“So now we had him hