere ship!” and so on indefinitely.

“What is that youngster yelling?” asked Paul Jones, laughing at the gravity and persistence with which Danny kept up his performance.

“He says, sir, that Green, the quartermaster, told him to hurrah, and if he doesn’t keep it up he is afraid Green will give him the cat.”

Everybody laughed, and they agreed the best plan was to let Danny and the quartermaster settle it between them. Danny hurrahed for a solid half hour, until Green’s relief came. The old sailor then went up to him, grinning.

“You can shet that potato-trap o’ yourn now,” he said, “and I’ll take a turn myself,” whereupon Bill, inflating his lungs, roared out solemnly:

Paul Jones’s daring exploit still further increased the respect that his officers and men felt, and they showed it in a hundred ways.

Three weeks now passed, and the Providence steered to the northern seas. One day, off Cape Sable, in Nova Scotia, the weather being brilliantly clear, Bill Green and others of the men asked permission to catch for their mess some of the fish that abounded. As they had been on salt provisions for a long time, Paul Jones readily gave the desired permission, and the ship was hove to. A sharp lookout was kept, however, but nothing occurred to disturb the men in their amusement, until toward afternoon, when a sail was made out to windward of them. Instantly the fishing came to a stop, and the Providence, setting some of her light sails, waited for the stranger on an easy bowline.

As the ship approached, Paul Jones plainly saw that she was no such sailer as the Solebay, and thought he could amuse himself with her.

“That vessel, I take it,” he remarked to his first lieutenant, “is the Milford frigate. I have expected to fall in with her, and we can outfoot her, that is clear.”

The Milford, however, began to chase. When she got within cannon shot Paul Jones doubled on her quarter; when, seeing he had the advantage of her in speed, he began to lead her a wild-goose chase. For eight hours the pursuit continued, the Providence keeping just out of range of the cannonade which the Milford kept up unceasingly, wasting in it enormous quantities of powder and shot. Paul Jones was much too astute to throw away any of his ammunition in a perfectly useless cannonade, but as he said, “I can not be so rude as to receive a salute without returning it.” Turning to his marine officer, he said:

“Direct one of your men to load his musket, and as often as the Milford salutes our flag with her great guns, we will reply with a musket shot at least.”

The officer, smiling, went after his man, and stationed him on the quarter-deck. The next time the slow-sailing frigate thundered out a tremendous volley, the marine, with his musket at his shoulder, stood ready for the word. The officer called out, “Fire!” and the marine banged away at the frigate amid the uproarious laughter and cheering of the American sailors. This was kept up for an hour or two, when, a good breeze springing up, the Providence set all her canvas and ran off, leaving the Milford completely in the lurch.

They had another brush with the Milford before the cruise was up. Captain Jones had captured a fine ship, the Mellish, loaded with clothing, which was badly needed by the army of Washington. While convoying her, and with his ship filled with prisoners taken from other prizes, he ran across the Milford. The frigate immediately gave chase. As it was night, Captain Jones set lights at his topmast, and everywhere a light could be put, while the Mellish, with her valuable cargo, carried no lights at all, and slipped off in the darkness. When day broke, Captain Jones found that the Mellish was not in sight, while the Milford was crowding on sail to overhaul him. But the little Providence again showed a clean pair of heels, and some days afterward the Mellish was brought in, to the great rejoicing of the patriotic army.

CHAPTER V.

The repute of Paul Jones was now great, and the American Congress intended sending him abroad to take command of a splendid frigate, then building in Holland. But owing to the representations of the British Government to Holland, and also to France, which had not then openly joined the American cause, the frigate was handed over to the French Government instead of to the American commissioners at Paris. These commissioners were Benjamin Franklin, Silas Deane, and Arthur Lee. The next best thing to be done for Captain Jones was to give him command of the Ranger, sloop of war. She was then fitting out at Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

The Congress had adopted, on the 14th of July, 1777, the present national ensign of the stars and stripes, and on the same day Paul Jones received his orders to command the Ranger. He at once started for Portsmouth, carrying with him one of the new flags, and as he had before hoisted for the first time the original flag of the colonies, so he had the honor of raising the new ensign upon the Ranger the first time the Stars and Stripes ever floated over an American man-of-war.

There never was any trouble about manning Paul Jones’s ships, and neither Bill Green nor little Danny Dixon could have been kept off with a stick. Therefore, on the fair, bright summer day that Paul Jones arrived at Portsmouth the very first creature he put his eyes on was Danny.

“Why, how are you, my lad?” cried Paul Jones, as he sprang out of the lumbering stagecoach, and saw Danny standing by the door of the inn where it stopped.

“Quite well, sir,” answered Danny with shining eyes, and stepping up to take Paul Jones’s luggage. He shouldered two portmanteaus manfully, but Paul Jones held on to a large parcel that he carried under his arm.

“No, no,” he cried, “this is too precious to be trusted out of my own hand. And how did you know I would be here to-day?”

“I didn’t know it for certain, sir, but Mr. Green and me, we has stood watch and watch for two days lookin’ for you, and Mr. Green says, if he ain’t the fust man aboard the Ranger to know you has come as how he’ll take it out on my hide, certain. But that’s only Mr. Green’s way o’ jokin’, sir.”

Danny went through with this very respectfully, and Paul Jones’s smiling eyes showed that he knew perfectly well the relations between the devoted little cabin boy, and the sturdy quartermaster. “Come on, then,” cried he, “and I have something here to decorate my ship with, that will make her shine indeed.”

In a little while they reached the ship, Danny red and proud with the honor of carrying the captain’s luggage. Sure enough, there stood Bill Green at the gangway, and he took his hat off as soon as he caught sight of Paul Jones. For his part, Paul Jones was delighted to know that he could count upon such a reliable petty officer as Bill, and greeted him warmly. Bill immediately snatched the luggage from Danny, who was left disconsolate, without even the Captain’s portmanteau to comfort him. The first lieutenant was on deck, and as soon as Paul Jones had greeted his officers he went aft, and, unrolling his parcel, shook out a large and handsome silk flag, the “Uncle Sam’s gridiron,” which he was destined, as he himself expressed it, “to attend with veneration on the ocean.” Bill Green fastened the flag to the halyards, but Paul Jones himself drew it up to the peak, amid the cheers of officers and men. Thus had he hoisted with his own hands the Stars and Stripes for the first time on an American ship of war, as he had been the first man to hoist the original flag of freedom.

From the day he stepped on board the Ranger, matters went on as they only can under the direction of a perfect sailor. The officers were enthusiastic and the crew made up of excellent material. Bill Green had long ago proved himself a very valuable man. He continued, however, to harass Danny Dixon with foks’l wit. But Danny had discovered that Bill’s magnificent promises of promotion and assurances of Captain Jones’s favor, were merely “pullin’ a leg,” in sailor language. Danny was now a tall, stout boy of fourteen, and very active aloft. Therefore, a day or two after Paul Jones got on board he said to the boy:

“Dixon, I think you can be classed as a seaman apprentice, and thereby raise your rating.”

“But your share of prize money would be larger if you were rated as a seaman apprentice, instead of merely a ship’s boy.”

“And then you’d stand a chance of being rated as an able seaman in two or three years.”

This all occurred in July, but it was not until November that the ship was ready to sail. She was by that time well manned, but owing to the poverty and lack of resource of the struggling Government she was poorly equipped. She had only one suit of sails, and those very indifferent, and not a single spare sail in case any mishap should befall her canvas in a wintry passage across the stormy Atlantic. There was likewise another deficiency, which gave the men much disquietude, especially Bill Green—there was only a single barrel of rum on board.

“I tell you what it is, youngster,” said Bill solemnly to Danny, it being a favorite amusement of his to tell the most grewsome yarns he could invent to the boy, “this ’ere’s a ornlucky ship—mark my words.”

“Why, Mr. Green,” answered Danny earnestly, “ain’t Cap’n Paul Jones commandin’ of her?”

“W’y, yes, boy, but you know there’s lucky ships and ornlucky ships. There ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen to we—’cause Cap’n Paul Jones is commandin’, as you say—but we ain’t goin’ to git no prize money to speak of. Likely as not, we won’t capture nothin’ wuth havin’. We ain’t got but one barrel o’ rum aboard, and that’s the ornluckiest thing that ever was. It’s worse nor a black cat aboard ship. I’d ruther have ten black cats and sail on a Friday, and meet all the pirates afloat, than to start on a short ’lowance o’ rum. It’s dreadful ornlucky, boy, and it’s dreadful tryin’ besides.”

Danny fully believed him, as Bill, with a huge sigh, cut a quid of tobacco and began to chew dolefully.

Bill’s prediction was carried out to the letter, for from the cheerless day the Ranger sailed out of Portsmouth harbor until she made the coast of France no prize was taken.

This was partly due to Captain Jones’s desire to get to the other side as quickly as possible. The weather was rough and the Ranger proved very crank, and it was not until the 2d of December that the port of Nantes was made. The guns were covered up, the portlids lowered, and everything as far as possible done to conceal the warlike character of the ship.

Paul Jones immediately set out for Paris, and on the third day he knocked at the door of a charming house at Passy, one of the most beautiful suburbs of Paris. This was a house belonging to M. Ray de Chaumont, a rich French gentleman whose sympathies with the American cause were so strong that he offered the American commissioners the use of his house until they could make permanent arrangements. Some instinct had told Paul Jones that he should find a friend in Benjamin Franklin, then at the zenith of his fame, and the most influential of the three American commissioners at Paris. The first meeting of these two great men, destined to be lifelong friends, was an event in history. Without the confidence and support of Franklin, Paul Jones would probably never had the means of achieving greatness, and this support and confidence never wavered from the moment these two immortal men stood face to face and looked through their eyes into each other’s souls. Franklin’s venerable figure and grave, concentrated glance contrasted strongly with Paul Jones’s lithe and active form and the piercing expression of his clear-cut features. The two men grasped hands and so stood for a moment, each fascinated by something in the aspect of the other.

“Welcome to France,” said Franklin. “I have heard of you, and every such man as you is a mighty help to our cause.”

Paul Jones murmured some words expressive of the admiration he felt for a man so truly eminent as Franklin, but his bold spirit was abashed in the presence of so much greatness in this patriarchal old man. They spent the whole of the short winter day in converse, each more and more dazzled and charmed by the other. At twilight they said farewell at the open door. As they clasped hands in parting, Paul Jones said:

“I had the honor of hoisting the flag of our country for the first time upon the ocean, and I intend to claim for it all the honors that it deserves. As soon as I am in the presence of the French fleet I shall demand a salute; and I shall get it, mark my words.”

“I believe you, if any man can, will get it,” answered Franklin. “And remember—if we can not secure you a ship worthy of you, and you are still compelled to keep the Ranger, you shall at least have carte blanche for your cruise, for I do not believe in hampering spirits so bold and enterprising as yours.”

As Paul Jones walked away in the dusk of twilight he glanced back and saw Franklin still standing in the doorway, with the light from an overhead lantern falling on his silvery hair. Paul Jones felt that the day of his meeting with Franklin was a great, a memorable day for him.

The American commissioners were indeed unable to obtain a better ship for him than the Ranger, and Paul Jones returned to his little vessel sore-hearted from his disappointment, but with the authority to rank all officers of American ships in European waters, and with perfect freedom to make his cruise as he liked. He determined, as he always did, to make the best of what he had. His first duty was to convoy a number of American merchant vessels from Nantes into Quiberon Bay, where a large French fleet, under Admiral La Motte Picquet, was to sail for America. There was now no need for disguising the character of the Ranger, and she sailed openly as a man-of-war. Paul Jones, with resistless energy, had worked at his ship until he had remedied many of her defects. Her lower masts were shortened; she was ballasted with lead; and she was much improved, as every ship that he commanded was improved by him. He also had, as a tender, the brig Independence.

It was on the 13th of February, 1778, that Paul Jones, flying the Stars and Stripes for the first time in the presence of a foreign fleet, anchored off the bay at Quiberon. He had a motive in not coming in the bay, and this was, as he had told Franklin, to have the flag of the United States saluted in open day by the French admiral. The treaty of alliance between the United States and France was not then published, and it required much address to obtain a salute.

As soon as the Ranger dropped her anchor Paul Jones sent his boat off to the French admiral, desiring to know, if he saluted the admiral’s ship, if the salute would be returned.

Paul Jones remained walking the quarter-deck of the Ranger until the boat was seen pulling back. A letter was handed him from the French admiral, which he eagerly opened.

The letter stated courteously that the salute would be returned, but with four guns less than the American ship fired, as it was the custom in the French navy to fire four guns less to a republic than the salute offered.

Paul Jones immediately went below, where he wrote the following spirited letter to the American agent at the port:

“I think the admiral’s answer requires some explanation. The haughty English return gun for gun to foreign officers of equal rank, and two less only by captains to flag officers. It is true my command is not important, yet, as the senior American officer at present in Europe it is my duty to claim an equal return of respect to the flag of the United States that would be shown to any other flag whatever.

“I therefore take the liberty of inclosing an appointment[3] as respectable as any the French admiral can produce. If, however, he persists in refusing to return an equal salute, I will accept of two guns less, as I have not the rank of an admiral.”

To this he added, that unless his flag should be properly saluted he would certainly depart without coming into the bay.

Next day, however, he discovered that the French admiral was acting in good faith, and could not, according to his regulations, return gun for gun to the flag of a republic; and therefore Paul Jones determined to accept of the salute offered.

The wind was blowing hard, and the sea very high, so that it was after sunset before the Ranger could get near enough to the admiral’s ship to salute. The brig Independence had been ordered to lay off the bay for a particular purpose. Paul Jones was afraid that some advantage might be taken of the salute being fired in semi-darkness—such as saying the flag was mistaken for another—and he determined to have a salute also in broad daylight.

The short February twilight was fast going, and the wind drove the lowering clouds furiously across the sky, when the Ranger, under close-reefed topsails, entered the bay and sailed close under the lee of the admiral’s ship, where she hove to. Instantly her guns thundered out thirteen times. The report echoed over the dark water, where the great French fleet, looming up grandly in the half-darkness, lay majestically at anchor. As soon as the last gun had been fired the admiral’s ship promptly gave back nine guns. The Ranger then returned to the mouth of the bay, where she anchored alongside of the Independence, the wind having abated.

Next morning—a beautiful, bright day—Paul Jones sent word to the French admiral that he intended sailing through the French fleet in the brig and again saluting him, to which the admiral returned a courteous reply.

About ten o’clock in the morning Paul Jones went on board the Independence, which then stood boldly in the harbor. She was a beautiful, clipper-built brig, and as clean and fresh as hands could make her. A splendid new American flag floated proudly from her mizzen peak.

The French fleet was anchored in two great lines, rather wide apart, with the flagship in the middle of the outer line. The Independence, with all her canvas set, entered between the two rows of ships. Her guns were manned, and Paul Jones, in full uniform, stood on the quarter-deck. As the Independence came abreast of the flagship the brig fired thirteen guns with the most beautiful precision and with exactly the same interval between each report. The admiral paid the American the compliment of having his guns already manned, and as the little Independence passed gracefully down the line, enveloped like a veil in the white smoke from her own guns, the flagship roared out nine guns from her great thirty-six-pounders. Paul Jones’s satisfaction was seen on his face, although he said no word; but as soon as he returned on board the Ranger he wrote to Franklin a joyous letter, telling him of the honor paid the American flag.

From this on the relations between the officers of the French fleet and the two American vessels were most cordial. The Frenchmen had heard of Paul Jones as an enterprising and promising officer, and his running under the guns of the Solebay had become generally known in Europe, much to the chagrin of the Solebay’s officers. The Count d’Orvilliers, one of the highest officers in the service of France, thought that, as France and America were bound to be shortly allied, that it would be well for Paul Jones to hold a captain’s commission in the French navy as well as an American commission. But this he declined. An American commission was good enough for Paul Jones.

CHAPTER VI.

It was upon the 10th of April, 1778, that Paul Jones sailed from Brest upon the first of his two immortal cruises.

The respect with which he had been treated, and the dignity he maintained, had had great effect upon the officers and men under him. They knew neither the time nor the place of the enterprise they were entering upon; but that it was bold and venturesome they were well assured. The seas were swarming with British cruisers, and alone among this multitude of enemies the little Ranger sailed gallantly. As she passed out of the harbor of Brest the sailors on the French ships gave her a ringing cheer, to which the Americans responded.

Paul Jones then called his officers around him, and his daring words were plainly audible to many of the men.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I propose to steer straight for the Irish Sea. What my plans are I shall tell you when we are in sight of the three kingdoms. I know every foot of the narrow seas, and every bay, inlet, and headland on the shores of Scotland and Ireland. Give me your full support, and we shall return covered with glory.”

As soon as the Ranger was out of sight of land every effort was made to disguise her as a merchantman. Her guns were hid, and her white sails were daubed with lamp-black, to give the idea of being old and patched. The crew was kept below as much as possible, to be out of sight, and in this guise she made boldly for St. George’s Channel.

On the night of the 14th of April, while standing in between Cape Clear and the Scilly Isles, the lookout on the quarter sang out, “Sail, ho!”

The sail was a fine, large brigantine, which allowed the strange ship, which she took for a merchantman, to approach quite near her, as if to pass on the opposite tack. Suddenly the strange ship doubled on her quarter and came bearing down upon her, and at the same moment a blank cartridge was fired across her bows. The brigantine hove to in obedience to this peremptory command, and hailed the approaching Ranger. To this hail the sailing master of the Ranger replied:

Resistance was useless. The ship contained a valuable cargo, but no attempt was made to take anything except what could be easily transferred to the Ranger. Paul Jones had determined not to fire the ship, lest her burning should attract other vessels that swarmed the narrow seas, and thereby raise an alarm on land. Therefore he sent the carpenter and all his mates on board to scuttle her. The captain and crew of the brigantine were brought off, and the carpenters went to work with a will. In two hours from the time that she had been sailing confidently along, unsuspicious of an enemy, the brigantine had disappeared from the face of the ocean.

Three days now passed in cruising about St. George’s Channel. So great was the number of ships, both men-of-war and merchantmen, in sight and passing at all times, that Captain Jones did not consider it prudent to attack, because no man excelled Paul Jones in the prudence of the valiant. Several times during those three days and nights vessels that would have been valuable prizes were close under the guns of the little Ranger, but the presence of a frigate or two or other ship of war in the distance made an attack impracticable. Back and forth for three days and nights Paul Jones sailed dauntlessly among a multitude of enemies, thus venturing boldly into the very nest of the hornets. On the evening of the third day, the 17th of April, a large merchant vessel was seen off the coast of Ireland. No ship of war was in sight, and the Ranger therefore gave chase. Within an hour or two the vessel was overhauled, almost at the mouth of the Liffey. A blank cartridge fired across her bows and the Ranger’s hoisting the American ensign brought her to. She proved to be the Lord Chatham, fast and new, bound for Dublin.

“We can not sink so good a ship as this,” said Paul Jones to his first lieutenant. “And, besides, the scheme I have in view does not permit us to encumber ourselves with prisoners. She will answer excellently to carry our prisoners back to Brest.”

A prize crew and an officer were therefore thrown on board the Lord Chatham, the prisoners transferred, and she was carried off when almost within sight of her port. Paul Jones then put out to the open sea again, and steered straight for the coast of Scotland.

On the 18th of April, a beautiful, mild evening, he entered the Frith of Solway. It was the first time his eyes had rested on it, except for one brief and unhappy visit, since his childhood. He was now an American officer, of the highest rank possible to give him in the infant navy of the colonies, and it was his plain duty to use the knowledge he had of the Scotch coast in the service of his country.

The port of Whitehaven, on the opposite side of the Solway, was the point Paul Jones meant to attack. Here was collected a great company of shipping, estimated at between two and three hundred sail. The Ranger was, as usual, closely disguised, and excited no suspicion as she entered the Solway. The evening was beautiful and bright, but as the sun went down the indications of a hard squall became evident. The furious tides rushed in, driven by a rising gale from the Irish Sea, and the wind blew directly on shore.

Paul Jones determined to wait for night to complete his design, and when it grew too dark for the Ranger to be distinguished from another ship he ordered the men mustered on deck. Then, in a few decisive words, he announced his plan to them.

“We shall have a chance,” he said, “to avenge some of the dreadful burnings practiced uselessly upon our own coasts; but this will not be useless. The fleet now collected at Whitehaven is the coal fleet for Ireland. To destroy it would be to embarrass the enemy greatly. I call for thirty volunteers to assist me in this patriotic work. No man need go unless he wants to. But those who share with me the danger of this enterprise will also share with me the glory.”

It seemed as if every man on the deck shouted “I, sir,” and “I!” and “I!” and “I!” and loud among the voices sounded the piping treble of little Danny Dixon. Paul Jones raised his hand to command silence.

“I shall have to choose thirty men, because I can not take you all. I shall take the strongest and most active men.”

At that he told off thirty men, including Bill Green, the quartermaster. But when the number was selected, and the men had gone forward, Paul Jones noticed that Danny, the cabin boy, lingered.

“If you please, sir,” said Danny, diffidently, “you surely ain’t a-goin’ to leave me behind, sir?”

“Why, you are nothing but a lad,” answered Paul Jones. “This is an enterprise for men, not boys.”

Paul Jones was about to reply, but at that moment Mr. Stacy, the sailing master, came up hurriedly, to say that at the rate the wind was rising and shifting it was necessary to claw off the land, and he thought a landing would be impossible that night. A few minutes convinced Paul Jones that his sailing master was right, and that the enterprise would have to be postponed. The Ranger was driving furiously before the wind, and at every lurch she buried her nose deep in the foaming waves. The gale shrieked angrily, and a bank of coppery clouds in the west darkened ominously. The ship was therefore brought about, and under straining canvas she beat her way back to the mouth of the Solway.

No man slept on the Ranger that night. The weather was thick, and Paul Jones was averse to running into the open sea for safety. The next morning dawned clear, but windy. The ship was close enough to the shores of Scotland to be seen from a hundred hamlets, and her situation became too risky to let anything escape that could tell on her. A revenue wherry was seen, chased and cannonaded, but escaped. A coasting vessel was overhauled, her crew taken out of her, and she was then scuttled and sunk; so was a Dublin schooner, while a cutter seen off the lee bow was chased into the Clyde, and up as far as the Rock of Ailsa. The weather still prevented a descent upon the coast, but Paul Jones boldly awaited his chance to make it, in spite of the enemies that swarmed around him.

Boldness meant prudence in the affair Paul Jones had undertaken, and therefore, not wishing to remain too long in any locality, he again stood across the Irish Sea, and entered the Lough of Belfast, off which lay the town of Carrickfergus.

It was on the afternoon of the 21st of April. The Ranger, sailing with a long leg and a short one, cautiously approached the roadstead. Never was there a lovelier scene. The harbor was of a deep ultramarine blue, and a faint golden haze enveloped sky and sea and castle and ships. Upon a grandly projecting cliff stood the stern gray castle, with its twenty-two great guns, frowning upon the rippling water. Out in the soft, yet dazzling, afternoon light lay a sloop of war, about the size of the Ranger. A gentle breeze fanned the Union Jack that floated from her mizzen peak. Over the whole scene was the still beauty of “a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”

The officers of the Ranger were all on deck, for in that perilous cruise neither officers nor men went below except for necessary food and sleep. Paul Jones, with his glass, carefully examined the ship, and then, turning to his officers, said quietly:

“Gentlemen, here is the chance we have all longed for. Yonder is a ship of war of a rate that we can give battle to. We will fight that ship, and we will take her.”

Scarcely were the words out of the captain’s mouth when “Ahoy!” sounded from the port side of the Ranger. A fishing boat had come alongside, with three fishermen in it. One of them held up a string of beautiful fish.

“Yes, we want your fish, and you, too,” cried Stacy, the sailing master, at Captain Jones’s orders; and in a few moments, to the astonishment of the fishermen, they were on the Ranger’s deck, and their boat was hanging astern.

“What is that vessel yonder?” asked Captain Jones of the elder man, for they proved to be a father and two sons.

The man looked about him dazed for a moment. He did not recognize Captain Jones’s uniform, nor did he understand the character of the vessel that looked so peaceable, but which a close inspection proved was well able to take care of herself in a fight. He hesitated a moment, but one commanding look from Paul Jones brought the truth out.

The man looked helplessly at Captain Jones, but one of the sons answered, in a low voice:

“Some says twenty, sir, but I counted twenty-two on ’em when I went aboard to carry my fish.”

“Very well,” he said, “I shall have to keep you from your families for a few days, but you shall not lose by being my guests.”

Paul Jones’s plans were made rapidly. He was alone, on a hostile coast, with enemies before him, behind him, and around him. None the less did he intend to give battle. Moreover, he knew that he was fighting with a halter around his neck, for there was but little doubt that if he were captured he would be hanged as a pirate, so little were the British then disposed to recognize the navy of the colonies. But this could not appall his dauntless soul. He had the warm support of the best among his officers, and among the men there was an instinctive belief that he was always ready to fight, and nothing so inspires a crew as the knowledge that they have a fighting captain. Bill Green, passing back and forth, remarked, with a wink, to a group of his messmates forward:

“The Cap’n’s goin’ to fight that ’ere Johnny Bull, sure; and I tell you what, them Britishers will have to coil up some o’ their nonsense about there ain’t no sailors except Britishers, and take in their slack about Britannia rulin’ the waves. Something’s goin’ to happen soon, that reminds me of a old song I heard once:

“‘Heave the topmast from the board,

And our ship for action clear;

By the cannon and the sword

We will die or conquer here.

To your posts, my faithful tars!

Mind your rigging, guns, and spars!’

Ay, ay, sir! coming, sir!”—this to Mr. Stacy, the sailing master, who called out sharply, “Quartermaster!”

Just as Bill had foreseen, the order was passed to clear for action without the drumbeat. The guns were made ready to run out, but kept covered, and the portlids were not raised. The breeze was fresh, and the Ranger was enabled to carry all her canvas. She kept warily outside the harbor, on and off the wind, until about ten o’clock at night, when she stood boldly in, to bring up athwart hawse the Drake, intending to grapple and fight it out.

Everything was in readiness, as the ship stole silently in through the misty darkness of a moonless night. Stacy, the sailing master, brought her safely within a cable’s length of the Drake’s quarter. But the anchor was let go too soon, and, instead of laying aboard the Drake, she drifted about half a cable’s length off. In an instant the mistake was realized. Without a moment’s hesitation Captain Jones gave orders to cut the cable, and the Ranger passed directly astern of the Drake, under her stern chasers. No alarm was given on the war-ship; a muttered growl from the lookout on the after quarter informed them that they had better “keep off” with their lubberly craft, which Paul Jones promptly did, intending to return on the next tack. But the wind, which had been squally for several days, now suddenly rose in a fierce gust, and he was compelled to beat out of the harbor. The gust increased to a furious gale, and it took all of Captain Jones’s skill to get sea room enough for safety. The night grew pitch dark, and it was midnight before they weathered the lighthouse point, where the warning light shone dimly over the tempestuous sea and upon the laboring ship. The gale continued all the next day, but the Ranger had found a lee on the south coast, where she awaited the abatement.

“Never mind, my brave boys,” said Paul Jones to his men when they were driving out of the harbor. “That ship shall yet be ours. We can cut and come again.”

CHAPTER VII.

For six days the weather continued to be very uncertain, and the Ranger ran from point to point between the Scotch and Irish coasts, waiting for a chance to slip in the port of Carrickfergus and have it out, yardarm to yardarm, with the Drake. At last, on the morning of the 24th of April, Paul Jones found himself off the harbor’s mouth. The bay, the castled crag, the picturesque town, and the handsome sloop of war looked as lovely in the brilliant morning light as in the soft afternoon glow when the Ranger had first reconnoitered the town.

But no longer was the American vessel unsuspected. By the time she had passed the headland and got in full view of the town and shipping her warlike character was suspected, although she showed no colors, her ports were closed, and only a few of her company were allowed upon deck. But the Carrickfergus people had heard about the daring American cruiser that had been hovering off the coasts of the three kingdoms for ten days, and the Drake felt disposed to find out the standing of the strange ship in the offing. As the Ranger neared the harbor’s mouth her people could hear the creaking of the capstan and the hoarse rattle of the hawser as the Drake’s anchor was being rapidly tripped. Nothing could have pleased Paul Jones more than this, and he smiled as he said to his sailing master:

“Keep off a little, Mr. Stacy. The Drake evidently wishes for a personal interview with us, and I would like to oblige her. I think, though, we will come about, so as to show her as little as possible of ourselves, in order that she may come out as far as possible.”

The Ranger then went completely about, as if she were running away. Still she had thrown her main topsail aback and had hauled up her courses.

The Drake then determined to send out a boat to reconnoiter. As the Ranger’s stern was still kept toward the boat nothing could be discovered of her character, and the boat came on within hailing distance. The Ranger, however, did not hail. The boat continued to advance, and finally hailed. Stacy, under Paul Jones’s orders, answered the hail.

“The Mind-your-business-and-keep-off,” Stacy rattled off so fast that he could not possibly be understood.

The boat stopped for a moment and then pulled a little nearer, and the officer in it stood up and shouted in a clear voice:

“The worst we’ve seen for ten years,” bawled Stacy, pretending that he understood the hail to be about the voyage.

“You are a fool,” called the officer, examining the ship carefully as the boat rapidly pulled nearer and nearer, but still puzzled by her. “I asked the name of your ship.”

“Much obliged for your information,” Stacy answered, “particularly as it’s the hardest thing in the world generally for a respectable merchant vessel to get a civil word out of you cocky man-of-war’s people.”

By this time the boat was directly under the Ranger’s quarter, and there could be no pretense of not understanding the officer’s final hail.

“And I answer, for the third time, she is the Lord Chatham, bound for Leith from Dublin, short of——”

“Water,” suggested Paul Jones. “That’s the only thing we are not short of.”

“Short of water,” continued Stacy; and then, prompted again by Paul Jones, he cried:

“Have you heard anything of that American cruiser which has been prowling about, capturing merchant ships and frightening the coast people out of their wits?”

“No,” said the officer, now completely off his guard. “We would give a thousand pounds to meet her.”

“Our captain says come aboard, then,” said Stacy, “and he can give you some information about the Ranger that he guarantees is absolutely true.”

The boat then came alongside, a ladder was lowered, and the officer came up on the port side. Just then one of the Ranger’s boats was dropped from the davits; it was quickly filled with men, and in another minute the men in the Drake’s boat were informed that they were prisoners. As the officer stepped upon deck Paul Jones advanced.

“I am sorry to begin our acquaintance so unpleasantly, sir, but you are my prisoner. This is the American sloop of war Ranger, and I am Captain Paul Jones.”

The officer uttered an exclamation of anger. The name of Paul Jones was already well known, and one glance had shown him the true state of affairs.

“Make yourself as easy as possible,” said Paul Jones. “Yours is the fortune of war; but you will be treated with every consideration, and will, no doubt, be shortly exchanged.”

The other officers then came forward and politely condoled with the unlucky officer, while his men were sent below.

The whole thing had been witnessed from the Drake, which now had no doubt of the Ranger’s character, and lost no time in preparing to come out. The alarm had been given, and five vessels, filled with people anxious to see the contest between the two ships, put off from the shore. Alarm fires were set blazing, and the black smoke was wafted high in the noonday light. The tide was unfavorable, so that the Drake worked out very slowly. The Ranger now threw off every disguise. Her guns were run out and her men called to quarters by the tap of the drum, and she waited gallantly for her adversary. She drifted fast to windward, so that she was several times forced to put up her helm in order to run down toward her enemy, when she would throw her main topsail aback and lie with her courses in the brails.

The men were at their quarters, but laughing, joking, and singing, as it was the custom to permit them a little jollity at the moment of going into battle. They watched the Drake making her way slowly, with light and baffling winds, toward mid-channel, and exchanged squibs and songs about her. Bill Green was in his glory. As he was to take the wheel as soon as the ball opened, he was relieved until the first lieutenant called him. Paul Jones was very glad to have him relieved, as his songs inspired the men. Bill, seated on one of the long guns, with folded arms and his cap stuck rakishly on the back of his head, proceeded to troll out, in his rich voice, one of his favorite songs, which he claimed to have composed expressly for the occasion.

“Yankee sailors have a knack,

Haul away! Yo ho, boys!

Of hauling down a British Jack,

Haul away! Yo ho, boys!

Come three to one, right sure am I,

If we can’t beat them, still we’ll try

To make Columbia’s colors fly.

Haul away! Yo ho, boys!”

The sailors caught the refrain at once, and every time it was repeated they roared out a musical chorus of

“Haul away! Yo ho, boys!”

“Yankee sailors when at sea,

Haul away! Yo ho, boys!

Pipe all hands with merry glee

While aloft they go, boys!

And when with pretty girls on shore,

Their cash is gone, and not before,

They wisely go to sea for more.

Haul away! Yo ho, boys!

“Yankee sailors love their soil,

Haul away! Yo ho, boys!

And for glory ne’er spare toil,

But flog its foes, you know, boys!

Then while its standard owns a rag

The world combined shall never brag

They made us strike the Yankee flag.

Haul away! Yo ho, boys!”

Loud cheers and laughter greeted this song, the officers smiling at the enthusiasm aroused, and Paul Jones handed Bill two gold pieces.

“That’s for your rattling good song, my man,” said he, “and the Ranger will never discredit the flag she fights under.”

Thus, in good spirits and with bold composure, the Ranger’s people spent the golden hours of the forenoon and a part of the afternoon, waiting for their gallant enemy.

It was well on toward four o’clock before the Drake weathered the headland, and lay a straight course for the saucy American, that was waiting for her under easy canvas. As the Drake stood for the American ship she set her colors, and at the same moment the Ranger flung out the Stars and Stripes. No more songs and laughter then. Everybody was ready, and grimly expectant. Danny Dixon, beating the drum, walked once around the ship to give warning that the action was about to begin.

The Ranger filled on the starboard tack, and stood off the land so as to engage in mid-channel. Here was indeed an enterprise that would have appalled a less daring spirit than that of Paul Jones. He was alone, in the narrow seas of the greatest naval power on earth, with the land as well as the water crowded with his enemies. The hillsides were full of people, and the shores were alive with boats. The three kingdoms were in plain sight, and he, with one small sloop of war, stood ready to give battle to a hitherto unconquered foe. But literally, the sense of fear seemed unknown to Paul Jones, and great as might be the odds against him, greater was the genius with which he could withstand them.

The Drake, having approached within hail, spoke the Ranger, as a matter of form. The voices echoed clearly over the water in the still, sunny, spring afternoon, and it was plainly seen in the mellow light that Paul Jones, who stood by the sailing master’s side on the Ranger, dictated the reply, which was a cool defiance in these words:

“This is the Continental ship Ranger. We wait for you, and beg you will come on. The sun is but little more than an hour high, and it is time to begin.”

Scarcely were the words spoken, when the Ranger’s helm was ported, and, bringing her broadside to bear on the advancing ship, she roared out the first volley. The Drake answered it promptly, and in another moment the ships were running free, close together, under a light wind, and keeping up a furious cannonade.

On board the Ranger, Paul Jones walked the quarter-deck unharmed, amid a shower of musketry, which the Americans returned with interest. Captain Burden, of the Drake, showed an equal disregard of danger, but within half an hour of the firing of the first broadside he was mortally wounded by a musket shot in the head. The fire of the Ranger was much more effective than the Drake’s, and the damage done by her guns was terrific. The Drake’s fore and main topsail yards were completely shot away, the main topgallant mast and mizzen gaff hanging up and down the mast, her jib hanging over her lee into the water, her sails and rigging in rags, and she had been hulled repeatedly. Twice had her ensign been shot away, and twice the gallant British tars had hoisted it, but just as the sun was sinking, when the captain and first lieutenant of the Drake and forty of her officers and men lay killed or wounded upon her decks, the ensign was dragged down from the shattered spar to which it hung, and a cry for “Quarter! quarter!” resounded. Instantly the Americans ceased firing, and in another minute they had boarded the Drake and hoisted an American ensign upon what was left of the foremast. The sun was now going down, and the long spring twilight was upon them.

Paul Jones had seen Captain Burden fall, and his first inquiry was, “Does the captain still live?” He indeed breathed a few times, but in a little while all was over. The first lieutenant, who was mortally wounded, survived for two days.

Like most men of great imaginative qualities, Paul Jones had a tender heart. The sight of the dead and wounded always affected him, and the spectacle of brave men dying in gallant combat with him touched him peculiarly. In spite of his hazardous position—for he was still in the midst of enormous danger, with a crippled ship to take care of—he ordered the dead removed below, the captain being laid out in the cabin and covered with the tattered ensign he had so well defended, and the wounded promptly attended to. Meanwhile the Ranger, which was comparatively uninjured, and had only lost one officer and one man, gave a tow-line to the Drake, and passed out of the lough and up St. George’s Channel. As soon as a place of comparative safety was reached, about midnight, the Ranger hove to, and preparations were made to bury the dead with suitable honors.

The night sky was clear, and overhead, in the blue-black vault, the cold, bright stars shone steadily. A fair wind slightly ruffled the surface of the ocean, and the two ships looked huge and shadowy in the mysterious half darkness. Few lights were shown, and in the midst of a deep and awful stillness the boatswain’s pipe resounded with the solemn call, “All hands on deck to bury the dead!” The flags on both ships were half-masted out of respect to the dead. On the quarter-deck lay the body of Captain Burden, wrapped in the flag for which he had given his life. Next him lay the body of Lieutenant Wallingford, of the Ranger, covered with the American flag. Then came the bodies of eight British sailors and one American, sewn up in canvas, and on them, too, lay the colors of their country. The gangway was open and the plank lay ready. The British officers were on deck to see the last honors paid their shipmates, while the other prisoners were permitted to watch from the open portholes.

Paul Jones, in the absence of a chaplain, read the burial service himself over the brave men who had so gallantly fallen that day in fair and patriotic fight. His voice sounded inexpressibly solemn as he raised it in the inspiring words: “I am the resurrection and the life. If a man shall believe on Me, though he be dead, yet shall he live.”

When the short but impressive ceremony was over, the body of Captain Burden was first dropped overboard, followed by that of poor Wallingford. The sailors’ bodies followed in order. As the last dull splash showed that the melancholy duty was over, the flags were run up as if by magic on the two ships, and the bugler piped a merry call. Then every man went to work with a will, taking advantage of the clear night and good weather to get the shattered Drake into condition, and the sounds of cheerful toil resounded the whole night through.

It was Paul Jones’s determination to carry the captured Drake directly to France, for he was the last man in the world to abandon so gallant a trophy. He had on board the Ranger about a hundred and forty prisoners, including the wounded, and with his small crew he managed to take care of them and repair partially the damage done the unfortunate Drake.

The men continued to work with the fierce energy that characterized those acting under Paul Jones’s command, and within twenty-four hours jury masts had been set up and rigged, new sails had been bent, the holes in the hull planked over, and Paul Jones was ready to make his way to France.

He had, indeed, struck terror to the trading vessels of the region, but, the alarm being given, he knew that war-ships were already after him. The wind shifting and threatening a gale, he determined to pass by the north of the channel and around the west coast of Ireland, which would bring him directly in the spot of his performance the day before. This Paul Jones considered an advantage, as his enemies would scarcely be looking for him in the very place he had just left. As he passed so close to the port of Carrickfergus, from which he had taken the three fishermen on the evening of the 21st, he concluded to send them to their homes, much to their delight. Their own boat had been lost, and he determined to give them a good one out of the many he had on board. It was toward dusk when the boat was lowered and the men called upon deck.

Among the prisoners were two sick men from Dublin, that Paul Jones also determined to send to their homes, and these two were also sent for on deck. When they arrived, Paul Jones handed them some money.

“This is the last shilling that I have in the world at present, but you are welcome to it,” he said to the sick men. They responded with a feeble but grateful “Thankee, sir.” To the fisherman he said: “The boat I give you is yours, and in it you will find a sail of the Drake’s. That will show what has become of her.”

The fishermen looked completely dazed by their good fortune, for the boat given them was much larger and better than their own. They recovered their senses, though, after they got into the boat, and as they passed under the Ranger’s quarter they gave three rousing cheers for Captain Jones. The captain raised his cap in reply, and in another moment the ship was sailing past the harbor, past the town, with its lights dimly visible, past the castle on the rock, where a brightly lighted tower stood watch, and, weathering the headland, she was soon steering a straight course for the North Channel.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was a fair and lovely May morning when the Ranger, still towing the Drake, appeared off the bay of Brest. The American ensign was hoisted on the Drake over the Union Jack, and this told the glorious story. Word flew from mouth to mouth among the French men-of-war in the roads to the people in the dockyards and the town. A fleet of pilot boats put off, each eager to have the honor of taking the Ranger and her prize in through the narrow and dangerous channel of Le Goulet. Paul Jones stood on his quarter-deck, as calm and easy as ever, but his soul thrilled with patriotic pride. The British had denounced him as a pirate, a traitor, and a felon, and he had had first, the justifiable revenge of showing himself alone and undaunted in the midst of his enemies, capturing a ship of equal size and force, and afterward, the nobler revenge of treating his prisoners with the utmost kindness and courtesy. As the Ranger passed the flagship she gave thirteen guns, and every ship in the French squadron in return saluted the flag flying at the Ranger’s mizzen peak. The French sailors manned the yards of the flagship without orders, and a volley of cheers mingled with the hoarse thunder of the guns as the little American vessel made her way cautiously up the narrow channel. The great clouds of white smoke rose in the clear May sunshine, and almost hid the Ranger’s hull and that of her consort: but high above the white and drifting mist the American ensign floated proudly.

Paul Jones was greeted with the most intense enthusiasm among the naval men at Brest, and France rang with his exploits. Benjamin Franklin wrote him letters of affectionate praise, and the French Minister of Marine, M. de Sartine, requested the American commissioners to detain Captain Jones in Europe, as it was desired to employ him against the British, in conjunction with the French fleets. War between France and England was then imminent, and, in fact, was declared within a few weeks. Paul Jones therefore wrote to the Congress, saying he desired that no command be reserved for him, as he had been directed by the American commissioners to remain in France.

And now, in place of these bright anticipations came a long and torturing period of suspense for Paul Jones, mingled, it is true, with many compliments on his prowess, and sustained by the friendship of Franklin, of the King of France, of the Duke de Chartres, and the admiration of all the naval and military men of France. More than that was the gratitude and respect of the men who had fought under him, and of the two hundred prisoners from the Drake—for Paul Jones’s conduct at this time gained him the lasting good will of these men. The affairs of the American Government had then reached their most desperate state, and the French Government was a government by intrigue and corruption, which, not many years after, produced the bloodiest revolution the world ever saw. No money was forthcoming as the prize justly earned by the Ranger’s officers and crew, nor were they even paid their wages while waiting at Brest for a promised ship for Paul Jones. Worse still was the condition of the English prisoners, who would actually have starved but for Paul Jones himself paying out of his own pocket for food to keep them alive. It was his earnest desire to secure an exchange of prisoners, so that he could get a crew made up wholly of Americans, but with the general trickery, inefficiency, and jealousy of the French administration he could do nothing. One fine ship after another was promised him, through Benjamin Franklin, who looked to Paul Jones as the hope of the new nation upon the seas, but disappointment followed disappointment.

Paul Jones’s restless spirit was the last one to submit to this enforced idleness, and he complained in his letters that “this shameful inactivity is worse to me than a thousand deaths.” Every moment lost to the service of his country was, in Paul Jones’s esteem, “shameful.”

So months passed, Paul Jones in his small lodging at Brest vainly endeavoring, with Franklin’s earnest help, to get afloat once more in any sort of a ship. The King of France requested him to write a full account of the Ranger’s daring cruise, which Paul Jones did. But fighting, not writing, was his choice when his country needed every arm that could be raised in her defense.

Bill Green, the quartermaster, whose time was up, had elected to stay with Paul Jones until he had another ship, and little Danny Dixon followed him about like a dog. The two humble friends gave Paul Jones more real comfort than all the compliments showered upon him by people of rank and consequence. Danny was still “the captain’s boy,” and Bill Green had a humble sleeping place close by the captain’s lodgings. When successive disappointments had preyed upon Paul Jones’s bold spirit, and he would return home in the evening sad and dispirited, the sight of Danny’s affectionate eyes and anxiety to serve him would sometimes console him a little. Bill Green was always at hand to carry a letter or a message, and Paul Jones, in his temporary distress, did not lack for two devoted friends. Bill had quite adopted Danny by this time, but was always growling and grumbling about “ships’ boys as is more trouble than they’re wuth,” and “boys as oughter have the cat reg’lar along with their ’lowance.” He did not sing much, though; and when Danny would tease him to sing “Come, all ye tars that brave the sea,” or “I’m here and there a jolly dog,” Bill would shake his head and say dolefully: “No, boy. I can’t sing them songs without I can hear the water runnin’ against the ship’s side and the wind makin’ music through the riggin’, and the bo’s’n’s pipe once in a while. Them is sea songs, and the only land song I knows is ‘Land lubbers lie down below,’ and that ain’t no song to speak of. Landsmen ain’t got no music of no account; and as for their songs—Lord! they’re all about love and the moon, and that sort o’ loblolly that sailormen ain’t got no appetite for.” Danny, perforce, had to put up with this explanation, and do without Bill’s music.

Meanwhile, so great had been the alarm upon the coast of the United Kingdoms that the British Admiralty had issued a circular letter warning the people living on the coasts that a descent by Paul Jones might be expected. This further stung the daring sailor, who beheld the days go by fruitlessly while he lingered at Brest, unable to get a vessel. At one time it was thought a ship had been secured for him, and the young Lafayette, then on a visit from America, desired to sail with him in command of some troops that he was to carry. Afterward this design failed, and Lafayette wrote to Paul Jones: “I can not tell you, my good friend, how sorry I am not to be a witness of your success, abilities, and glory.” At last, nearly a year after his glorious cruise in the Ranger, Paul Jones, in despair of doing better, accepted the command of the Duc de Duras—the ship that, under the new name of the Bon Homme Richard, was to immortalize herself and the great man who became her captain. She was reported to be new and fast, but turned out, though, to be old and much decayed. She was a long ship, and carried twenty-four guns in broadside and eighteen smaller guns. She had a crew of three hundred and eighty men, of all nationalities under the sun. Not more than thirty of them were Americans, but among these Americans, besides Bill Green and two or three other men who had sailed with him in the Ranger, Paul Jones had Stacy, his old sailing master. He had the name of the ship changed from the Duc de Duras to the Bon Homme Richard, in compliment to Dr. Franklin, whose Poor Richard’s Almanac was then making a great stir in the world.

The Bon Homme Richard was to be the first ship in a motley squadron made up of the Alliance, a fine American frigate of thirty-six guns, with an American crew, but commanded by a French captain. Of this man—Captain Landais—it is proper to say in the beginning that he had a distinct tinge of madness in his composition, and it is generally agreed that he was not thoroughly sane at any time during the memorable cruise he made with Paul Jones. He had been compelled to leave the French navy upon the ground of an intolerable temper, which was the beginning of the insanity from which he undoubtedly suffered at one time during his life. He had been considered a brave and faithful officer under the old régime of the French navy, and therefore his subsequent conduct to Commodore Jones, as Paul Jones had now become, is entitled to the doubt that he was not responsible for what he did. Franklin, however, did not think this, and in a letter written afterward to the officers and men of the Bon Homme Richard, expressed the difference between Paul Jones and Landais thus: “For Captain Paul Jones ever loved close fighting, but Landais was skillful in keeping out of harm’s way.”

The third ship of the squadron, the Pallas, was frigate built, and carried thirty-two guns. Then there was the Vengeance, a brig carrying twelve guns, and a small but beautiful cutter of eighteen guns, the Cerf. Paul Jones was the commodore of this little squadron, but there seems to have been great uncertainty about his powers.

Not more than thirty Americans were available for the Bon Homme Richard at first, but Commodore Jones managed so that most of the petty officers were Americans. The rest of the crew were a motley set, of every nation under the sun. But along with his good luck in having Mr. Stacy and Bill Green, of his old company, he was to have a young lieutenant who was worthy to carry out the orders of such a man as Paul Jones.

The Bon Homme Richard was fitting out at L’Orient, when one day, as Paul Jones was standing on the dock looking at the ship, that resounded with the clamor of preparation, a handsome young fellow of twenty-three, wearing an American naval uniform, stepped up to him and spoke, saluting at the same time.

“I have heard of you, Mr. Dale. And how did you get the British uniform with which you escaped from Mill Prison?” he asked.

“That secret must remain with me until the end of time,” he said. “But I have had enough of British prisons. After my first escape and recapture every amusement was forbidden me; and so, as I had nothing else to do, I was forced to sing patriotic songs to keep up my spirits; and for that I spent forty days in the Black Hole.”

Something like a smile shone in Paul Jones’s dark and somber eyes. He had heard of the young lieutenant captured on the Lexington, confined in Mill Prison, and who had once escaped only to be recaptured, but this time had succeeded in getting out of harm’s way while the British police scoured the city of London for him.

“No, sir,” answered Dale; “but I desire to see service, and those who serve under you will stand an excellent chance of immortality, for, as Dr. Franklin says, ‘Captain Paul Jones ever loves close fighting.’”

“The praise of that great man is ever dear to me; and for yourself, Mr. Dale, your skill and intrepidity are well known, and your escape from Mill Prison shows that you are no ordinary man, and I shall be happy to have you as my first lieutenant on the Bon Homme Richard,” said he.

At this Dale’s fine face turned crimson with pleasure. He expressed his thanks with a confusion that was more eloquent than the most finished periods.

There were two other American lieutenants attached to the Bon Homme Richard—Henry Lunt and Cutting Lunt—but Bill Green, after inspecting them all, reported as follows to little Danny Dixon, who religiously believed everything Bill Green told him:

“They all do tollerbul well; but Mr. Dale, he’s a seaman, he is. I knowed it. And I tell you, boy, he ain’t never goin’ to surrender. He’s been took prisoner now three times, and he’s a-goin’ to die ruther ’n go back to the Black Hole. And you mind your eye, young ’un, when you’re round Mr. Dale.”

Early in June the squadron started on a cruise that was destined to be only the prelude of the immortal cruise that made Paul Jones’s name known all over the civilized world. On the very night they left the roads of Groix Paul Jones discovered the manner of man he had to deal with in Captain Landais. The tide was running in powerfully strong from the Bay of Biscay, and the Bon Homme Richard and the Alliance were coming dangerously near each other. Dale, who had the deck, had the helm put up, expecting the Alliance to put her helm up also to avoid a collision. Instead of that, the Alliance, under Captain Landais’s direction, deliberately kept her luff and crashed into the Bon Homme Richard, carrying away some of the lighter spars of both ships. Paul Jones, who was in the cabin, ran on deck, and in a few minutes the ships were free. The damage was not great, but Dale’s account of the way the Alliance was manœuvred was very disquieting.

“The captain was on deck, sir, and with a pistol at the helmsman’s head forced him to keep his luff, and swore at him most frightfully all the time.”

“Dale,” said Paul Jones in a troubled voice, “we have undoubtedly a madman to deal with. What terrible thing may he not yet do!”

Landais’s conduct during the whole cruise was of the same character, but there was so much malice in his cunning, and his seamanship, when he chose, was so good, that no man in the squadron really knew whether Landais was insane or not.

The spirits of the crew were excellent, and Bill Green and the other members of it who had been on the expedition with the Drake did not let them forget that they were with a “lucky cap’n.” On the very first night out, when those that were off duty were sitting around the foks’l, Bill announced that he had composed a song, words and music, descriptive of the capture of the Drake.

“It ain’t hardly fittin’ to sing,” answered Bill deprecatingly. “It begins sumpin’ about you: ‘“A sail! all hands!” the boatswain cries.’”

“Seems to me,” said the boatswain, with a wink to the men, “I heard that ’ere song, or one monstrous like it, while we was at L’Orient, and somebody said as it were composed by a officer—”

“You ain’t heard no sich a thing,” tartly answered Bill. “I thought it out in the dog-watch last night, and I wrote it out at nigh eight bells this mornin’. I ain’t got no need to sing other folks’s songs. I got the savey to make ’em up and sing ’em too.”

“Then shake out your reefs and go ahead,” said the boatswain; and after the regulation amount of urging from his mates Bill began:

“‘A sail! all hands!’ the boatswain pipes,

And instant at the signal sound,

Beneath the waving Stars and Stripes,

Each sailor at his post is found.

“Due south, close hauled, in trim array,

A gallant frigate’s on our lee;

She hoists her flag.—My hearts, huzza!

Huzza! the English ensign see.

“O’er all the crew, with heart elate,

Our captain glanced his eagle eye,

And saw each tar impatient wait

To meet the veteran enemy.

“And see! with topsail to the mast,

The foe destructive fires prepare

As ship to ship, approaching fast,

All calm and silent, down we bear.

“But, when yardarm and yardarm met,

Our cannon swept his decks amain.

In vain that boasted flag he set

Which long had awed the subject main.

“In vain unto the mast he nails

That flag; for, carried by the deck,

Like shattered oaks in wintry gales,

Each, crashing, falls—a lumbering wreck.

“No Frenchman now the conflict wage—

The Briton finds another foe,

And learns, amid the battle’s rage,

Columbia’s hearts and hands to know.

“What shall the desperate captain do?

Around his bravest men expire!

No hope is left! He speaks—his crew

A leeward gun, reluctant, fire.

“Columbia! from your youthful sleep

Arise, your tars, your rights to save!

Thus guard their freedom on the deep,

Thus claim your empire on the wave!”

This song was greeted with great applause, and Bill stoutly claimed the honor of its composition.

The cruise was uneventful except for the capture of a few prizes, and, battered by the storms in the Bay of Biscay, the squadron returned to L’Orient to refit. Here Paul Jones had the good luck to find a considerable number of Americans who were anxious to enlist with him. Every quarter-deck officer was an American except one midshipman. Paul Jones distributed the Americans among his crew, so that nearly all the petty officers were of the sort described by Washington when he said, “Put none but Americans on guard.” Many of the ordinary seamen, though, were of other nationalities.

At last the necessary repairs were made, and at daybreak on the morning of the 14th of August Paul Jones set sail, with a premonition that, even with an inferior ship and a squadron unworthy to serve under him, he would yet do great things. This feeling was shared by Dale, and by every officer and man on the Bon Homme Richard.

Several prizes were taken, but within a week the extraordinary temper of Captain Landais manifested itself. On the 21st of August it fell calm; the squadron was then off Cape Clear, and was motionless on the still and glassy sea. The sun was sinking redly. In full view lay a fine brigantine, her sails hanging limp in the perfectly still August air. Paul Jones at once gave orders to hoist out the boats, and, putting Lieutenant Dale in charge of the expedition, they pulled off to capture the brigantine.

In the clear atmosphere everything could be plainly seen on the surface of the water, and Paul Jones could almost hear, in the perfect silence of the fast waning afternoon, the orders of his favorite lieutenant, who hailed the brigantine and demanded her surrender. There was, of course, no resistance to be made to armed boats, and in a very short time a hawser was passed aboard, and the men started to tow the captured vessel to where the Bon Homme Richard lay.

The twilight had come on fast, and the flood tide was rising. The Bon Homme Richard begun to drift dangerously near the Skelligs, that are among the most dangerous rocks on the wild Irish coast. It became necessary to tow the ship, so as to keep her head to the tide, and the commodore’s barge, being the only large boat on board, was hoisted out, with a tow line to keep the ship off the rocks.

Danny Dixon, being a strong boy, and many of the crew being absent, was in the barge. It grew dark rapidly, and in the dusk the barge looked like a black shadow ahead of the ship, as the men bent slowly to their oars, just enough to hold the ship against the tide. Suddenly Lieutenant Dale, who had the deck, noticed that the ship’s head was wearing round. At the same moment he heard a splash in the water. The boat, however, was still pulling ahead, but much faster than it had been.

For a moment he was puzzled at this, but he called out in a moment, “Avast, there! the line has parted!”

The boat, however, paid no attention to his cry, but continued to pull away faster and faster. It dawned upon him then that the line had been cut purposely, and he shouted the louder, “Return to the ship at once!” He had seen a shadow upon the water, and a continual splash after the first one, and in a moment or two he saw Danny Dixon’s tow head just under the ship’s quarter.

“Give me a line, please, sir,” called Danny, and the next moment he was landed on deck dripping wet.

“They’ve stole the barge, sir,” he gasped out, sputtering, “and run away, some o’ the Portygees and Malays—there warn’t no ’Mericans among ’em. They wanted me to go along, but I jest slipped overboard and swam for the ship, and here I is.”

Angry and indignant as Dale felt at the conduct of the barge’s crew, Danny’s matter-of-fact way of telling of his loyalty both pleased and amused him. He said hastily to Danny, “Go below and report to the captain,” and without waiting for orders, the only boat left on the ship was manned, and, with Mr. Lunt in command, put briskly after the deserters. Lieutenant Dale also brought one of the ship’s long twelves to bear on the retreating boat and fired several shots, but both the barge and her pursuers were soon lost in the increasing darkness. In a little while the other boats reached the ship towing the brigantine. The vessel proving stanch and her cargo valuable, Paul Jones threw a prize crew on her and sent her to L’Orient.

As the night wore on a dense white fog descended upon the ocean, and the calm continued. There was no sign of Mr. Lunt’s boat. The Bon Homme Richard fired signal guns all night, and all the next day, as the fog showed no sign of lifting. The Cerf was sent in the morning to reconnoiter the coast for the missing boat. The same degree of cowardice or insanity appeared to possess the cutter as the Alliance. She was seen by the boat and would have been rejoined, but, the Cerf hoisting British colors, and firing at the unfortunate boat, Mr. Lunt was forced to run ashore, when he and all his boat’s crew were captured. Thus did the commodore lose the services of one of his best officers and two boats full of men, amounting to twenty-four in all.

The morning after the boat was lost the captain’s gig of the Alliance was seen at the side of the Bon Homme Richard. In a few minutes the tall and imposing figure of Captain Landais appeared upon the ship. Paul Jones was on deck at the time, and, advancing to greet Captain Landais courteously, he was struck by the savage scowl upon the Frenchman’s countenance. The general repute of Captain Landais’s ungovernable temper and Paul Jones’s previous experience made him prefer to see the captain in the cabin. He invited a French marine officer on board, M. de Chamillard, and an American army officer, Colonel Weibert, who had volunteered to serve on the Bon Homme Richard, to accompany him and hear what passed.

As soon as they reached the cabin, Landais, throwing his glove violently on the table, exclaimed in English, “So you have lost your boats!” This he immediately repeated in French for De Chamillard’s benefit, who did not understand English.

“That you have lost your boats—and this comes of attacking a brigantine with boats.”

“But my boats were not lost while attacking the brigantine,” replied Paul Jones, thinking that Landais was under a mistake. “My barge was cut adrift while towing the ship, and the deserters absconded. The brigantine was captured.”

“And yet I was not allowed to cruise on my own responsibility upon this coast!” shouted the captain.

Something in the wild gleam of his eye gave Paul Jones the calmness to reason with him.

“No,” shouted Landais, excitedly, “but I was willing—I and my brave officers—to risk it.”

“But I was not willing to risk a ship under my command, with a captain who is entirely ignorant of this coast, the most dangerous one I know,” replied Paul Jones.

All this time De Chamillard and Weibert sat amazed spectators of the scene. Paul Jones’s swarthy skin had turned a shade darker. A kind of lambent flame shone in his dark, inscrutable eyes. He strongly suspected a taint of madness in the infuriated man before him, and was careful not to exasperate him unnecessarily. Landais continued translating his insubordinate language into French, and looking at De Chamillard. But the French marine officer looked steadily away, blushing for the language of his superior. Again Landais burst out violently:

“It is an untruth,” answered Paul Jones, rising. His manner was still composed, but his eyes were blazing.

“Do you hear that, gentlemen?” shouted Landais furiously, in French; and turning to De Chamillard, “He has given me the lie direct.”

The words were calm, but even the half-mad Landais was recalled to his senses by them. Paul Jones fixed his dark eyes on him. Slowly, yet inevitably, the expression of Landais’s face changed, he sank into a sullen silence, and then abruptly walked out of the cabin.

“You see, gentlemen,” he said in French, “what I have patiently endured for the sake of the great cause in which we are all engaged. M. de Landais was in my power, and you see how merciful I have been to him.”

The Bon Homme Richard remained on and off the coast until the 26th of August, hoping to find the missing boat, but at last was forced to give it up, and steered for the northward. The Cerf had never reappeared, so the squadron was reduced to the Bon Homme Richard, the Alliance, the Pallas, and the Vengeance.

On the morning of the 27th of August, when Paul Jones came on deck at daybreak and swept the horizon with his glass, the Alliance was not in sight, nor did she turn up any more until the 31st, when her appearance proved most inopportune, as it always seemed to be during the memorable cruise.

The Bon Homme Richard was then off Cape Wrath, and was chasing an armed vessel—the Union, of twenty-two guns. The American cruiser was flying British colors, hoping by that means to get very near before her nationality was discovered, so that if the Union had any valuable dispatches (which were often carried by fast letter-of-marque vessels) there would not be time or opportunity to destroy them. But as soon as Landais got near enough to the Bon Homme Richard, although he must have known that the commodore for some purpose did not desire American colors to be shown, the Alliance set two American ensigns. That was warning enough to the Union. She, indeed, carried important dispatches from the home Government addressed to the authorities at Quebec, and upon seeing the Alliance hoist her ensign knew what to do.

When the British captain was brought on board the Bon Homme Richard, his first remark to Paul Jones, as he handed out his papers, was:

“I had letters containing important information, but the warning so kindly given me by the frigate yonder enabled me to destroy them.”

Paul Jones ground his teeth with rage. He was tempted for the twentieth time to put Captain Landais under arrest, but a mistaken clemency induced him to forbear.

On the 4th of September the commodore signaled all the captains to come on board the Bon Homme Richard. In a little while boats were seen coming from the Pallas and the Vengeance, but none from the Alliance. Seeing no motion toward Captain Landais obeying orders, although the signal had been flying for half an hour, M. Mease, the purser of the Bon Homme Richard and a Frenchman, asked for a boat without saying what he wished to do. It was granted, and the purser went on board the Alliance and implored Captain Landais to save himself and his ship the disgrace of a disobedience of orders. Captain Landais appeared inclined to yield at first, but finally refused. M. Mease returned to the Bon Homme Richard, and, thinking that some other of the captain’s countrymen might have better luck, persuaded De Chamillard and the captain of the Pallas (Cottineau) to return with him. They went and found Landais on his quarter-deck. He had worked himself into a passion, and as they approached he roared at them:

“Tell your Commodore Jones that we must have a meeting on shore, and one or the other of us must die. I will not longer bear his tyranny!”

The three officers looked at each other significantly. First Captain Cottineau spoke soothingly, but it had no effect upon Landais. Then De Chamillard tried to reason with him, but to no effect. M. Mease was not suffered to speak at all by the infuriated captain. As the officers passed along the deck to take their boat they noticed the sullen looks and mutinous air of the men, who firmly believed that they had either a traitor or a madman for a commander.

When they returned on board the Bon Homme Richard and reported to Paul Jones, he heard them through patiently. De Chamillard then declared that he believed Landais was crazy—that his language and countenance were wild and his conduct utterly irrational. To this Captain Cottineau disagreed. He was furiously angry with Landais, and thought him treacherous. Between these opposing views Paul Jones concluded to wait and have a personal interview with Landais. Within a few hours, however, the wind rose to a terrible gale, and the Alliance again disappeared, not to be seen until she made her appearance in a manner as unlooked for as usual.

Some days of alternate storm and fog followed. Paul Jones knew that he was off the Scottish coast, but not until the evening of the 13th of September was it clear enough for him to see the blue line of the Cheviot Hills in the distance.

Being in want of provisions and water, Paul Jones in the middle of the night sent an armed boat to bring off some sheep and oxen that were seen near the shore. Lieutenant Dale was in charge of the boat, and had with him money to pay for the cattle and sheep. This he did, allowing the owners a generous amount. He managed to extract a good deal of information from the peasantry, who told him of the capture of Mr. Lunt’s boat, and that the nature of the expedition was well known, as well as the fact that Paul Jones was in command, and that no less than eleven men-of-war were scouring the seas for the audacious Bon Homme Richard.

Upon their return to the ship Lieutenant Dale reported to the commodore. When he spoke of the eleven British captains, each one of whom was eagerly in search of the honor of capturing Paul Jones, a faint smile passed over the somewhat sad face of the commodore. England, the mistress of the seas, put forth all her strength and skill against this bold intruder into her very strongholds. But he was not to become her captive, but her continued defiance.

The coasts of England, Scotland, and Ireland were in an uproar by this time. Signal fires blazed on every hill, and expresses were sent to London announcing the danger. But Paul Jones knew he was in no danger from the shore, and he trusted to himself to take care of his ship at sea. Never since the days of the sea kings had any seaman so struck terror into his enemies as Paul Jones.

CHAPTER IX.

On the 14th of September Commodore Jones sent for the captains of the Pallas and Vengeance, and confided to them a plan he had for laying the city of Edinburgh under a contribution of two hundred thousand pounds, besides capturing an armed ship of twenty guns and three fine cutters that lay in Leith roads.

“The ships lie in a state of perfect indolence and security,” he said, “which will prove their ruin.”

The French captains were not at first equal to this bold project. During one whole night, while the squadron lay off the Frith of Forth, did Paul Jones argue with them, and at last their consent was won.

“If these captains had but the dash and enterprise of their juniors anything could be attempted,” remarked Paul Jones to Lieutenant Dale. Dale shrugged his shoulders.

“The French have lost more ships through prudence than the British through rashness,” was his significant answer.

Paul Jones then made every preparation for the descent. De Chamillard, who had proved himself a brave and resolute man, was to take the terms of capitulation and ransom to the magistrates of Edinburgh. One half hour exactly was to be given them to provide two hundred thousand pounds or its equivalent. The gallant young Dale was to command the landing party.

The Frith of Forth was then entered, and on the 15th of September the ships were seen distinctly beating up the Frith. The alarm was general among the inhabitants, who knew the mighty name of Paul Jones, and who prepared as well as they could to meet him. Batteries were erected, and the citizens were served with arms from Edinburgh Castle. A little boy, ten years old, who was in Edinburgh then, well remembered the alarm and commotion, and often spoke of it afterward. This was Walter Scott.

One man, however—a member of Parliament—took it into his head that the Bon Homme Richard was a British cruiser, whose mission was to destroy the daring American. He therefore sent a boat with a messenger, asking that some powder and shot be sent him so that he might defend himself against the notorious Paul Jones. The commodore received the messenger politely on the quarter-deck, with several officers around him.

“Tell your master,” he said, “that I send the powder very cheerfully—Mr. Dale, will you have a barrel hoisted out?—and regret that I have no shot suitable for this powder.” As the powder was of no use without the shot the member of Parliament was no better off with it than without it. Nevertheless, the messenger did not have wit enough to see that he was being gulled, and accepted the barrel very thankfully. The men on deck, who saw through the ruse, grinned broadly while they were very zealous in getting the powder over the side. Bill Green, however, who had been talking with the men in the boat, touched his cap and spoke aside to Paul Jones:

“I am glad you told me,” answered Paul Jones: and, approaching the man, he said carelessly: “My fine fellow, I shall be on and off this coast looking for Paul Jones for some days, and I shall want a pilot, so I think I shall have to keep you.”

“All right, sir,” answered the man, touching his cap; and, calling out to his mates in the boat, he cried: “Tell Ailsa I have got a job of piloting, and she need not expect me till she sees me.”

This man proved to be of great service in piloting the vessel; for, even after her character was discovered, he was forced to direct her, as his own life, as much as that of anybody’s on the ship, depended upon her safety.

The Bon Homme Richard, with her two consorts, the Pallas and the Vengeance, continued working to windward up the Frith until Sunday, the 17th of September, a gusty autumn morning. Then they were almost within cannon shot of the town. The boats were hoisted out, De Chamillard with his soldiers were ready, and Dale, the youngest lieutenant on board, but the one most after Paul Jones’s own heart, was just about to step over the side. The wind had been fresh since the dawn of day, but suddenly a black and furious squall was seen upon the water ahead of them. The men were ordered in from the boats to assist in shortening sail, which was barely done before the squall struck them. The gale increasing fearfully, the boats were hoisted in, and the vessels were obliged to bear up before the wind in order to save their spars. The gale continuing, they were driven out of the Frith, and had to seek the open sea for safety.

Toward night the wind moderated. The North Sea was full of merchant ships, and the Bon Homme Richard, as well as the Pallas, cruised back and forth, taking and sinking a number of colliers. This, however, was not the sort of enterprise that suited Paul Jones’s daring spirit. He proposed several adventurous plans to the French captains, but could not win their co-operation. They were brave men, but more prudent than enterprising, and they had not the personal knowledge of Paul Jones’s powers and resource to take the risks he proposed. There was a large fleet of merchant ships lying in the Humber, which Paul Jones wished to entice into the open roads. The Bon Homme Richard went off before the wind, and returned wearing British colors, hoping that a certain ship which carried a pendant at her masthead was a ship of war, and would fight. This ship, though, kept to the windward and near dangerous shoals, so that the Bon Homme Richard could not approach with safety.

In order to learn some news of what was being done in the way of preparations to meet him, Paul Jones boldly hoisted a signal for a pilot. Two pilot boats, supposing the Bon Homme Richard to be a British cruiser, responded. There was great eagerness between the pilot boats as to which should be taken on board. Lieutenant Dale, under Paul Jones’s orders, took them both on board, in order to learn everything possible about the state of affairs along the coast. Presently Paul Jones, in his undress uniform, which greatly resembled the British uniform, except that he wore a Scotch bonnet of blue cloth bound with gold, strolled along the deck, and, seeing young Dale in conversation with the pilots, joined him.

“Have you heard anything of Paul Jones and his ship, my good man?” he asked.

“That ’ere ship yonder,” pointing to the vessel wearing a pendant, and which was still near the entrance to the Humber River, “she is a armed merchantman—”

“And,” broke in the other, anxious to contribute his quota, “there’s a king’s frigate layin’ at anchor up the river, a-waitin’ for news o’ that impudent rebel ship o’ Paul Jones’s to take her and sink her. I piloted the frigate in, and they’ve give us a private signal for all ships while the rebel ship is in these waters.”

“That signal would be useful to us,” remarked Paul Jones, smiling in spite of himself. “We have not been in port since early in August, and we might get in trouble through not knowing the signal.”

The pilots, still supposing the Bon Homme Richard to be a British ship, gave the signal. Having got all he wanted out of them, Paul Jones dismissed them with money, saying that as there was already a frigate in the river he would continue to cruise outside. As the pilots went over the side, Bill Green bawled at them:

“Thankee for that ’ere private signal!” And a roar of laughter from the foks’l showed the sailors’ appreciation of the joke. But the pilots went off well satisfied with their fee and perfectly unsuspicious.

As soon as the pilot boat was out of sight, Bill Green, under Dale’s orders, hoisted the private signal, and lay near the mouth of the river. The armed vessel came a little way down the stream, but something aroused her suspicions, and she put back hastily. The entrance to the Humber being very difficult and dangerous, Paul Jones concluded not to attempt it, but to cruise around Flamborough Head, in the hope of rejoining his consorts, the Pallas and the Vengeance, and also with the hope of intercepting the Baltic fleet, which was due about that time.

This was the night of the 22d of September, the turning point in the career of Paul Jones, and it was one of the most miserable nights he had ever spent in all his adventurous life. The time of his cruise was now up, and upon joining the other two ships it would be his duty to proceed to the Texel, after a fruitless and inglorious expedition. After having endured all the agony of hope deferred, of suspense and almost of despair for fifteen months, he had at last got to sea in a miserable old hulk that was only a travesty on the fair frigate that he had hoped to command. He had lost one of his best officers and twenty-three of his men. More than half his squadron had deserted him, and he had been humiliated by the insubordination of a French captain that he could not properly punish without incurring the displeasure of the only ally that his distressed and struggling country could claim. He had taken a few prizes, most of which had been lost by caprice or folly, and he was now about to return to bear all the shame of failure, for to Paul Jones’s lofty and comprehensive mind the lack of brilliant success was failure.

A spirit of fierce unrest seemed to possess him as he walked the quarter-deck of the Bon Homme Richard while the twilight fell on that September evening. The darkness came on fast, and with it a fresh but fickle wind. The moon was near its full, and as it rose from the water it cast a pale and spectral glare over the vast expanse of the North Sea. Clouds were scudding wildly across the sky, and occasionally the moon was obscured for long periods. It was one of those ghastly nights when misfortune and sorrow and disappointment seem to brood over the universe.

The Bon Homme Richard was under easy canvas, and the crew were sitting around the foks’l after their day’s work was done, listening to yarns and songs. Presently, in the stillness of the September night, Paul Jones heard Bill Green’s rich voice singing. Scarcely knowing why he did it, so heavy was the weight upon his heart, Paul Jones walked quietly along the deck, and, leaning over the rail, unobserved by the men, he listened to the song. It was sad enough, and the air had a melancholy beauty in it that went to his very soul. It struck him with the deadly chill of a presentiment. The men, too, listened with a subdued and silent attention. This was the song:

Call the watch! Call the watch!

Ho! the starboard watch, ahoy! Have you heard

How a noble ship, so trim, like our own, my hearties, here,

All scudding ’fore the gale, disappeared

When yon southern billows rolled o’er their bed so green and clear?

Hold the reel! Keep her full! Hold the reel!

How she flew athwart the spray, as, shipmates, we do now,

Till her twice a hundred fearless hearts of steel

Felt the whirlwind lift its waters aft and plunge her downward bow!

Bear a hand!

Strike to’gallants! Mind your helm! Jump aloft!

’Twas such a night as this, my lads, a rakish bark was drowned,

When demons foul, that whisper seamen oft,

Scooped a tomb amid the flashing surge that never shall be found.

Square the yards! A double reef! Hark! the blast!

Oh, fiercely has it fallen on the war-ship of the brave!

When its tempest fury stretched the stately mast

All along the foamy sides, as they shouted on the wave.

Bear a hand!

Call the watch! Call the watch!

Ho! the larboard watch, ahoy! Have you heard

How a vessel, gay and taut, on the mountains of the sea

Went below, with all her warlike crew aboard—

They who battled for the happy, boys, and perished for the free?

Clew, clew up, fore and aft! Keep her away!

How the vulture bird of death, in its black and viewless form,

Hovered sure o’er the clamors of his prey,

While through all their dripping shrouds yells the spirit of the storm.

Bear a hand!

Now, out reefs! Brace the yard! Lively there!

Oh, no more to homeward breeze shall her swelling bosom spread;

But Love’s expectant eye bids Despair

Set her raven watch eternal o’er the wreck in ocean’s bed!

Board your tacks! Cheerly, boys! But for them

Their last evening gun is fired—their gales are over blown!

O’er their smoking deck no starry flag shall stream;

They’ll sail no more—they’ll fight no more—for their gallant ship’s gone down!

Bear a hand!

A solemn silence followed as the last musical note died away on the waters. The waves and the lightly whistling wind had made a soft accompaniment for the sweet, sad music. Paul Jones listened to every word, and at the last “Bear a hand!” something like a groan burst from him. Hope had almost gone—despair was near to him. He stepped noiselessly from his place at the rail, and with bent head and folded arms began again to walk the quarter-deck. Dale, watching Paul Jones’s slight but sinewy figure as he walked up and down like a caged tiger, noticed the new expression on his face—an expression almost of hopelessness. Well might Paul Jones be hopeless, if this was to be the barren result of a cruise in which he had promised himself and those under him so much glory.

All the early hours of the night this ceaseless walk continued. It was Dale’s watch on deck, and he was relieved at midnight by Cutting Lunt, the only other sea lieutenant on the ship since Henry Lunt’s loss in the boat. Although not given to following the commodore unless invited, Dale looked after him wistfully as he went below. Once within the cabin, Paul Jones threw himself in a chair, and, resting his head on his hands, gave way to a silent paroxysm of despair. He knew not how long he sat in this agony of thought and feeling, but at last, raising his head, he saw his cabin boy, Danny Dixon, crouched in a corner, sound asleep. Although Danny’s orders were to leave the cabin and go to his hammock at ten o’clock, he was often found in the cabin at midnight, for which he always made the excuse that he had fallen asleep and did not know when it was six bells.

Something in the boy’s faithful and doglike attachment appealed to Paul Jones at this moment of supreme distress. “Poor little fellow!” he thought to himself, gazing at the boy’s sleeping figure. “There is one faithful soul who loves me, poor and unlettered and simple as he may be.”

He then rose, and, going forward, laid the boy’s head in a more comfortable position and threw a blanket over him.

“Let him rest; he will lie there until morning. And what would not I give for his sound and careless sleep!”

A few moments later a slight tap was heard at the cabin door, and Paul Jones himself opened it. There stood young Dale. His eyes dropped before the calm gaze of the commodore’s. He had come, led by an impulse of pity and veneration, but he knew not how to express it. In a moment or two Paul Jones spoke:

“Dale, I know why you have come. You feel for me in my misfortunes—for surely misfortune has followed this cruise. Know you, though, that while I want no man’s insulting pity, yours, which comes from the heart, is sweet to me.”

At this he laid his hand on the young lieutenant’s shoulder, and Dale, glancing up, his own eyes full of tears, saw that Paul Jones’s eyes were moist.

“I know, sir, better than anybody, the trials, the disadvantages, the insults you have been subject to. But there is not a man on this ship who does not believe in you and know that, if we have no captured ship of war to bring back with us, it is fate—not want of enterprise. But, commodore, I have a strange presentiment. I feel yet that within twenty-four hours we shall have some glorious event upon our hands. Something tells me that we are at a turning point, and that Fortune, which favors the brave, has yet a glorious reward for you.”

CHAPTER X.

At daybreak on the morning of the memorable 23d of September Paul Jones appeared on the Bon Homme Richard’s deck. A short distance off lay the Pallas and the treacherous Alliance, which the Bon Homme Richard had chased during the latter part of the night, mistaking her for a British frigate.

All three ships were now off Flamborough Head. The day came clear and bright, with a gentle wind from the south. The delicate chill of the early dawn crept over the waters, and the eastern sky was aflame with yellow and pink and purple lights. A rosy mist enveloped the bold headland, and the waves that eagerly lapped it caught the crimson glow. The somber North Sea shimmered with a thousand hues, in the golden glory of the morning. Afar off, the castled height of Scarborough shone white in the radiant light, and the milky sails of fishing boats flecked the blue sea. There were no vessels in sight except the two French ships, for the name of Paul Jones kept the merchant fleets hugging the shore except under convoy. Something in the lovely scene inspired Paul Jones with renewed hope. As Dale went up and greeted him on the quarter-deck, Paul Jones said cheerfully: “Dale, I believe you are right. We have one more day before us, in which we may immortalize ourselves; therefore I take heart.”

The men were piped to breakfast at six o’clock, and just as they came on deck afterward a brigantine was observed, apparently hove to far to windward. Chase was given, and it was plain that she could not escape. About noon, however, as Paul Jones, with Dale by his side, was watching the pursuit of the brigantine, they happened to turn their eyes at the same moment toward the rocky promontory of Flamborough Head. Just weathering the headland, they saw a large, white ship, sailing beautifully, the wind filling her snowy canvas. There was nothing remarkable in her appearance, but something prophetic seemed to strike both Paul Jones and Dale. Their eyes met with a meaning look.

“Is the first ship of the Baltic fleet,” replied Paul Jones in a low, intense voice. “I feel it, I know it; and there must be more than one war-ship giving convoy to the fleet.”

The next moment, though, it became necessary to order a boat out to capture the brigantine, which was now at their mercy. Sixteen of the best hands on board the Bon Homme Richard were told off for this duty, and put under the command of Lieutenant Lunt.

“Look out for my signals, Mr. Lunt,” were Paul Jones’s last orders, “for I expect to fight this day.”

Every eye on the Bon Homme Richard was fixed on the ship that had glided so beautifully around the promontory. Within ten minutes another sail, and another, appeared in the wake of the large ship, all rounding the point. Paul Jones, in a passion of suppressed excitement, seized Dale by the arm. “Look!” he cried. “It is the Baltic fleet! It is not less than forty sail, and their convoy, I have heard, is the Serapis frigate, commanded by Captain Pearson, and the sloop of war Countess of Scarborough. Ah, Dale, well may your presentiment come true! This is our day to fight! Call the bugler, set the signal for a general chase, and prepare for action; and we will fight at close quarters.”

Dale fairly rushed off to give the necessary orders. The men sprang into the rigging with cheers, and set the fore and main sail. As soon as they were at quarters, the men, two by two, gave nine cheers for Commodore Paul Jones. Paul Jones, with sparkling eyes, took off his cap and waved it.

Just then Bill Green ran across Danny Dixon, who was hanging over the side, gazing at the stately ships as they came swiftly around the point, like a flock of huge swans.

“I say, boy,” said Bill, “you’d better be gittin’ that sawdust and sprinklin’ the deck, to keep your spirits up—’cause I see flunk in your eye.”

“Well, Mr. Green,” answered Danny, who had a long score of practical jokes and chaff to pay off, “I’ll be careful and throw a plenty o’ sawdust around the wheel to soak up your blood in case you is welterin’ in gore, and I’ll be proud to take your last messages to your afflicted widder—”

“Go along with you!” bawled Bill, who was not pleased with these grewsome suggestions. “I ain’t got no afflicted widder, nor no afflicted wife neither, you billy-be-hanged imp! I don’t see what boys is made for no-how, excep’ to be tormentin’ and aggerawatin’! Maybe you ain’t heerd, youngster, that the British Government has put a price on your head, and the man that carries you, livin’ or dead, aboard a British ship, gits a pile o’ money?”

“W’y, that’s very kind and complimentary of the Britishers,” answered Danny, with a knowing grin. “That’s what they done for Cap’n Paul Jones, and I’m mighty proud to be rated with him.”

“Jest wait,” answered Bill, “till these ’ere guns gits to barkin’ and the spars begins to fly ’round like straws when you’re threshin’, and I’m a-thinkin’ you won’t be as brave as the cap’n.”

“’Tain’t nobody as brave as the cap’n,” answered Danny stoutly, “but I ain’t a-goin’ to flunk, Mr. Green, and I’m a-goin’ to give you a extry handful o’ sawdust for to drink up your blood when I begins to lay it on the deck.”

It seemed as if the ships that came around Flamborough Head were of an endless fleet. But as soon as they caught sight of the black hull of the Bon Homme Richard to windward of them, waiting in grim expectancy, with the American ensign flying and preparations for action going on, they gave her a wide berth. They also raised the alarm by firing guns, letting fly their to’gallant sheets, tacking together, and making as close inshore as they dared.

Meanwhile, the Bon Homme Richard had cleared for action, sent down her royal yards, the crew were beat to quarters, and signals were made to the other ships to form the line of battle. The Pallas, under the brave Cottineau, obeyed the signals with alacrity. The Vengeance was ordered to bring back the boat with Lunt and his men in it, and to enter the men on the unengaged side of the Bon Homme Richard if the action should be begun, and then the Vengeance was to attack the convoy. She, however, disobeyed all of these orders, and never came into action at all. The Alliance disregarded all orders and signals, and reconnoitered cautiously. Captain Landais shouted to the Pallas as she passed, that if the man-of-war which they knew must convoy such a fleet proved to be the Serapis, all they would have to do would be to run away!

It was now long past noon, and still the end of the line of merchant ships had not been reached. At last, as the forty-first vessel rounded the point and took refuge inshore, a beautiful white frigate with a smart sloop of war following her appeared. The men on the Bon Homme Richard had seen a boat putting off from the shore for the frigate, and they surmised correctly that it was to inform the British frigate that the American ship was commanded by Paul Jones. Captain Pearson, of the Serapis, was a brave man, and was delighted at a chance of a fair and square fight with the American commodore. As Paul Jones had instantly recognized the Serapis and knew her commander, each captain was perfectly well aware whom he was fighting.

Captain Pearson first prudently and gallantly secured his convoy by clawing off the land so that he was outside his ships, and then tacking inshore so as to be between them and the Bon Homme Richard. The Bon Homme Richard was now coming down under every sail that would draw. The Serapis was unmistakably ready to fight, but she stood out to sea, with the view of drawing the American ship under the guns of Scarborough Castle. But Paul Jones was too astute for her, and determined to wear ship, so as to head the Serapis off. By that time Bill Green was at the wheel, and a good breeze was blowing, enabling the ship to manœuvre easily. Dale was officer of the deck, and gave the orders, under Paul Jones’s direction, to steer straight for the British frigate, that was waiting for the Bon Homme Richard under short fighting canvas.

The whole afternoon had passed in the previous manœuvres, and the early twilight of September had come before the Bon Homme Richard had shortened sail, and the two ships were slowly but determinedly approaching each other for the mortal encounter. The moon had not yet risen, but the stars were lighted in the deep-blue sky of night, and in the west a faint opaline glow still lingered. On the chalky cliffs a moving black mass showed, where thousands of people had assembled to see the fight, and far in the distance the frowning masses of Scarborough Castle loomed up, with myriad lights showing like sparks in the purple twilight. The strong, white flame from the lighthouse at Flamborough Head flashed like a lance of fire over the dark ocean. The silent manœuvres of the white-winged ships, the stillness only broken by the orders given and the “Ay, ay, sir!” of the sailors, which echoed beautifully over the water, made the ships seem almost like a phantom fleet. The battle lanterns were lighted, and every preparation was made for a fight to the death. The Bon Homme Richard was short-handed not only for men but for officers, and Richard Dale was the only sea lieutenant Paul Jones had in the unequal fight before him. The men were stripped to their shirts, except Bill Green and a few others, Bill alleging that “’Twarn’t wuth while to take off a man’s jacket till he got warmed up with fightin’!” Danny Dixon, as usual, had discarded his jacket early in the day, and had made every preparation for a hand-to-hand fight, although, as he was only a powder monkey, it was not likely that he would have any fighting at all to do.

It was Danny’s place, though, with another boy, to sprinkle sawdust along the decks to keep them from becoming slippery with blood. As he got to the wheel, where Bill Green stood, he threw the sawdust around liberally, and, although he dared not address the quartermaster, he remarked in a sly whisper to the other boy:

“Mr. Green, him and me is pertickler friends, so I’m a-goin’ to give him a extry handful o’ sawdust to soak up his blood, that’ll likely be a foot deep round about here.”

It was now about seven o’clock in the evening, and the ships were steadily closing. Paul Jones, night glass in hand, walked the quarter-deck. The Alliance and the Vengeance lay off two miles to windward, perfectly inactive, and apparently meant to be mere spectators of the great fight on hand. Their indifference and disobedience to the signals infuriated the officers and men of the Bon Homme Richard, but Paul Jones took it with the utmost coolness and composure.

“Let them do as they like,” he said; “the greater glory ours if we win without them.”

Captain Cottineau, of the Pallas, on seeing the Bon Homme Richard change her course and wear, rashly concluded that the crew had mutinied, had killed the commodore, and were running away with the ship. It is a singular instance of the faith which his associates had in Paul Jones, that Captain Cottineau should have been convinced of Paul Jones’s death before the command of the ship could be taken from him.

The captain of the Pallas therefore hauled by the wind and tacked, laying his head off shore. He did not follow the Bon Homme Richard, until, seeing her begin the action, he knew that Paul Jones still lived and commanded.

The ships were now within two cables’ length of each other. Paul Jones then tacked, in order to cross the bow of the Serapis. At this moment he perceived a man, at the order of Captain Pearson, fastening the Union Jack to the mizzen peak.

“Look!” said Paul Jones to Dale, “they are nailing the flag to the mast. There is no need to nail mine, for the first man that dares to touch it will never breathe again.”

The Serapis was within pistol shot and to windward, and both ships were on the port tack. The Serapis hailed as follows:

Stacy, the acting sailing master, answered the hail after Paul Jones’s directions, who wished to get in a raking position on the bow of the Serapis.

“What ship is that?” was again called out from the Serapis. “Answer immediately, or I shall be under the necessity of firing into you.”

At this, Richard Dale, who commanded the gun deck, cried to his men, “Blow your matches, boys!” and in another instant the Bon Homme Richard thundered out her broadside. So promptly was this returned from the Serapis that both reports seemed almost simultaneous. The roar was tremendous, and echoed and re-echoed over the sea and from the chalky cliffs.

In an instant both ships were enveloped in smoke and utter darkness. By this time the Bon Homme Richard’s bow was just across the forefoot of the Serapis. In order to keep the wind and to deaden her way, the Bon Homme Richard’s topsails were backed, and she passed slowly ahead of the Serapis, taking the wind out of her sails. The Serapis was a short ship, and answered her helm beautifully, in contrast to the lumbering Bon Homme Richard. As soon as the wind reached him again, Captain Pearson, keeping his luff, came up on the weather quarter of the Bon Homme Richard, fairly taking the wind out of the American ship’s sails in turn. The Serapis let fly her starboard batteries, and the Bon Homme Richard replied with her port batteries; but at the very first discharge of the six eighteen-pound guns on the Bon Homme Richard, the pieces being old and defective, two of them burst with a terrific concussion, tearing out the main deck above them and killing nearly all of the guns’ crews that served them. As soon as the shock subsided, although the shrieks and groans of the wounded still resounded, Paul Jones ran to the companion ladder and saw Dale, with a pale but undaunted face, standing on the shattered gun deck, surrounded by wounded men and the awful débris of the exploded guns. Most of the ship’s lanterns had been put out by the concussion, and there was only a dim light that struggled with the darkness. The moonlight streamed in through the portholes clouded by the smoke from the Serapis’s guns, which thundered incessantly, hulling the Bon Homme Richard at every round.

“Two of the guns are gone, sir,” Dale said coolly, “and some of our brave boys. But we will fight the other four guns as long as they will hold together.”

“You are a man after my own heart!” cried Paul Jones, “and every gun on this ship will be fought as long as they will hold together; and if we go down, it will be with our ensign flying.”

In the midst of the smoke and confusion Dale then saw Danny Dixon running about picking up a row of cartridges that he had just laid down for the use of the guns, and which a stray spark might have ignited.

“Right for you, boy!” cried Dale; and then, turning to the men at the other four eighteen-pounders, he ordered the guns examined. Two of them were cracked from the muzzle down. This was a terrible blow to the Bon Homme Richard, as the loss of this battery would leave only thirty-two twelve-pound guns to fight fifty eighteen-pounders; for, although the Serapis was classed as a forty-four, she really carried fifty guns.

“Mr. Dale, I’ve got a good crew here as ain’t afeerd o’ nothin’,” said one of the gun captains, seeing that Dale hesitated to give the order to load and fire, “and I’ll resk it with these ’ere two eighteens.”

An instant later both of them were fired, and, as soon as the smoke drifted off, Dale, speechless with dismay, pointed to the two guns. Both of them were defective, and there was no possibility of firing them again; the only wonder had been that they had not exploded as the first two did.

The gun captain, sent by Dale, went up to the commodore on deck, where he stood calmly giving orders that were distinctly heard above the uproar, and manœuvring his ship with the same coolness as if he were working her into a friendly roadstead.

“Sir,” said the man, touching his cap, “Mr. Dale says as how not another shot can be fired from the eighteen-pounders. They is cracked from breech to muzzle.”

“I knew it,” answered Paul Jones; “the instant the firing stopped, I knew it was impossible to fire another shot, for Dale would never have given it up as long as he could work his guns. Tell Mr. Dale I think the enemy will soon silence the smaller guns, and that if the ship should catch fire—”

“The water, sir, is pourin’ in by the hogshead through the holes in the hull—”

“To fight both the fire and the water, and to keep her afloat as long as possible; and as long as she floats she shall be fought.”

The men on deck heard these gallant words, and a rousing cheer rang out over the furious din of the cannonade.

Just at that moment a new enemy appeared. The Countess of Scarborough, that had been gradually drawing within gunshot, delayed by the wind, which had become light and baffling, now suddenly loomed up in the faint moonlight on the lee bow of the Bon Homme Richard, and made her presence known by pouring a raking broadside into the American ship. But seeing, through the shattered sides of the ship, the blaze and smoke which Dale and his men were fighting as stubbornly as Paul Jones was fighting the British, and noticing that nearly every gun on the Bon Homme Richard was silenced, the sloop of war drew off, to let, as it was mistakenly thought, the Serapis finish up the unequal fight. The Alliance lay off, out of gunshot, a picture of beauty in the pale splendor of the night, but apparently without any intention of taking part in the fight. The Countess of Scarborough turned her attention toward the cowardly ship, which finally began to return the cannonade the Countess of Scarborough opened upon her. The Pallas, though, as if stung by the conduct of her consort, steered for the Countess of Scarborough, and engaged her with great spirit.

De Chamillard had held the poop of the Bon Homme Richard with twenty marines, but after losing several of his men he was driven back step by step. Paul Jones watched the brave Frenchman; and if he felt agony at the defeat that threatened him on every hand he gave no sign of it, but said to De Chamillard, as he came up, grimed with powder, “See, the Pallas is making amends, like yourself, for the treachery of the Alliance.”

The slaughter on the decks of the Bon Homme Richard was frightful, and below she was both leaking and burning. Moreover, there were over a hundred prisoners on board, that might be liberated by the fire and the water. But Paul Jones had in young Dale a man like himself, and he felt sure that Dale was no more likely to lose heart than himself.

The steady and uninterrupted broadside of the Serapis had now silenced every gun on the Bon Homme Richard, except two small nine-pounders on the spar deck.

“But there’s another gun on the quarter-deck, my lads,” cried Paul Jones, “and she’s not so big we can’t haul her over.”

At this the men rallied with a cheer, and as quick as thought the gun was dragged across the deck, Paul Jones himself helping.

“Now we will make play on her mainmast, boys,” said he, and, pointing the gun himself, a shot whizzed out and struck the Serapis’s mainmast, fair and square. Her rigging had caught fire, and the masts, being painted white, were plainly visible against the background of fire and smoke.

The shot had not been large enough to shatter the great spar, but half a dozen others following caused it to weaken plainly.

And so, with three nine-pounders against the twenty great guns and thirty small ones of the Serapis, Paul Jones maintained the honor of the American flag, and gave no sign of surrender.

The American tops, though, were well served, and Paul Jones saw that the decks of the Serapis were being swept by the musketry fire of the Bon Homme Richard, which was but little injured aloft, although her hull was almost a wreck. He could see on the deck of the Serapis the tall figure of Captain Pearson, and, although men were falling at every moment around him, he seemed to possess a charmed life. Besides small arms, the Americans in the Bon Homme Richard’s tops had hand grenades, which they threw on the Serapis’s decks with unerring aim. But, although the decks were swept, the frigate’s batteries were uninjured, her hull was sound, and she worked beautifully in the light breeze that blew fitfully. Meaning, therefore, to rake the Bon Homme Richard, she worked slowly past, keeping her luff, intending to fall broadside off and cross the Bon Homme Richard’s forefoot. But there was not sea room enough, and the Serapis, answering her helm perfectly, came up to the wind again, to keep from fouling her adversary. This movement brought the ships in line, and, the Serapis losing headway, the Bon Homme Richard’s jib boom touched her; so the two ships lay for a minute in this singular position, where neither could fire a gun.

It was then about eight o’clock. The moon, which was rising, passed into a cloud, and a dense mass of sulphurous smoke enveloped both ships. Not a gun was fired for several minutes, and a strange and awful silence suddenly followed the frightful uproar of battle.

In the midst of the darkness and silence a voice shouted from the stern of the Serapis:

To this Paul Jones made that answer which will always mark him as the bravest of the brave. With his ship aleak and afire in a dozen places, his guns silenced, his decks swept by uninjured batteries, his hull riddled, and a hundred mutinous prisoners ready to spring from below upon him, he called out in a dauntless voice:

A tremendous cheer burst from the Americans at this, and the Serapis perceived that she must destroy her enemy before she could conquer him. She therefore managed to swing clear of the Bon Homme Richard, determined to get in a raking position, either across the bow or the stern of the ship. Laying her foresail and fore-topsail aback, and keeping her helm down while she shivered her after sails, she attempted to wear short around on her heel. Seeing the Serapis coming down on him, the Bon Homme Richard drew ahead to lay athwart her. But in the darkness neither captain could see very well what he was doing, and both ships came foul, the jib boom of the Serapis passing in over the Bon Homme Richard’s poop and becoming entangled in the mizzen rigging.

As soon as Paul Jones saw the Serapis’s spar passing over the poop, he called to the acting sailing master:

But as the jib boom of the Serapis touched the mizzen rigging of the Bon Homme Richard, Paul Jones himself, without waiting for the hawser, seizing the ropes that hung to the bowsprit, with his own hand lashed the two ships together. In another moment Stacy came running up with a hawser. In the midst of the uproar, the smoke, the flame, and the confusion, Stacy bungled with his work, and an oath burst from his lips.

“Don’t swear, Mr. Stacy,” said Paul Jones. “In another moment we may all be in eternity, and this is no time for blaspheming our Maker.”[4]

Stacy glanced at the great man, who could remember such things at such a moment. The commodore’s face was pale, and a thin stream of blood trickled down the side of his head.

The ships were now made firmly fast, but in the smoke and darkness it was not perceived on board the Serapis. Captain Pearson gave orders to drop an anchor under his bow, thinking his bold adversary would drift away.

The tide was strong, and both wind and tide were in the same direction, so that the ships drifted rapidly together. Their spars, spare anchors, and every possible object became interlocked, and soon the ships were fast in a mortal embrace. As the Serapis swung round, with her stern to the bows of the Bon Homme Richard, her portlids were lowered to prevent the Americans from boarding her through her ports. The guns were then fired behind the closed portlids, blowing everything before them. The British gunners would then have to lean forward into the shattered sides of the Bon Homme Richard to pass the rammers in the muzzles of their own guns. The ships caught fire repeatedly from each other, and so terrible was the smoke and flame upon the lower decks of the Bon Homme Richard that the men were forced above. They assembled on the foks’l, where they did good service with muskets and hand grenades.

The Serapis now appeared to have the Bon Homme Richard at her mercy. She had completely cleared everything out on the gun deck, and the fire was rapidly gaining on the ship in spite of Dale’s heroic efforts. On the spar deck Paul Jones still worked the two or three nine-pounders, but they were nothing against the tremendous metal of the British ship.

But the forcing of the American gunners to the upper deck enabled them to make it as hot for the British above as the British made it hot for them below. An awful fusillade was kept up on the spar deck of the Serapis, and so terrible was it on the quarter-deck that the brave Pearson, although remaining himself and giving his orders coolly, ordered all the men below. So effectually were the lower-deck batteries of the Serapis worked that the Bon Homme Richard was cut entirely to pieces between decks, especially from the mainmast to the stern. The rudder and stern frame were cut completely off, and soon the shot began to pass clear through the ship without finding anything to strike.

The moon was now bright, and the wind having caused the smoke to drift, Paul Jones perceived the Alliance approaching to windward. He turned to Dale, who had come on deck. “Thank God,” he said, “the battle is now over! Yonder is the Alliance.”

The Alliance came on under a fair wind, but, to the consternation of every one on the Bon Homme Richard, on passing close to leeward she deliberately fired a broadside into the stern. Immediately every voice on the commodore’s ship was raised:

The Alliance, though, as she sailed by, fired into the side and the head of the ship as well as the stern. In vain were three lanterns shown—the signal of reconnoissance; the Alliance paid no attention to the signal, and her fire dismounted one or two guns, killed and wounded several men, and cut the ship up aloft a good deal. One of the men on the Bon Homme Richard yelled:

“The crew has mutinied, and they are taking the ship to the British!” This induced several of the faint-hearted to leave their quarters.

Not so Danny Dixon; although but a powder boy of fourteen, he was as cool as any old hand on board. Paul Jones himself, still bent on carrying the mainmast of the Serapis, was directing the fire of the little nine-pounder.

The gunner asked for a wad, but none was at hand. Danny Dixon, quietly stripping off his shirt, handed it to the gunner, saying:

The Bon Homme Richard was getting lower and lower in the water, and at the same time only the most tremendous exertions kept the fire from reaching the upper decks. Suddenly the carpenter, the master at arms and a master gunner came rushing up from below. They had been down in the hold where the prisoners were, and working the pumps to keep the water down, which poured in from shot holes below the water line. One of the pumps had been shot away, and that had demoralized these three men. Lieutenant Dale was on deck, and as the carpenter rushed up, shouting to the commodore, “She’s a-sinkin’, sir, and we can’t do no more at the pumps!” Dale caught the man by the throat.

“You abandoned coward, come below with me instantly! The ship shall not sink!”

“Put the prisoners to the pumps. They are doubtless so terror-stricken that they are at their wits’ end, and a determined man like you, Dale, can manage the whole hundred of them”—for there were not less than a hundred in the hold.

Dale was the very man to carry out this audacious order. He instantly ran below, and, just as Paul Jones had foreseen, the bold promptness of one determined officer, armed and resolute, cowed them all. They went to work at the pumps, when, if they had retained their senses, they might have stepped on board the Serapis.

In a minute or two more Dale was again on deck, and, going up to the commodore, said calmly but in a loud voice, so that the men around could hear him:

“She’s not sinking, sir. I have put that coward of a carpenter to work with an honest man to watch him, and everything will shortly be right.”

This very much reassured the men, who had no idea of the terrible destruction below.

Within a few minutes Danny Dixon came up to the young lieutenant with a solemn face.

“Mr. Dale, please, sir,” he said, “I can’t git no more powder. The gangway to the powder room is all chock-a-block, and the sentinels won’t let me pass. I ain’t afeerd o’ the fire, though its blazin’ pretty close to the magazine. I ain’t afeerd o’ that, sir, but I can’t—”

Before Danny had finished speaking Dale saw a dozen strange faces crowding up the companion way. In an instant the truth flashed upon him—some of the prisoners had escaped from the hold. Drawing his pistol, he marched them immediately back, where again they went to work at the pumps.

Meanwhile numbers of the men were called from their quarters to put out the fire in the magazine. Upon going to it, with Danny Dixon following at his heels, Dale found that the reason the sentinels would not let any one pass to the magazine was on account of the number of strange faces, which they, too, knew to be the prisoners, crowding around, and who might have easily captured the magazine. But Dale, animated by the spirit of his commander, with two or three resolute men like himself kept down both the fire and the water in the hold. As a matter of fact, the Bon Homme Richard was on fire continuously almost from the very beginning of the engagement.

Battle of the Bonhomme Richard and the Serapis.
The bold headland of Flamborough is seen on the right. The force of the explosion on the Serapis’s deck blew the British flag against the wind.

The mainmast of the Serapis was still being pounded by the three small guns on the Bon Homme Richard’s deck, which were worked under the eye of Paul Jones. Sometimes he himself took a part in the handling and pointing of the guns, and his indomitable coolness seemed communicated to the men. The spar deck of the Serapis was still pretty effectually cleared, but she was unbeaten below. The gun captain, though, who had come up from below when the great guns burst, now filled a bucket with hand grenades and climbed into the maintop. The main yard of the Bon Homme Richard lay directly over the main hatch of the Serapis. He then lay out on the main yard, until he got to the sheet block, where he fastened his bucket. Then, with perfect deliberation and unerring aim, he began to throw his grenades at the open hatchway. Every one went straight, and every one exploded. Paul Jones, who was on the poop, called out to him:

“If you could get one down on the gun deck, where there is no doubt some loose powder about—”

“That’s what I’m arter, sir,” responded the sailor coolly, and within two minutes one had rolled down the hatchway and had dropped upon a row of cartridges. An instant and terrific explosion followed. It seemed as if the whole interior of the ship had been blown out. Every gun was silenced, and an awful stillness prevailed for a moment or two. Just then the gunner, who had been below, ran up on the Bon Homme Richard’s deck, and, terrified out of his life, cried, “I don’t see the commodore!” and running, aft, he intended to strike the colors. The ensign had been shot away, however, and was dragging in the water; the man therefore yelled for “Quarter! quarter!”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when he saw a figure at his side, and felt a stunning blow from a pistol’s butt.

“Do you see the commodore now?” cried Paul Jones; “and let me not hear any man on this ship beg, like a cur, for quarter!”

The cry for quarter had been heard on the Serapis, and Captain Pearson called out in the half darkness:

“No, by heaven!” shouted Paul Jones. “We will give quarter, but we never ask it.”

About this time one of the prisoners stepped through the side of the Bon Homme Richard into the Serapis, and reported the desperate condition of the American ship. Immediately the bugler on the Serapis sounded the call for boarders, and a number of them, armed with pikes and cutlasses, appeared at the bulwarks. But Paul Jones, seizing a boarding pike, stood in the gangway to receive them. It never occurred to the boarders that there was not a large body to repel them, besides the sailors on deck, and they retired. But it is a fact that no man touched a pike except Paul Jones.

It was now about half past ten o’clock. The pallid moon showed the whole dreadful scene. The Pallas, which had very gallantly made the Countess of Scarborough haul down her colors, had her hands full transferring the prisoners from the British ship. As the Alliance, which had been sailing around the combatants and had fired another broadside into the Bon Homme Richard, passed the Pallas, Captain Cottineau begged Landais to go to the assistance of the gallant Bon Homme Richard.

Captain Landais did indeed approach the Bon Homme Richard, but it was only to fire one last broadside, that did as much harm to the American as to the British ship. After that he hauled off and did no more damage.

Then the mainmast of the Serapis began to totter, and it was seen that it must soon go by the board. The small nine-pounders, worked under Paul Jones’s own eye, the shower of skillfully thrown hand grenades, and the sharpshooters in the Bon Homme Richard’s tops, made the deck of the Serapis so hot that scarcely a man dared show himself. On the quarter-deck especially was this so; and the brave Pearson, while keeping his place coolly, ordered the men forward, and remained the only man upon the quarter-deck of his ship.

The Bon Homme Richard now managed to bring one or two more guns to bear, although her hull was almost destroyed by the Serapis. Both ships were in a desperate case, but Paul Jones was no nearer surrender than he was at the beginning of the fight. Pearson, though, realized that he was in the last extremity, and then, and then only, with his own hand he managed to lower the flag he had caused to be nailed to the mast. His action was visible by the light of the full moon, and the lanterns that made blazing points of flame all over the two warrior ships in spite of the drifting clouds of black smoke.

“Here, sir!” cried Dale, coming up. The young lieutenant’s face was blackened with powder, his epaulet was gone, and he was deathly pale with suppressed excitement.

“Go immediately on board that ship with such men as you may need, and bring off her captain and her ensign,” said Paul Jones.

There was no occasion for a bridge between the two fast-locked and burning ships. Dale ran to the gangway, and with one bound landed on the bloody deck of the Serapis.

Although the fire of the Bon Homme Richard had ceased, those upon the lower decks of the Serapis did not know that the colors had been struck, and they kept up their cannonade through the riddled hull of the Bon Homme Richard. The smoke still drifted in a sulphurous mass, but Dale at once distinguished Captain Pearson’s tall figure, as he stood calmly, with folded arms, on the quarter-deck. Going up to him, Dale removed his cap and said respectfully:

Scarcely were the words out of Dale’s mouth when the first lieutenant of the Serapis came up from below. Advancing eagerly, he said to his captain:

Captain Pearson uttered no word, but looked into the lieutenant’s eyes with an expression of agony.

For answer, the brave Pearson covered his face with his hands. The lieutenant, turning on his heel, said:

“If you will permit me to go below, I will silence the firing on the lower deck,” said the lieutenant.

By that time the Bon Homme Richard’s men had swarmed over the side, and some of the British sailors and officers, running up from below and not knowing that the ship had struck, dashed upon the Americans, and several blows were exchanged. The officers, though, on both sides quelled the mêlée and the British sailors then quietly submitted. But another row, worse than the first, was likely to be precipitated by Danny Dixon. He marched up to one of the Serapis’s cabin boys, who was about twice as big as himself, and who was armed with the cabin broom as the most available weapon he could find at short notice. Getting close up, Danny bawled at him:

The Serapis boy looked with undisguised contempt at Danny, and for answer said sulkily:

“Go along with you. I ain’t none o’ your prisoner. I’m took by that pirate Paul Jones, I am.”

Before the words were well out of his mouth Danny hauled off and hit the boy a resounding slap in the face. The boy promptly responded by knocking Danny down with his broom.

Just then Bill Green, who had been relieved for a few moments from the wheel, appeared at Danny’s side, and, collaring him with one hand as Danny scrambled up, while with the other he seized the cabin boy’s neckerchief, Bill gave them both a powerful shaking.

“If you two chaps don’t behave yourselves,” he shouted, “I’ll report you both, and I’ll give you a private wallopin’ o’ my own besides. That’s the wust o’ boys—they never knows how to behave theirselves. D’ye see Cap’n Paul Jones and the British cap’n a-maulin’ and a-poundin’ each other? And don’t you know prisoners ought to be treated kind? That’s why the officers sets a example to the men and to the wuthless, triflin’, good-for-nothin’ boys!”

“B—but, Mr. Green,” said Danny, struggling to get his breath in Bill’s brawny grasp, “he said as the commodore were a pirate, and that’s for why I hit him.”

“He did, did he?” snorted Bill, highly incensed, and letting Danny go, while he devoted both hands to the unlucky cabin boy. “Then I wish you’d ’a’ hit him twice as hard; and if it warn’t for them officers over yonder,” he yelled to the Serapis boy, “I’d give you sech a keel haulin’ as nobody but a Dutchman never had afore. You say Cap’n Paul Jones is a pirate, do yer?” Here he lifted the boy completely off his feet, while a well-directed kick emphasized his remarks. “Now, you take that back, or by the almighty Joshua, I’ll heave you overboard!”

“You oughter git some smart money for that ’ere lick he give you, and I’m goin’ to see as the commodore knows about it.”

“But, Mr. Green,” said Danny, slyly, “you said as we was to imitate the cap’ns, and not be maulin’ and poundin’ each other—”

“I didn’t say no sech a thing,” answered Bill, angrily; “I said, as if anybody was to say Cap’n Paul Jones were a pirate you was to knock his eyes down into his shoes, and not to leave a whole bone in his skin. That’s what I said, boy, and you misunderstood me.”

Dale now accompanied the British captain politely to the gangway, where not even a plank was necessary to step on board the Bon Homme Richard. As the young lieutenant glanced up and saw Paul Jones waiting to receive his distinguished prisoners, he saw a red stream had trickled down the side of the commodore’s head, and one of his epaulets was soaked with blood.

“It is but a trifle,” quickly replied Paul Jones. Captain Pearson at that moment stepped upon the Bon Homme Richard’s deck. He silently unbuckled his sword and handed it to Paul Jones, who received it with one hand, and immediately returned it with the other, saying:

The other British officers and men were then passed rapidly aboard the Bon Homme Richard. The Americans, as if they had only then realized the magnitude of their victory, suddenly stopped work at the pumps, at fighting the fire, and at the usual preparations for taking possession of a ship, and, as one man, they gave three thundering cheers. Paul Jones, taking off his cap, listened to this heroic music with ineffable thoughts crowding upon his mind. The moon was now at the full, and blazed upon the dark bosom of the water with solemn grandeur. Afar off rose the white cliffs off England, while nearer, but still far, were the black hulls and shadowy spars of the Alliance, the gallant Pallas, and the conquered Countess of Scarborough. The air was yet full of the smell of burned powder and smoldering wood. Across the still and blue-black sea they could see the lights of Flamborough Head and Scarborough Castle like star points in the sky.

Paul Jones was roused from the strange mood of triumph, and of sadness too, by a frightful crash which resounded through both ships.

The tottering mainmast of the Serapis gave one mighty lurch, and then fell over the side, striking with a sound like thunder. A deep and terrible silence followed for a moment, and even the exultant cheering of the Americans, which had not quite ceased, was stilled. There was something overwhelming in the sight of the brave and lovely Serapis, that only a few hours before had sailed proudly and defiantly in her beauty and freedom, now beaten, dismasted, and her colors struck. But this one short moment of solemnity was followed by another burst of cheers, and all the fierce commotion of a victorious ship.

CHAPTER XI.

The first thing to be done on board the Bon Homme Richard was to attempt to check the fire. The ceilings had caught, and were burning slowly but determinedly. The fire having got within a few inches of the powder magazine, Paul Jones ordered all the powder brought up on deck. There were more than a hundred prisoners on the Bon Homme Richard before the fight, and the men taken from the Serapis brought the number up to over five hundred. Those who were not disabled were put to work at the pumps, where they toiled with the desperate energy of men struggling for their lives. Paul Jones himself escorted Captain Pearson to the cabin, saying:

“I beg that you will make yourself as comfortable as circumstances will admit. You will have the consolation of knowing that no man ever made a better defense of his ship.”

“Your conduct is most generous—” and hesitated, as if to express surprise at such good treatment.

“You will find, I hope, that all American officers are generous in victory; and should we have the misfortune to be forced to haul down our colors, I trust that we would show the fortitude of the brave who are unfortunate,” said Paul Jones, with dignity—and, with a low bow, he retired from the cabin, leaving Captain Pearson alone.

As soon as the commodore returned to the deck he ordered the lashings to be cut, as the ships continued to catch fire from each other, and there was great danger to the powder on both.

“And both ships must be saved, my lads!” cried he to the men, who were working like Trojans to save the Serapis from the flames.

As soon as they were free, the Bon Homme Richard drifted rapidly off. The Serapis was hailed and ordered to follow.

On board the Serapis Dale was in command. Exhausted by his five hours of work and fighting, he sat down on a dismounted gun near the binnacle. The reaction had come. A profound sadness seized him, and he could almost have wept when he saw the destruction around him. But nothing made him forget his duty for a moment. As soon as the ships parted he ordered the wreck of the mainmast to be cleared away, the headyards braced aback, and the helm put hard down. This was promptly done, but still the ship did not pay off. Imagining that her steering gear was cut to pieces, he ordered it examined, but, to his surprise, found it uninjured. Puzzled by so strange a state of things, Dale jumped from his seat, only to fall his length upon the deck. Bill Green ran to him and helped him up; but Dale could not stand upon his feet.

“And natural you can’t, sir, seein’ as your ankle is wounded,” said Bill.

“Is it?” answered Dale, faintly. “I did not know until this moment I was hurt.”

Just then the pilot boat containing Lieutenant Lunt and sixteen men hailed the ship alongside.

“For Heaven’s sake, Lunt, come aboard!” cried Dale; “your services are needed here.”

As Lunt came over the side the sailing master of the Serapis appeared, and, going up to Dale, said:

“Sir, the ship can’t pay off, because she has an anchor under foot.” This was the anchor dropped by Captain Pearson when the ships first fouled. The cable was cut, and the ship instantly answered the helm. She was much cut up aloft, but her hull was sound, and she had no water in her. Preparations were at once made to repair her. A jury mast was rigged in place of the mainmast, and new sails were bent instead of those that had been torn to pieces by hand grenades exploded in her rigging.

The night was now far spent. The moon, that had shone so brilliantly during the fury of the battle, now hung low in the misty night sky that glimmered with a pale and waning light. A white fog was creeping slowly in from the Atlantic, and a fitful wind ruffled the black and phosphorescent water.

The first thing to be attended to, while the carpenters were at work upon the crippled Serapis and the almost wrecked Bon Homme Richard, was the care of the wounded and the burial of the dead. As there was great doubt whether the Bon Homme Richard could be kept afloat until daylight, no wounded were removed from the Serapis, where the British surgeons attended to them. Her dead also were buried from her deck, one of the British lieutenants reading the service of the Established Church, in an agitated voice. On board the Bon Homme Richard, Paul Jones, as he always did, read the Psalms for the dead over the brave men who had fallen around him. Everything was done quickly, but with proper reverence, for, no matter how much encompassed by danger Paul Jones was, he never forgot to give fitting burial to the departed brave. Like all men of feeling heart and deep imagination, Paul Jones, after the inspiration of battle and the glory of victory, always felt a keen distress at the ruin and desolation it wrought. The sight of the gallant men cold in death, that lay in rows upon the reeking deck of the Bon Homme Richard, covered by the flag whose honor they had so gloriously maintained, wrung his heart and filled his eyes with tears. And this man, who had dared death from battle, fire, and water rather than strike his flag, faltered and almost wept as he read the solemn words of the Psalmist before the dead were laid at rest in the ocean.

As each body fell swiftly and silently overboard a heavy blow seemed struck upon the heart of Paul Jones. The officers and men crowded the deck, standing with uncovered heads, while a little way off the Serapis loomed up in the fast rising mist, and from her side a frequent dull splash showed that the same solemn ceremony was taking place upon her decks.

At last it was over. The men with a sudden alacrity folded up the flags, quickly carried the grewsome planks and canvas below, and the boatswain’s pipe sounded cheerily calling the men to work.

The reaction from the burial of the dead at such a time is always great, and the officers and men vie in their quick rebound to cheerfulness. Paul Jones felt this instant and magnetic change. Ten minutes from the time that the last sad ceremonies were over he walked the deck with his usual graceful and alert step, ordering, overlooking, and encouraging everybody.

Meanwhile a boat had pulled off from the Serapis, and when Paul Jones, who had gone below for a moment to see how the carpenters were getting on, came upon deck, Dale was being helped over the side. Paul Jones went immediately up to him. Dale leaned heavily upon a sailor, and Paul Jones at once saw that his favorite lieutenant was lame.

“My lieutenant, you are wounded!” he cried; and Dale, at hearing the very words he had addressed to the commodore, smiled faintly.

“Yes, sir,” he answered; “I did not know it until a little while ago. I don’t know when I was hurt, or how, but I was forced to give up the command to Mr. Lunt and return to you. But how is your wound?”

“It is nothing—nothing!” cried Paul Jones, but really, although his wound in the head was not dangerous, he had lost much blood, and only his indomitable will kept him upon his feet.

Wretched indeed was the plight of the brave Bon Homme Richard. Immortalized she was, but she had given her life for her victory. So desperate was her condition between decks that many of the sailors, regarding her as a floating coffin, sprang overboard and swam to the still stanch Serapis, and to the Alliance, that now appeared off the weather quarter of the gallant ship she had so treacherously deserted.

It was now nearly daylight, but the fog enveloped everything, and the eye could scarcely penetrate a hundred yards. A wind still blew fitfully, driving the fog hither and thither, but as fast as it was drifted landward another great fog bank would come rolling sullenly in from the open Atlantic. It deadened the sounds of the saw and the hammer and the constant creaking of the pumps as the men toiled at them. Once it almost lifted. It was just at sunrise, and a great golden lance seemed to penetrate it straight from heaven. Like magic, the white mist parted, the sky, the sea, and the air were suddenly flooded with a rose-pink glow, and the fair and lovely light shone full upon the lithe figure of Paul Jones as he stood on the poop with his face turned to the east. His arms were folded, and his inscrutable dark eyes, full of a strange rapture, were uplifted to the sky. Glory was the breath of his life, and here was glory enough for a lifetime, as he saw his own shattered ship, and the Serapis conquered but still majestic.

For five minutes he stood motionless. He was recalling the same hour the day before, and now his proudest wish was fulfilled. Alone and single-handed he had beaten an enemy at least twice as strong as himself. He had made the name of the American navy respected from thenceforward, and his far-seeing mind realized the mighty effect of his victory. After a while he roused himself from his reverie, which was a sort of exaltation, and swept the horizon with his glass. Not a sail was in sight where twenty-four hours before they had whitened the seas around him. The very name of Paul Jones had frightened them into harbor.

But soon the fog descended again, and Paul Jones devoted himself to one intense and long-continued effort to save the smoldering, leaking, but glorious Bon Homme Richard. It was his ardent wish to save his ship, the eloquent witness of his prowess, and to that work he turned with almost superhuman energy. The dim morning wore on. The men were mostly below, fighting the leaks and the fire, and the decks were comparatively deserted, when Paul Jones, still on the poop, caught sight of Danny Dixon running aft as hard as he could clip it.

“Hold on!” cried Paul Jones. “There is work for everybody on this ship. Why are you idle?”

“I ain’t idle, sir,” answered Danny, touching his cap. “The flag as was most shot to pieces is hangin’ astern now, under water; and I thought, sir, as you wouldn’t want to lose that ’ere flag, I’d git it out o’ the water for the honor o’ the ship, sir.”

Danny disappeared astern, and presently came up dripping. But he had the torn flag, and was wringing it out as he came along.

“Here she is, sir,” said he, as Paul Jones took it; “and here’s a little rag o’ it, sir, that I hopes you’ll let me keep in my ditty box.”

He showed a scrap a few inches square that he had torn from the shattered flagstaff.

“Yes, you may,” replied Paul Jones. “That is in place of the shirt you took off and gave for a gunwad. I see you have another.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Danny, who had on a shirt about twice too big for him. “Mr. Green, he flung it to me jist now. I dunno where he got it from.”

As the hours passed on the terrible situation of the Bon Homme Richard became plainer. She was literally cut to pieces between decks, from her spar deck to the water line, and there was not planking enough in the whole squadron to patch her up. The wind also began to rise, and Paul Jones, remembering that where eleven British cruisers had been searching for him the day before, knew that probably fifty would be after him by sundown, and that he must make his way toward the Texel as quickly as possible.

About ten o’clock in the morning the fire was at last out, and Paul Jones called Captain Cottineau, with all the carpenters in the squadron, on board, to consult with them as to the possibility of carrying his ship into port, which he could scarcely bring himself to believe was impossible. Captain Landais’s opinion was not asked, nor was he suffered to come on board the Bon Homme Richard. The carpenters examined the ship thoroughly, and all of them agreed that she could not possibly be made to last more than a few hours. Such also was Captain Cottineau’s opinion. When it was communicated to Paul Jones, this man, so insensible to fear, yet felt the loss of his ship so deeply that tears dropped from his eyes; but he realized that the ship was now in a hopeless condition, and that while he might risk his own life further, he could not risk those of the brave men under him. When once his mind was made up to the cruel necessity he acted with characteristic promptness. Immediately all the boats were pressed into service transferring the wounded to the captured Serapis. There was but little worth saving on the Bon Homme Richard, and the Serapis was full of stores of all sorts. It took the whole day and the following night to place the wounded and the prisoners on the Serapis and to repair damages. Even to the last, Paul Jones could not utterly abandon the hope of saving the old ship, made forever glorious in that short September night. He left an officer on board and a gang of men, who were directed to work the pumps as long as possible. The boats were in waiting in order to take them off if the water gained on them too fast. An American ensign was hoisted, and the officer was directed to leave it flying. About nine o’clock Paul Jones, from the quarter-deck of the Serapis, saw the signal made for the boats—the Bon Homme Richard was sinking. The men were taken off, and Paul Jones watched her last moments as one watches by the deathbed of one’s best beloved. She sank lower and lower in the water after she was left, while her ensign fluttered bravely in the wandering breeze. At last, about ten o’clock, as Paul Jones watched her agonizingly through his glass, he saw her give a lurch forward. She went down head foremost, and the last thing seen of her as she settled into her ocean grave was the mizzen to’gallant mast, and the flag at the peak.

“Good-by, brave ship!” cried Paul Jones with a deep sob, as the waters closed over the ship of immortal memory.

CHAPTER XII.

The wind continued to freshen as the squadron, with its two prizes, made for the open sea. Bad weather followed, and for ten days the Serapis, with her make-shift masts, and the other ships, were tossed about the angry North Sea. At last, though, the wind proved kind, and on the morning of the 3d of October anchor was cast off the island of Texel.

The sight of a splendid British frigate with an American ensign flying proudly over the Union Jack, and a twenty-gun sloop of war in the same plight, was an inspiring sight to the few Americans and friends of the cause of independence at the Texel. News of the victory had preceded the arrival of the ships, and it was a matter of the keenest interest how Holland, a neutral power, would receive these victorious enemies of England, which literally ruled the seas. The fact is, the brave and prudent Hollanders felt deeply sympathetic with the young republic of the West in her fight against Holland’s ancient maritime enemy; but the court and the court party were absolutely under British influence, and it was not long in manifesting its animosity to the flag that Paul Jones carried.

Scarcely were the ships at anchor before news came that a British line of battle ship was waiting outside of the Texel. According to the rules of war, the American ship should have remained long enough to have what was necessary done for her in the cause of humanity. The British ambassador, Sir Joseph Yorke, was highly incensed at the American ship being accorded succor, and openly and bitterly spoke of Paul Jones as “that pirate.” But the “pirate,” when he went up to Amsterdam a few days after his arrival, received such an ovation from the enthusiastic Americans and the brave Dutchmen as any man on earth might have been proud of. Huzzas and waving handkerchiefs saluted him from the French and Americans in Amsterdam, while the Dutchmen bowed low to him. When he appeared upon the Exchange, wearing proudly his American uniform and his Scotch bonnet, edged with gold, the crowds pressed around him so that he was forced to retire into a room fronting the public square. The plaudits of the crowd becoming uproarious, he was obliged to show himself at the window and bow, after which he hastily retreated.

This reception very much affronted Sir Joseph Yorke, who, on the 9th of October, wrote to the Dutch Government demanding that the American ships “be stopped,” and declaring Paul Jones to be “a rebel and a pirate.” Other measures than writing letters were used to “stop” him. The battle ship watching off the Texel had been joined by eleven other ships of the line and frigates. Eight were stationed at the north entrance to the harbor, where they expected Paul Jones would come out, and four at the south entrance. Here, on every fine day, they might be seen cruising back and forth. Small squadrons were also on the lookout for him on the east coasts of England and Scotland, the coast of Norway, the Irish Channel, the west coast of Ireland, and in the Straits of Dover. In all, there were forty-two British ships after Paul Jones, and two of them were lost while on the watch for him.

Within the Texel he had powerful enemies in the British ambassador and the royal court. In spite of both, though, by courage and firmness he forced the Dutch authorities to grant him the asylum that the laws of civilized warfare give to ships in distress. He demanded, and was given, leave to establish a hospital under the American flag on shore for his wounded, to dispose as he pleased of his five hundred prisoners, and to have the drawbridges at the fort hauled up whenever he desired. Thus menaced as Paul Jones was with dangers outside, he had still many to encounter within the port. He had great trouble in getting the Serapis refitted, and then he was told plainly by the French ambassador that he must accept a French commission and fly the French flag if he desired to hold on to the ship which was the noble spoil of his victory; otherwise he must transfer his flag to the Alliance, a ship in every way inferior to the Serapis. Landais, it may be said in passing, had been detached from the ship and ordered to Paris to answer for his conduct. It was bitter enough to the British ambassador to see the American colors flying on an American ship—the Alliance—but it was intolerable to see it over a beautiful British frigate like the Serapis; and he had influence enough with the Dutch Government to have this intimation given the French ambassador, who was obliged to notify Paul Jones.

The Bon Homme Richard had found an ocean grave, and grievous as this blow was to Paul Jones, more grievous still was it to give up the lovely Serapis, which, as he wrote Benjamin Franklin, was the finest ship of her class he had ever seen. But he did not hesitate a moment. Never during the battle for independence would he serve under any except the American flag, or bear any but an American commission. So, with a sore heart but an unflinching determination, he gave the Serapis up to his French allies, and with Dale and his old company of the Bon Homme Richard he transferred his flag to the Alliance. But day by day his enemies grew stronger, and the Dutch yielded more and more to the angry domination of the British. Every obstacle was put in his way to prevent the refitting of his ship, while at the same time he was told that, if he did not go to sea with the first fair wind, the Dutch fleet of thirteen double-decked frigates would force him out. And that would be to force him into the very jaws of destruction, so they thought, with twelve British ships cruising in full sight.

But, menaced from within and without, the indomitable spirit of Paul Jones only maintained itself the more undauntedly. As every morning dawned the American colors were hoisted at the mizzen peak of the Alliance, and flew steadily until the sunset gun was fired—and that in the face of twenty-three Dutch and British ships, any one of which was more than a match for the Alliance.

However the officials might treat him, the sympathy of the people was with Paul Jones and his gallant companions. The Dutch naval officers paid him marked respect and attention, although they were ready, at the word of command, to fire into him. He had other consolations too. His letters from Franklin were frequent and affectionate. One of them Paul Jones handed Dale to read. It said: “For some days after the arrival of your express nothing was talked of except your cool conduct and persevering bravery during the terrible combat.” And Franklin had sternly denounced Landais, who was now held in universal contempt.

The American cause was extremely popular among the masses in Holland, and the sailors were always well treated on shore. Whenever Bill Green could get leave, he usually spent it at a clean and orderly Dutch tavern, where, surrounded by stolid Dutchmen gravely smoking their long pipes, Bill would hold forth upon the glories of the fight with the Serapis. About this time he picked up a new song, which he brought on board the Alliance, written out in a fair and clerkly hand, with innumerable flourishes.

“I s’pose,” remarked the boatswain, skeptically, “you’ll want us to believe as you wrote that out with your own flipper?”

“Well, then,” continued the boatswain, “it’s a shame for you to be nothin’ but a quartermaster. The purser hisself, he don’t write no such handwritin’ as that. But pipe up the song, though.”

Bill, to avoid awkward discussions, piped up with unusual promptness, and sang as follows:

“Heave the topmast from the board,

And our ship for action clear.

By the cannon and the sword

We will die or conquer here.

The foe, of twice our force, nears fast:

To your posts, my faithful tars!

Mind your rigging, guns, and spars,

And defend your Stripes and Stars

To the last.

“At the captain’s bold command

Flew each sailor to his gun,

And resolved he there would stand,

Though the odds were two to one,

To defend his flag and ship with his life.

High on every mast displayed,

‘God, Our Country, and Our Rights.’

E’en the bravest braver made,

For the strife.

“Fierce the storm of battle pours;

But unmoved as ocean’s rock

When the tempest round it roars,

Every seaman breasts the shock,

Boldly stepping where his brave messmates fall.

O’er his head, full oft and loud,

Like the vulture in a cloud,

As it cuts the twanging shroud,

Screams the ball.

“Before the siroc blast

From its caverns driven,

Drops the sheared and shivered mast,

By the bolt of battle riven,

And higher heaps the ruin of the deck.

As the sailor, bleeding, dies,

To his comrades lifts his eyes,

‘Let our flag still wave!’ he cries,

O’er the wreck.

“Long live the gallant crew,

Who survived that day of blood!

And may fortune soon renew

Equal battle on the flood!

Long live the glorious names of the brave!

O’er these martyrs of the deep

Oft the roving wind shall weep,

Crying ‘Sweetly may they sleep

’Neath the wave!’”

The attentions shown Paul Jones personally by the Dutch naval officers were very displeasing to the British ambassador, and by intrigue he succeeded in having Captain Rimersima, who had been very polite to the Americans, superseded in favor of Vice-Admiral Reynst, as commander of the Dutch fleet. This vice-admiral belonged to the court party, and was notoriously unfriendly to Paul Jones. On the 12th of November he sent Paul Jones a peremptory order to sail with the first fair wind. In spite of every effort, the American ship was not yet in condition to keep the sea. But, for this very reason, the vice-admiral constantly urged Paul Jones to depart, and even threatened him in case he did not. At last, on the 28th of November, a positive threat was made. The vice-admiral wrote that, unless Paul Jones went out, the Dutch fleet would drive him out. The wind at the time was contrary. Paul Jones received this message from a junior Dutch officer on the quarter-deck of the Alliance, and replied, in a loud, firm voice that not only all the men on the Alliance could hear, but all the sailors in the Dutch man-of-war’s boat:

“The vice-admiral demands impossibilities,” he said. “Can any ship get out of the road in such a wind as this?”

Then he called up an old Dutch pilot that he had kept on board for a week past—Peter Maartens.

The pilot, a stolid old Dutchman with a great beard, looked at Paul Jones very solemnly for a long time.

“Not if I keep sober,” he answered gravely; at which even the vice-admiral’s junior officer was forced to smile.

“Then I will have that statement written out, and you shall sign it,” promptly replied Paul Jones.

The paper was written and read to the pilot, who signed it in the presence of the Dutch lieutenant. For ten days they were left unmolested. Sir Joseph Yorke thought, however, that he had succeeded at last in ruining Paul Jones, for, forced to put out as soon as the wind permitted, there was a British squadron waiting for him at either entrance to the harbor. It seemed as if Paul Jones was at last destined to be caught. But Fortune favors the brave—and she had never yet deserted this daring sailor. Everything had been done with the insufficient means at hand to get the Alliance into good condition. Much of her sailing qualities had been destroyed by the crazy Landais’s method of ballasting. This was remedied, and the ship was in fairly good order. As Paul Jones wrote to Franklin: “The enemy still keeps a squadron cruising off here, but this will not prevent my attempts to depart whenever the wind will permit. I hope we have recovered the trim of the ship, which was entirely lost the last cruise; and I do not much fear the enemy in the long and dark nights of this season. The ship is well manned, and shall not be given away!”

About the middle of December the Dutch vice-admiral one day sent word to Paul Jones, desiring him to come on board the Dutch flagship. To this Paul Jones sent a polite but determined refusal. As the Dutch boat pulled off, he said, laughing, to Dale:

“Does that puppet of kings think that an American commodore will obey like a dog the orders of a Dutch admiral?”

Failing to get him on board, Vice-Admiral Reynst wrote him a peremptory note, asking if the Alliance was to be considered a French or an American vessel. If French, the captain’s commission was to be shown to the Dutch vice-admiral, the French flag and pendant displayed, and a gun fired to announce it. If American, the ship was to leave at the earliest possible moment.

CHAPTER XIII.

The officers and men were as anxious to get away from the inhospitable Texel as was Paul Jones, and the sight, day after day, of the low-lying, monotonous landscape, the frozen dikes, and the pale, wintry sky was dreary enough to them. Dale kept the wardroom in a good humor, though, and Bill Green spent much of his enforced leisure, as usual, in learning songs which he claimed to have composed.

At last, as Christmas approached, it was known on board that they were ready to sail, and that a day or two at most would find them at sea. The officers and men were all on board, and no more shore leave was granted.

The wind was already veering round to the east, and although they would have to wait for the wind, there would be no waiting for weather, for the fouler the weather the fairer the chance of running the gauntlet of the British fleet, which would then be dispersed, each ship looking out for herself. Therefore the Americans prayed for bad weather as ardently as sailors usually pray for good.

On Christmas night there was great jollification aboard. Paul Jones dined in the wardroom by invitation of the officers, and afterward announced to them:

“Gentlemen, in forty-eight hours we shall be at sea, with our best American ensign flying, and then we can take care of ourselves.”

A burst of cheering followed this. The only person present besides the officers of the ship was the celebrated Captain Cunningham, who had suffered horrors in an English prison. Paul Jones had at last succeeded in having Cunningham exchanged, and was taking him to France as a passenger.

The jollity aft was quite equaled by the fun forward, and from the foks’l sounds of cheering, laughing, shouting, and the noisy clatter of feet, as the sailors danced reels and hornpipes, was plainly audible. Danny Dixon, who waited behind Paul Jones’s chair, when asked what the noise meant, whispered artfully:

“Please, sir, Mr. Green he’s got a new song, all about ‘a Yankee ship and a Yankee crew, tally hi ho, you know.’ It’s a beautiful song.”

“Is it?” cried Paul Jones, whose spirits rose high at the prospect of once more taking his ship to sea. “Gentlemen, shall we send for Green to give us a new patriotic song he has?”

Danny therefore was sent after Bill, who was found trolling forth in his rich baritone to the admiring foks’l people, and occasionally getting up and shaking a leg to give emphasis to his music.

“Mr. Green,” said Danny, going up to him, “you must report to the cap’n immediate for a song. He knows as how you’ve got a good ’un, and the cap’n and the officers wants to hear it—that there one about a Yankee ship and a Yankee crew.”

“Sho!” said Bill with an affectation of great reluctance, “I knows as you wuthless, tale-bearin’ lubberly boy went and told the cap’n I had a new song, and I’ve a great mind to give you the cat for it.”

“Lord, Mr. Green, I ain’t done no harm,” said Danny apologetically, who understood the case perfectly, and knew there was no danger of the cat. “The cap’n knows you sing grand, and ’twarn’t my fault he axed for you.”

“Well, mates,” said Bill, rising with a delighted grin, “it’s mighty hard on me havin’ to leave you. I’d ruther not sing if I could help it, but orders is orders, you know. Howsomedever, young’un,” he remarked to Danny, “the very next time you gits me in a singin’ scrape like this, I’m a-goin’ to skin you, mind that!”

The officers were all sitting around the table with pipes, and full of talk, laughter, and jollity, when Bill Green’s handsome figure and face appeared in the wardroom door. Bill, as usual, pretended to be quite overcome with bashfulness, and twiddled his cap modestly.

“Give him a glass of punch to wet his whistle,” cried Paul Jones, and Danny Dixon officiously filled a glass from the punch bowl and handed it to him.

After gulping down the punch, Bill cleared his throat and remarked that he “had thunk out a little song and had wrote it out”—Bill forgot that the wardroom officers knew he could not write a line—“and as the men got arter him to sing it, he had tried it oncet or twicet, and he’d do his best to pipe it up reg’lar.”

He then began, his rich voice echoing musically through the low-pitched wardroom. The officers soon caught the refrain, and whenever it came they accompanied it with much clinking of glasses, and trolled out a chorus, Dale leading. This was the song:

“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,

Tally hi ho, you know,

O’er the bright blue waves like a sea bird flew;

Sing hey aloft and alow.

Her wings are spread to the fairy breeze,

The sparkling spray is thrown from her prow,

Her flag is the proudest that floats on the seas,

Her homeward way she’s steering now.

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,

Tally hi ho, you know,

O’er the bright waves like a sea bird flew;

Sing hey aloft and alow.

“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,

Tally hi ho, you know,

With hearts on board both gallant and true,

The same aloft and alow.

The blackened sky and the whistling wind

Foretell the quick approach of the gale;

A home and its joys flit o’er each mind—

Husbands! lovers! ‘On deck there!’ a sail,

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,

Tally hi ho, you know;

Distress is the word—God speed them through!

Bear a hand, aloft and alow!

“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,

Tally hi ho, you know;

The boats all clear, the wreck we now view,

‘All hands’ aloft and alow.

A ship is his throne, the sea his world,

He ne’er sheers from a shipmate distressed.

All’s well—the reefed sails again are unfurled;

O’er the swell he is cradled to rest.

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,

Tally hi ho, you know,

Storm past, drink to ‘wives and sweethearts’ too,

All hands, aloft and alow!

“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,

Tally hi ho, you know,

Freedom defends, and the land where it grew—

We’re free, aloft and alow!

Bearing down is a foe in regal pride,

Defiance floating at each masthead;

One’s a wreck, and she bears that floats alongside

The Stars and Stripes, to victory wed.

For a Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,

Tally hi ho, you know,

Ne’er strikes to a foe while the sky is blue

Or a tar’s aloft or alow.”

Roars of laughter and applause greeted this, and Bill was compelled to respond to an encore. The evening and a part of the night passed in gayety and merriment, and the sober Dutchmen were much astonished at the hilarity on the American ship. Paul Jones had had the ship dressed for Christmas, and the British at the Texel were obliged to endure the sight of an American flag flying from every masthead on the Alliance. At last, two days after Christmas, Peter Maartens, the pilot, was sent for. The weather was thick, and a tremendous gale seemed to be rising. When Paul Jones proposed to take the ship out, Peter shook his head very solemnly.

“Any pilot who takes a ship out in this weather is likely to lose his license, and I can’t risk it,” he said.

Peter had rather a weakness for the bottle, although it was said that he was as good a pilot when he was half seas over as when he was quite sober. It was Christmas time, and Peter was liable to yield to temptation. Paul Jones was therefore not surprised when, as night was falling, a few hours after, Peter Maartens’s boat hailed the ship, and he announced that he was ready to carry her out. Immediately the anchor was lifted, and within an hour the Alliance stood down the river in the teeth of a northeast gale.

It was a murky December night when, with a strong wind, the ship started on her way toward the open sea. A perfectly new American ensign had been run up for the occasion, and Sir Joseph Yorke had the mortification of knowing that the ship went boldly out to run the gauntlet of her enemies, without any disguise whatever. Dale, as first lieutenant, was on deck. Bill Green was at the wheel. Peter Maartens’s orders, although very judicious, were not very distinct, as he had been indulging in the flowing bowl, and the first thing the Alliance knew she was afoul of a Dutch merchantman. The Alliance dropped her best bower anchor, in the effort to get clear, and in the wind, the darkness, and confusion, the cable parted or was cut by the Dutchman. Peter Maartens then declared that nobody but the devil himself would put to sea in such a gale, and flatly refused to carry the ship out that night. However, he brought her to anchor so close inshore that in the morning they were forced to cut the cable themselves in order to get out, thus leaving both their bower anchor and sheet anchor in the roads of Texel; but they were out of the Dutch port, or purgatory, as Paul Jones himself expressed it, and under close-reefed topsails they were heading for the ocean in the midst of a roaring gale. But the American ensign flew as long as they were in sight of land, and until they were three marine leagues out. The Alliance hugged the shoals so close, in order to keep to windward of the blockading British squadrons, that several times they had hard work in clawing off. At last, however, they were clear.

Paul Jones, wrapped in a cloak and with a sou’wester pulled down over his eyes, called to him Lieutenant Dale, who had the deck.

“Dale,” he said, carelessly, “what passage, think you, shall we take to France?”

“The northward, I presume, sir,” replied Dale, astonished at the question from his commander.

“And do the officers and crew expect we shall go north, and away from the British Isles?”

“Then,” said Paul Jones, laying his hand on Dale’s shoulder, “you may depend upon it, if all my officers and men expect me to avoid the English Channel, every British captain that is hunting for me likewise will look for me to the northward. But I will sail through their channel, under the very noses of their fleet at Spithead.”

“Sir,” said Dale, who was a very matter-of-fact young man, “surely nobody will think of hunting for you in the lion’s mouth.”

“You will go with me willingly into the lion’s mouth?” he said; to which Dale replied coolly:

In spite of the bad weather the ship made a good run, and the next day, it being perfectly clear, they passed boldly through the Straits of Dover, and were in full sight of the whole magnificent British fleet in the Downs. They then made the Isle of Wight, which they passed, and for more than an hour they were within a very short distance of the fleet assembled at Spithead. The forest of masts, the huge dark hulls of the ships, the fluttering ensigns, made a lovely picture in the bright air of December. What would not one of those brave British captains have given to know that Paul Jones, the invincible, was sailing under their very lee!

Paul Jones resorted to his usual ruse. The ports of the Alliance were closed, her guns covered with spare sails and tarpaulins, she flew the British ensign, her crew were kept below, and she presented the appearance of a smart British merchant ship, or possibly a letter of marque.

Two days was Paul Jones in the British Channel, much of the time in sight of the chalk cliffs of England, and scarcely an hour of the night or day that he was not in view of the British cruisers, which, as Dale justly said, did not think it worth while to look for him in the lion’s mouth. He kept well to windward, though, for this man, so daring in his undertakings, yet carried the details out with the most consummate prudence.

After getting clear of the channel, and in easy reach of the French harbors, he cruised about off Cape Finistère for some days. A furious January gale coming up in the Bay of Biscay, and having but one anchor left, Paul Jones put into the port of Corunna, in Spain. The fame of his exploits had preceded him, and he and his officers received the utmost attention, especially from some Spanish naval officers there. Paul Jones greatly admired the Spanish ships, which were sheathed with copper, and expensively fitted; but, like Nelson, he had no great faith in the ability of the Spaniards to take care of their fine ships.

On this cruise the Alliance seems to have been indeed a stormy petrel, and encountered much bad weather, so that it was the 10th of February before anchor was cast in the roads of Groix, before L’Orient.

Shouting multitudes received him. Letters of enthusiastic praise from Franklin and Lafayette and many distinguished Americans and Frenchmen awaited him, and he was hailed as the hope of the infant navy of his country.

CHAPTER XIV.

The wound in the head which Paul Jones had received, and which he had made light of, turned out to be more serious than he would at first acknowledge. He had had one or two other hurts, of which he had said nothing, and his labors and the mental strain to which he had been subjected seriously affected his health and particularly his eyes. The multitudes that lined the quays and streets of L’Orient to greet him when he came ashore for the first time, were touched to see that the great sea warrior’s eyes were bound with a white handkerchief, and he leaned upon the arm of his faithful Dale. Danny Dixon trotted close behind, and during the days of Paul Jones’s illness and partial blindness the boy became eyes and hands to him. Paul Jones took a lodging on shore, leaving the ship in Dale’s command, as she lay in the roads. Every day he walked out for exercise, Danny following sedately behind him and gazing at him with a peculiar expression of reverence that often made Paul Jones smile. But the intensity of the boy’s affection was sweet to him. He spent the early spring months at L’Orient very quietly, trying to regain his health. He had the society of his faithful young lieutenant, and whenever he appeared in public he was greeted with the utmost enthusiasm. Repeated messages were sent him from the French court to visit Paris; but not until he felt it necessary, in order to secure his gallant crew their prize money, did he determine to go. Dale was to be left in command of the Alliance; Danny Dixon was to go to wait on the captain, and was overwhelmed with delight at the idea of seeing the world under such distinguished auspices.

When Paul Jones went on board the Alliance to say farewell before leaving for Paris, he received the applause dearest to him—that of his officers and crew. The men were piped aft, and, standing surrounded by his officers, he made them a short speech. He was still pale, and the wound in his head was not fully healed.

“I go to Paris, my men,” said Paul Jones, “chiefly to secure the prize money that you have so gloriously earned. I shall not rest until I have got it for you. I leave in command my trusty Mr. Dale. Behave to him as you would to me. You have seen his gallantry in action, and you will now see his justice and probity in calmer times. I thank you all”—here Paul Jones’s voice broke, and it was a moment or two before he could proceed. “I thank you all, officers and men, for the courage that enabled us to capture the Serapis. The victory was as much yours as mine, and you have the word of Paul Jones that your just reward shall be secured. I shall return shortly, and, till then, farewell!”

The sailors gave Paul Jones not only three cheers, but three times three, and the officers joined in the cheering with a will. Dale had been appointed to reply for the officers, and he stood with moist and glowing eyes as he spoke:

“All that we have acquired of glory is through you. Can we ever forget that you commanded our ship in the unequal battle, fought the guns in person, lashed the ships together with your own hand, took up a pike like the humblest man on board to repel the enemy when they would have boarded us, and succeeded against water, fire, treachery, and valor? As long as ships traverse the ocean will your name be known; and as long as life lasts will we esteem it the highest honor that we can claim, to say, ‘We fought with Paul Jones on the Bon Homme Richard!’”

Another round of cheers followed this, when Bill Green was put forth as the spokesman for the men.

“’Tis said, sir,” began Bill, hitching up his trousers before starting in on his oratorical effort, “that there’s two things no sailor-man can do—one is, to make a speech, and t’other is, to ride a horse. ’Tain’t reasonable as a sailor could ride a horse, sir, ’cause horses is ornnateral beasts, that is always yawin’ about from side to side, no matter how straight you lay your course, nor what quarter the wind is from. But we don’t need to make no speech about our commodore. That ’ere British ensign we has got speaks loud enough; them two British ships you took agin the awfullest odds we ever see—they speaks; that gallant ship o’ ourn, the Bunnum Richard, that went to the bottom—that ship speaks; that ’ere cut acrost your forehead, sir—that speaks; and, as for we in the foks’l, give us the name o’ Paul Jones for our cap’n and we kin wallop anything afloat. The cap’n on the S’rapis, he nailed his flag to the mast and then he had to haul it down. But we don’t need for to nail our flag to the mast, sir, because we all knows that the man who touches that ’ere flag is a dead man, if Commodore Paul Jones is commandin’. And so we says, commodore, health and long life to you! and, as Mr. Dale has said, the proudest thing we kin ever say is, ‘We fought under Paul Jones on the Bunnum Richard, sir!’”

Another tremendous round of cheers followed this. Paul Jones, with his eyes full of tears, shook hands silently with each of his officers, and then, with a profound bow to the men assembled, he stepped to the side. In an instant, as if by magic, every sailor sprang aloft, and in less time than it takes to tell it the yards were manned. Two fine French frigates that lay close by the Alliance also manned their yards, and thundered out a salute of thirteen guns to the commodore’s broad pennant, which was about to be hauled down. The Alliance responded with thirteen guns; and so, amid the applause and cheers of his men, the thunders of artillery, and all the honors that could be heaped upon him, Paul Jones left his ship.

CHAPTER XV.

It was his intention to get to Paris as quietly as possible, and for that reason he wore plain citizen’s clothes, and wrapped himself in a large cloak; but Danny Dixon, swelling with the importance of the charge of his commander’s portmanteau, had no notion of letting the great man pass unknown through the world. Danny sat in the rumble along with a very smart and dapper little valet, who was accompanying his master, a French officer, to Paris. As Danny was not by any means as elegant as the Frenchman, he was subject to much contempt, all of which he bore with stoical good humor.

The May morning was fresh and beautiful, and as they dashed along the broad and level road they saw green fields on each side of them, and comfortable homesteads in sight, while occasionally a noble chateau reared its towers in proud seclusion, half hidden by great trees. The trees were just budding, and when the diligence rolled occasionally over the moss-grown stone bridges the streams beneath ran over their pebbly beds with the laughing fullness of the spring. The air was deliciously soft and fresh, and as Paul Jones sat on the box seat, inhaling the beauty and glory around him, he felt a subtile joy and satisfaction in life. Presently he looked back to see how Danny was getting on. Danny, with the commodore’s portmanteau tightly clasped between his knees, was looking a picture of satisfaction.

“How do you like this?” asked Paul Jones, amused at the boy’s rapt look of enjoyment.

“Fust-rate, sir,” answered Danny, touching his cap. “This ’ere’s mightily like being on the topsail yard, sir, and I think she rolls and pitches a good deal. But maybe that’s because she ain’t ballasted right—all the dunnage is aft, sir—”

“Sacre bleu!” said the dandy valet, who was dressed quite as well as his master, and who spoke what he thought was English; “you talk ze rubbish. Your master, he is vidout doubt, a man of seafaring, who goes to home with a hundred louis d’or in his plocket—poket—pocket—for a jollitime.”

“He is, is he?” answered Danny wrathfully. “I’ll have you to understand, sir, that I serves Commodore Paul Jones, o’ the Bunnum Richard, what took the S’rapis, and the Britishers has sent out forty-two ships o’ the line and frigates for to ketch him, and they’d ruther have him nor the whole durned French navy, with all your wuthless admirals throwed in.”

“You are von saucy boy,” responded the Frenchman angrily; “and as for your Paul Jones, vy, I nevair heard of ze gentilhomme before!”

“Well,” replied Danny, very coolly, “I’ll give you something for to remember the fust time you ever heerd of him!” and, without a moment’s warning, he suddenly caught the little Frenchman by the ankle and by the collar, and, jerking him off the seat, held him suspended over the back of the rumble, about five feet from the ground, while the horses galloped along, the postilions cracked their whips, and the white road sped beneath them.

As soon as the Frenchman could get his breath he bellowed loudly, but he was afraid to struggle lest Danny should drop him, and he little knew the strength in those young sinews and strong boyish arms.

“You ain’t never heerd o’ Commodore Paul Jones,” bawled Danny, “and you never heerd on the Bunnum Richard nor the S’rapis nuther, but I reckon you’ll remember all about ’em next time you hear on’ em!” Danny emphasized these remarks by giving the little Frenchman several tremendous shakes, which terrified him more than ever.

The commotion was not heard for a moment or two, on account of the rattling of the diligence and the rate at which they were traveling, but as soon as the affair was noticed cries resounded from the passengers, both to Danny and to the postilions to check the horses. Just as Paul Jones turned around and caught sight of Danny the diligence came to a halt, and, with a final shake, Danny dropped the Frenchman in the road.

Quite forgetting himself in the surprise and shock of the occasion, Paul Jones cried out angrily: “What are you doing, sir? Have you lost your mind?”

“No, sir,” replied Danny, touching his cap again, “but that ’ere frog-eating landlubber, he had the imperence for to tell me that he ain’t never heerd o’ you, sir, nor of the way you took the Drake and the S’rapis, nor the forty-two British cap’ns as was on the lookout for you, sir; so I jest handed him over the side, sir, meanin’ to hold him there by the slack o’ his trousers till he axed for quarter, sir.”

Meanwhile, the Frenchman, sputtering and swearing, had got up from the ground and was brushing the dust off his elegant attire. The French officer, his master, at first disposed to be angry, could not help laughing at Danny’s explanation and the tone in which it was given. He explained it in French, and everybody shouted with laughter, except the unfortunate lackey and Paul Jones, but even Paul Jones could not wholly refrain from smiling.

“Behave yourself better in future, sir, and remember it is I who tell you so.”

But the boy’s words had turned every eye on Paul Jones. Was this slight, dark, quiet man the redoubtable Paul Jones, the terror of the seas, the man that England put forth all her might to capture, but who was still free, still great? Paul Jones’s dark skin flushed under this close scrutiny. The French officer, raising his hat, made a profound bow, and said:

“May I ask if we have the honor of addressing the celebrated, the invincible Paul Jones?”

“Your compliments do me too much honor,” replied Paul Jones, “but I am the person you have so flatteringly described.”

All hope of privacy was now at an end. Every eye was fixed on him, and every ear was open to catch his lightest remark. This was not what Paul Jones desired, and he inwardly chafed at Danny Dixon’s indiscreet devotion that had betrayed him. But Danny was not the boy to let the fact remain in obscurity that he served Paul Jones, and he beamed with delight at the French officer’s words.

The poor valet, having brushed the dust off his clothes, now climbed back into the rumble, and the diligence proceeded upon its way. The only word that Danny condescended to address to him was when they alighted two days afterward in the streets of Paris.

“Parbleu, yes,” sighed the lackey. “I vill not forget ze gentilhomme—nevair, nevair!”

CHAPTER XVI.

Paul Jones’s first visit in Paris was to his best and firmest friend, Benjamin Franklin. In all of his anxieties, as well as his triumphs, Franklin had stood unflinchingly by him; and now, no man rejoiced more at his splendid fame than Franklin. As soon as it was known that the immortal Paul Jones was in Paris crowds flocked to see him, and his modest lodgings were overrun with people of the greatest distinction. The American cause was very popular, and the presence of two such men as Benjamin Franklin and Paul Jones was calculated to add luster to the cause they served.

Whether Paul Jones walked in the gardens of Paris or upon the boulevards, he was followed by a respectful and admiring crowd. The first night he went to the theater, as soon as he entered the word went round, “There is Paul Jones!” As he advanced and took his seat the whisper increased to a buzz, and then into an uproar, the audience rising and applauding excitedly. Paul Jones, with a blush upon his manly features, rose and returned the salutations of the crowd.

In a few days came an invitation, which was in reality a command, to visit Versailles and to meet the king, Louis XVI, and his queen, Marie Antoinette. Both of them were afterward to lay down their lives on the scaffold, but then they were in the heyday of power and magnificence. Louis earnestly desired the independence of America, and entertained the highest respect for the characters of her great men.

On a beautiful Sunday in May, Paul Jones, with Franklin, set off for Versailles in a plain coach. Danny Dixon, in a brand new sailor suit, sat on the box with the coachman and did duty for a footman. Inside sat Dr. Franklin, in the simple dress of an American citizen. His coat was plain but handsome, and he remarked to Paul Jones, smiling: “This is the coat, my friend, in which I was insulted by Lord Loughborough. I wear it whenever I appear as the representative of my country; and it is my ambition to wear it upon the day that an honorable peace is signed between America and Great Britain”—which actually came to pass.

Paul Jones wore a splendid new uniform of an American commodore, and looked every inch a great man.

All along the road to Versailles, which was crowded with magnificent equipages, with horsemen superbly mounted, and with a great and merry populace, the carriage containing the two Americans was pointed out with the utmost interest. They drove slowly down the grand avenue, and at last the palace of Versailles burst upon their sight in glittering beauty. The terraces were of velvety greenness, the fountains sparkled brilliantly in the noonday sun, and the trees were in their first fresh glory of the May.

A crowd of great people—courtiers and court ladies superbly costumed, ministers and statesmen, naval and military officers in dazzling uniforms—crowded the grand staircase; but all made way for the venerable Dr. Franklin and Paul Jones, for the word had sped from mouth to mouth who they were. Respectful greetings met them on every side, and when they entered the anteroom they were the cynosure of all eyes.

Presently the great folding doors of the audience chamber were thrown wide, and an instant hush fell upon the vast crowd of nobles and gentlemen. The king and queen, seated in armchairs on a dais, over which there was a canopy, and surrounded by members of the royal family and their suite, were seen at the end of the vast and splendid hall. By a silent motion the gentleman usher, one of the greatest nobles in France, singled out Dr. Franklin and Paul Jones. Both of them rose at once and entered the audience chamber, after which the doors slid noiselessly into their grooves until the two reappeared at the end of half an hour.

Within the hall Franklin and Paul Jones approached the king and queen with dignified composure. They were respectful but not awed, and were much more at their ease than half the great people who surrounded royalty.

On reaching the dais upon which sat Louis XVI, whose mild and frank countenance expressed the honest man and the gentleman much more than the king, Dr. Franklin bowed profoundly, and said:

“Sire, I desire to present to your Majesty Commodore Paul Jones, of the American navy.”

“And I am heartily glad to see so great a hero,” responded Louis. Then the same ceremony was gone through with the queen, whose grace and beauty were then at their zenith.

Both of them entered into conversation with the two Americans. Never were two men more congenial in general tastes and opinions than the excellent Louis and the great Franklin. Louis admired Franklin’s genius, and Franklin respected the king, who, although his youth was spent in the most corrupt court in the world, yet grew up honest, temperate, and moral. The beauty and enthusiasm of the young queen deeply impressed Paul Jones. Little did he then think that lovely head would one day fall under the axe of the guillotine!

The king’s chief attention, though, was bestowed upon Paul Jones, whom he had long desired to meet.

“I wish to thank you,” he said, “for the very noble and interesting account of your glorious cruise, that you wrote out at my request. But, after all has been said, I am yet constrained to ask you, how could you have accomplished the capture of the Serapis in the face of such enormous odds?”

“By hard fighting, sire,” responded Paul Jones, with a smile; and the king and the lovely queen both smiled at the manly simplicity of the answer. The king then said:

“I understand that the British have tried Captain Pearson by court-martial, and, considering the fact that he defended himself for five hours against Commodore Paul Jones, they have not only acquitted him, but have made him a baronet besides. He is now Sir Richard Pearson.”

“Sire,” answered Paul Jones, “if I have the good fortune to meet him again, I will make him a lord!”

At this the king laughed heartily, and repeated it to the queen; and from that Paul Jones’s bon mot went the rounds of Europe.

As they were about to leave, the king said to Paul Jones: “It is my intention to show in some marked manner my approval of your brilliant conduct and my appreciation of so brave an ally, and I design that you shall receive it in your own country and among the plaudits of your fellow-citizens. But all Europe will know it as well.”

Paul Jones bowed his thanks, while Dr. Franklin, in a few words, expressed the gratitude the American Government and people would feel at honors bestowed to their foremost naval hero. Then, with profound and respectful bows, they left the presence of royalty.

Paul Jones’s popularity was still further increased by these marks of kingly favor, and he became the fashion with the nobility and the court people. No assembly was complete without him, and “le brave capitaine,” as he was called, was surrounded by brilliant men and beautiful women whenever he appeared in society. But what chiefly pleased Paul Jones was the popular regard the masses had for him, and the attentions paid him by the French naval and military men. These, indeed, penetrated his soul. In a very little while the honors alluded to by the king were announced to Paul Jones through the Minister of Marine, M. de Sartine. A magnificent gold-hilted sword, inscribed “Vindicati Maris Ludovicus XVI Remunerator strenuo vindici,” was presented him, and the extraordinary honor of the cross of the Order of Military Merit, which had never before been given to any but a Frenchman. This last, however, he could not accept, as an American officer, without the permission of Congress, and therefore the cross was sent, with a most flattering letter to the French minister at Philadelphia, with directions that Congress be asked to allow Paul Jones to accept it—which permission was afterward enthusiastically granted.

The conferring of this last honor made Paul Jones a chevalier of the Order of Military Merit, and he was already the Commodore of the American Navy. But none of these titles were used by him. His cards bore the simple but proud name of “Paul Jones.” He needed not titles or distinctions; and, although he appreciated them, he knew that they could not confer any title upon him that would add one iota to his reputation.

CHAPTER XVII.

The American commissioners were so poorly provided with money that they could never secure Paul Jones a ship worthy of him, and the best they could do was to get the Ariel, a French sloop of war. But Richard Dale and Henry Lunt, together with nearly all the officers and men of the Bon Homme Richard, were available for the Ariel, so that Paul Jones had the same splendid company that had served under him in his last glorious cruise.

A singular fatality seemed to attend all of Paul Jones’s departures from port. He could never get the ship he wanted, or one worthy of him; nor could he ever leave when he wished. Contrary winds detained him in the roads of Groix for several weeks. When the wind finally changed, on the morning of the 8th of October, there was every indication of squally weather.

“Do you know,” said Paul Jones to Dale, whom he always treated with the utmost confidence, “I have private information that Sir James Wallace, in the Nonesuch line of battle ship, is waiting for me outside; and she, you know, is copper sheathed, and one of the finest ships in the world.”

“But it is not written, Paul,” answered Dale, with an affectionate smile, “that Paul Jones is ever to be taken by the British.”

The most affectionate intimacy had now grown up between the commodore and his young lieutenant; and although Paul Jones was some years older than Dale, the young lieutenant in private called his commander “Paul.”[5] They were like an older and a younger brother. In public, the strictest official etiquette was observed by both; yet when they were alone they were like two boy friends in their tender friendship.

The wind increased in violence as they got out into the bay, and by nightfall it was a roaring tempest. Then came up a storm of which, Paul Jones himself wrote afterward, “until that night I did not fully conceive the awful majesty of tempest and of shipwreck. I can give no idea of the tremendous scene.... I believe no ship was ever before saved from an equal danger off the point of the Penmarque rocks.”

These Penmarque rocks are among the most dangerous in the world, and lie between L’Orient and Brest. The gale continued to increase, and on the night of the 9th of October, when the Ariel had the Penmarques under her lee, the storm became utterly terrific. The sky was of a dreadful darkness, and the waves rushed up into great green mountain slopes, with a crest of white phosphorus that made a weird and awful glare upon the storm-swept ocean. Black as the sky was, it seemed to grow suddenly blacker, as a great mass of clouds went flying over to the northwest, where it formed a terrible bank that reached from the surface of the sea to the arch of the heavens. The edges were of a luminous green, and lightnings began to play upon the face of this awful cloud bank. It spread quickly over the sky like a great black pall, and then a blast burst forth. It was as if the cloud were a volcano, spouting wind, rain, hail, thunders, and lightnings. A vast grayish-white veil of rain was tossed by the screaming wind between heaven and earth, and rent by the forked lightning.

The little Ariel, unable to show a single sail, staggered along, trembling and shuddering like a human thing in mortal terror and agony. The frightful buffeting of the waves had opened her seams, and water poured into her both from below and above. The shrieking of the wind through her cordage was like the howling of a thousand fiends. The guns broke loose from their fastenings, and rolled over the decks with a reverberation like the thunder which roared overhead. All night long this lasted, and no officer or man left his post that night or closed his eyes to sleep. The pumps were kept going, and every effort was made to bring the ship’s head to the wind, but in vain.

It seemed as if Paul Jones was everywhere during those appalling hours of the night, always calm, cool, and unruffled. “We are in the hands of the good God,” he said to his men, “and if we have to meet Death, we might as well meet him with a bold face as a sheepish one.”

As the guns rolled about the deck, adding a new horror and a new danger to that of rocks and waves and storm, Dale, who had the deck, turned to Paul Jones and said coolly:

“We can not afford to throw them overboard,” answered Paul Jones; “we may have to fight the British by the time this storm is over. The Nonesuch may not weather it, nor may we; this may be our last night of life, but if we should survive, and should meet the Nonesuch, both of us would make a shift to fight.”

Dale said no more. As the ship would lurch forward into a black abyss, while above her hissed a mountain of water, the phosphorescent glare would cast a pale and unearthly light upon the horrors that encompassed her. The officers regarded her as a doomed ship, but the men had an unshaken confidence in the seamanship of their commander. In after years Dale declared: “Never saw I such coolness and readiness in such frightful circumstances as Paul Jones showed in the nights and days when he lay off the Penmarques, expecting every moment to be our last, and the danger was greater even than that we were in on the Bon Homme Richard when we fought the Serapis.”

In the last extremity Paul Jones let go sea anchors in the open ocean. There the tortured ship rolled and pitched, her lower yardarms often buried in the water, and unable, even with the help of all the anchors, to get her head round to the wind. Toward three o’clock in the morning Paul Jones shouted out the order he was never known to give before—for he was averse to cutting away spars and throwing guns or stores overboard—“Make ready, Mr. Dale, to cut away the foremast!”

The boatswain’s whistle could not be heard amid the confusion and the uproar, but Dale called to Bill Green, and in a few minutes the sailors were hacking the stout foremast away. It fell over the side with a frightful crash, and was swallowed up instantly. The helm was then put hard-a-lee, and the ship came up to the wind. But the mainmast was pitched out of the step and reeled about like a drunken man. As the great spar pounded the lower deck every soul on board expected it to crash through the ship’s bottom. At last Paul Jones ordered that, too, to be cut away, but before this could be done the chain plates gave way and the mast broke short off at the gun deck, taking the mizzenmast with it. The mizzenmast carried away the quarter gallery, and the scene of wreck was dreadful. The Ariel, now a dismasted hulk, rolled helplessly in the trough of the sea. Nothing more could be done but to keep the pumps going and to await their fate.

Something of the indomitable spirit of Paul Jones seems to have inspired every man under him, for he afterward spoke of the steady, composed courage of his officers and men.

Two days and three nights did he spend in the midst of these horrors, and when, on the 12th of October, the gale abated so that jury masts could be rigged, the ship was almost a wreck. But it was not destined that Paul Jones should perish on the ocean, and so he, without the loss of a single man, made his way back to L’Orient. It was considered the worst storm of the century, and the shores of Europe were strewed with wrecks and dead bodies for days and weeks afterward.

CHAPTER XVIII.

So severe was the damage done the Ariel, that she was not able to leave port again for America until the 18th of December. As she carried a very valuable cargo of arms, besides important dispatches, and was weakly armed, Paul Jones was directed by Dr. Franklin, who was still the representative of America in France, to avoid rather than seek a conflict with the enemy. To a man of Paul Jones’s temperament these directions were almost impossible to follow. But fortunately for Dr. Franklin, and perhaps fortunately for Paul Jones’s enemies, he had no serious encounter until he was near the Island of Barbadoes. He had chosen the southern passage, because his enemies expected him to take the usual northern passage.

On a warm afternoon in the latter part of January, as the Ariel was proceeding under a fair wind, a remarkably fast sailing frigate was observed approaching on the opposite tack. The Ariel was deep in the water with her heavy stores, and as Paul Jones appreciated the necessity for prudence, he rather wished to avoid speaking the stranger, as she was tolerably certain to be a British ship.

The officers were all on deck examining the frigate, when Paul Jones, who had his glass to his eye, turned to them and said, smiling:

“I am sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I don’t think we can ‘see’ her. She is too heavy for us, and sails too well. It is not our own lives and fortunes that we would stake, but the arms for the soldiers of Washington, and that would be an irreparable loss if we were captured. So we must cut and run for it.”

The officers at once saw the wisdom of this, although they would have dearly liked a brush with the beautiful frigate. Dale, however, in turning around, caught sight of Bill Green, with Danny Dixon by his side, and both of them on the broad grin. Bill’s mouth was literally stretched from ear to ear.

“What is it, Green?” asked Dale, who was a great favorite with the veteran quartermaster, “what are you smiling at?”

“I ain’t a-smilin’, sir,” replied Bill, showing every tooth in his mouth in a perfectly phenomenal grin, while Danny openly “snickered” behind his hand.

“Well, then, sir, since you axes me,” replied Bill, trying to look very solemn, and putting up his hand to conceal his laughter, “the cap’n says as he ain’t got no notion o’ fightin’ that ’ere craft. I reckon he thinks he ain’t, but if Cap’n Paul Jones kin come within range o’ a British ship without takin’ a shot at her, why, sir, my name ain’t Bill Green, and I ain’t never see Cap’n Paul Jones. That’s all, sir.” At which Bill ended with a suppressed guffaw, and Dale himself winked knowingly.

“Be careful what you say of the captain,” said Dale, with another wink; “he’s got no notion of fighting. She’s too heavy for us, and you know the captain never tackles a ship that’s too heavy for him,” and Dale winked prodigiously at every word he uttered.

“That’s true, sir,” grinned Bill, “but if you’ll excuse a old fellow, Mr. Dale, I see you has on a new uniform, sir, and I’d be advisin’ of you to git out your old clo’es, because it jest might happen, sir, that the Britisher might fire at us; and then, axerdentally, sir, somebody might pull a lockstring, and the port might be open, sir, and the shot might hit the Britisher, and then, without the cap’n a-wantin’ it, as knowin’ as how the enemy was too heavy for him, he might have to fight agin his will. ’Tain’t ornlikely, sir, that somethin’ might come of it, and the cap’n may have to fight, sir, though he mortially hates to.”

Dale passed on laughing, went below, and took Bill Green’s advice; he took off his new undress uniform, and put on another one rather the worse for wear. Just as he was finishing his toilet, Danny Dixon tapped at the door of his cabin.

“If you please, sir, the cap’n sends his compliments, and wants to see you on deck.”

In a few moments Dale was on deck. As he walked up to Paul Jones, the captain said:

“Yes,” answered Dale, with a gleam in his eyes. “We know that you don’t care to tackle that ship; she’s too heavy for us, and you never like to fight except when you are on an equality; but all the same, as Bill Green says, ‘something may come of it,’ so I went below to take off my uniform, which is a little too good to wear upon such an occasion as may arise.”

Paul Jones looked sternly at Dale for a moment, and then, in spite of himself, burst out laughing.

Nevertheless, the Ariel carried all sail to escape the ship, which was now evidently pursuing. As darkness came on the Ariel seemed to be gaining, and during the night watches the officers reported that she was completely out of sight. Just as the darkness melted into dawn, however, Paul Jones, who had been on deck several times during the night, appeared, and as the faint gray of the early light illumined the sky he pointed astern. There was the frigate, flying a British ensign, and not more than a mile away.

Without drumbeat, or any noise whatever, the Ariel was cleared for action. She was not sailing her best, owing to her deeply laden condition, and Paul Jones ordered everything thrown overboard that could impede her sailing and fighting qualities. This so much improved the sailing of the ship that she now stretched her legs in earnest. Everybody on board felt perfectly certain that the captain meant to fight, but as the frigate was now plainly pursuing the American sloop of war, Paul Jones wished to test the sailing and manœuvring of his ship under her lighter conditions before engaging. This conduct evidently puzzled the frigate, and the state of uncertainty was further increased by the Ariel hoisting British colors, but occasionally firing a stern chaser as she ran away. At last, toward night, Paul Jones, having made all his preparations, the Ariel hauled up her mainsail, took in her royal yards, and waited for her enemy. She had not yet hoisted her American colors, but her batteries were lighted up and her ports open.

“Why, Green,” said Dale, passing him, as Danny Dixon appeared with a string of battle lanterns ready to be lighted, “it looks as if we were going to have a brush, after all.”

“It do, sir,” answered Bill solemnly. “The cap’n mortially hated it, and it do seem funny he couldn’t help it when the ship was gittin’ over the water so much faster than she was in the beginnin’. It puzzles me, it do,” he added, shaking his head waggishly.

The two ships were now within hail. It was Paul Jones’s intention to send up the American ensign as soon as the enemy had got near enough to recognize it in the fast gathering gloom, but the sailor who had hoisted the British ensign had not taken care to make fast the other end of the halyards, so as to draw it down rapidly, and there was some difficulty in getting the British colors down and the American colors up. This enabled the British ship to range up close under the lee quarter of the Ariel.

The short tropical twilight was fast deepening into night, but a brilliant moon trembled in the heavens, and the dark-blue dome was flecked with stars. The two ships lay close to each other, like phantom ships upon the water, but the light from their lanterns and batteries glowed redly.

In the midst of a deathlike silence Lieutenant Lunt’s voice rang out the questions given him in a whisper by Paul Jones, who stood near him.

Everybody awaited the answer to this in breathless silence. There was a long pause, and Lunt repeated his question.

The answer came back purposely unintelligible. Officers and men cast significant glances around. That meant the British ship was ready to fight if the stranger should prove an enemy.

This threw the British captain off his guard, particularly as the sailor had not yet been able to get the British colors down, and they were still flying. Captain Pindar came to the rail of the Triumph and gave a long account of affairs in America, which were progressing badly for the British. After all the information possible had been obtained, most of which was highly satisfactory to the Americans, Paul Jones himself called out:

“Put out your boat and come on board, bringing your commission, so that I can see whether you are really in the British navy or not.”

At this Captain Pindar’s suspicions were excited, and it was some moments before he replied:

“Look at my ensign,” cried Paul Jones, “and consider the danger of refusing.”

“I will answer for twenty guns on my ship, and I and every one of my people are Englishmen.”

“I will give you five minutes to make up your mind to come on board,” said Paul Jones, “and if you do not, at the end of that time I shall fire into you.”

Then, all at once, the people on the Triumph waked up to their danger. The five minutes were spent in hurried preparation by them, but on the Ariel every man was at his station, and not one moved or spoke.

The five minutes being up, the Ariel backed her topsails, ran close under the stern of the Triumph, and let fly her broadside. The men in the tops also gave a volley. The British, unprepared, fired ineffectively and without order. The Triumph was so obviously at the mercy of the Ariel that within ten minutes her colors were hauled down and a cry for quarter resounded. Instantly the order to cease firing was given, and the Americans gave three cheers. But while they were yet cheering they observed that the British ship had shaken out her sails and was drawing ahead. The smoke of the two or three broadsides fired hid her for a moment, and when it drifted off the Triumph was observed to be some distance off on the weather quarter of the Ariel, and tacking.

Paul Jones instantly suspected the treachery of the Triumph’s captain, because it is a part of the code of morals in war that a surrender should be in good faith, particularly when quarter has been asked for and given. The Ariel immediately set her mainsail and made after the fleeing ship. But it was in vain. The Triumph had too long a lead, and, the night suddenly becoming dark, she was lost to sight. Although Paul Jones had conquered, his prey had escaped.

The Americans were indignant, but indignation could do no good. They then resumed their course toward America, and on the 18th of February, 1781, the Ariel cast anchor in the harbor of Philadelphia. Paul Jones had been absent from America three years, three months, and eighteen days. In that time he had struck terror upon the coasts of England, Scotland, and Ireland; he had defied the might of England, had vanquished every enemy with which he had fought, and had made himself one of the heroes of the sea, whose name will live as long as ships traverse the ocean.

CHAPTER XIX.

The reception of Paul Jones by the Congress at Philadelphia was one suitable to his great services. On the 27th of February, Congress passed a resolution reciting that “The Congress entertains a high sense of the distinguished bravery and military conduct of Paul Jones, Esq., captain in the navy of the United States, and particularly in his victory over the British frigate Serapis, on the coast of England, which was attended with circumstances so brilliant as to excite general applause and admiration.

“That the Minister Plenipotentiary of these United States at the Court of Versailles communicate to His Most Christian Majesty the high satisfaction Congress has received from the conduct and gallant behavior of Captain Paul Jones, which have merited the attention and approbation of His Most Christian Majesty, and that His Majesty’s offer of adorning Captain Jones with the cross of the Order of Military Merit is highly acceptable to Congress.”

On the 28th of March, Congress passed another resolution severely censuring Captain Landais, who had then been court-martialed and dismissed the navy, and saying of Paul Jones, after enumerating his actions: “Ever since Captain Paul Jones first became an officer in the service of these States he hath shown an unremitted attention in planning and executing enterprises calculated to promote the essential interests of our glorious cause. That in Europe, although his expedition through the Irish Channel in the Ranger did not fully accomplish his purpose, yet he made the enemy feel that it is in the power of a small squadron, under a brave and enterprising commander, to retaliate the conflagrations of our defenseless towns. That, returning from Europe, he brought with him the esteem of the greatest and best friends of America, and hath received from the illustrious monarch of France that reward of warlike virtue which his subjects receive by a long series of faithful services or uncommon merit. That the conduct of Paul Jones merits particular attention and some distinguished mark of approbation from the United States, in Congress assembled.”

On the 14th of April the distinguished mark of approbation was granted, in the form of the thanks of Congress, as follows:

“That the thanks of the United States, in Congress assembled, be given to Captain Paul Jones, for the zeal, prudence, and intrepidity with which he has supported the honor of the American flag; for his bold and successful enterprises to redeem from captivity the citizens of the States who had fallen under the power of the enemy; and, in general, for the good conduct and eminent services by which he has added luster to his character and to the American arms.

“That the thanks of the United States, in Congress assembled, be also given to the officers and men who have faithfully served under him from time to time, for their steady affection to the cause of their country and the bravery and perseverance they have manifested therein.”

Following this, there were numerous letters from eminent patriots, and a truly affectionate one from Lafayette, ending with: “As to the pleasure of taking you by the hand, my dear Paul Jones, you know my affectionate sentiments and my very great regard for you, so that I need not add anything on that subject.”

“Delicacy forbids me to mention that particular one, which has attracted the admiration of all the world.... That you may long enjoy the reputation you have so justly acquired, is the sincere wish of, “Sir, your most obedient servant, “Geo. Washington.”

Upon the official examination of his report, Paul Jones proudly answered, in response to an interrogatory, “I have never borne or acted under any other commission than that of the Congress of America.” His accounts also showed that he had not up to that time received a penny either as pay or subsistence.

Upon a beautiful spring day, the French minister, M. de Luzerne, gave a grand fête at Philadelphia, for the purpose of investing Paul Jones with the cross of the Order of Military Merit, sent him by the King of France. All the Congress was invited, and all of the army and navy officers then in Philadelphia were present in full uniform, besides the leading citizens of Philadelphia, and entertainment was especially provided for the sailors who had served under Paul Jones, as well as the officers. The guests assembled in the afternoon, and at four o’clock precisely M. de Luzerne and Paul Jones walked together to the center of the lawn, under a grove of noble trees. The scene was brilliant and beautiful, the white dresses of the women and the bright Continental uniforms of the men showing bravely against the green turf. On a tall flagstaff floated together the Stars and Stripes and the Fleur-de-lis of France. Conspicuously massed together were the brave blue jackets who had served under Paul Jones and his officers, in full uniform, with the ever-loved Dale at their head. A military band played inspiring airs as M. de Luzerne and Paul Jones advanced to the center of the great circle. Paul Jones, wearing the full uniform of an American captain and his gold-hilted sword, and carrying in his hand his blue-and-gold cap, was a picture of manliness and modesty. His face was pale, but his eyes were gleaming. He had fought for glory, and glory had been lavished upon him. The French ambassador, in a loud voice, spoke:

“Patriots: His Most Christian Majesty, whom I have the honor to serve, desiring to show his affection for the cause of America, and for the gallant and shining conduct of Captain Paul Jones, has directed me, as a knight of the Order of Military Merit, to confer upon Captain Paul Jones the cross of this noble order. This has never before been given to any man not a citizen of France. But were it not for Paul Jones’s devotion to America, well might France claim him as her son, so well has he served her cause and that of her allies.” Then, turning to Paul Jones, he held up a splendid jeweled cross, and said:

“Therefore, I, in the name of my master, the king, do now invest you with this cross; and may you live long to wear this glorious emblem!” A roar of cheers broke forth and resounded through the still and lovely air. The “hoorays” of the blue jackets, led by handsome Bill Green, were heard over all the rest, and Danny Dixon, the picture of a sailor, in his smart and handsome uniform, suddenly began to dance a hornpipe in the excess of his delight.

A mist came before Paul Jones’s eyes. The affection, the respect, and the admiration of the people he had tried to serve was inexpressibly sweet to him, and as he caught sight of “Old Glory,” that floated proudly in the golden sunset light, he could say to his own heart, “I promised to attend that flag with veneration, and I have done it to the best of my power, and without fear or reproach.” Next him stood Dale, his best beloved friend and lieutenant. Paul Jones laid his hand on Dale’s shoulder, and together they watched the inspiring scene.

“My captain,” said Dale, after a moment, “I have a feeling here”—he touched his breast—“which tells me that when the day of conflict is over, and our country takes her stand as the greatest republic upon the earth, you will be ranked first among those who maintained her honor on the seas; and the name of Paul Jones will be linked with so much glory that every American sea officer will envy those who can say with pride, as I do, ‘I served under Paul Jones!’”

FOOTNOTES

[1]This was the first flag of the Revolution—a pine tree with a rattlesnake under it, bearing the bold motto, “Don’t tread on me.”

[2]The songs in this story are not original.

[3]Meaning his appointment to command the American ships in foreign waters.

[4]This incident is historically true.

[5]Cooper mentions the peculiar tenderness of Dale’s tone, when, in his latter days, he spoke of his old captain as “Paul.”

By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL

PAUL JONES

INTRODUCTION.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAUL JONES.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

FOOTNOTES

Transcriber’s Notes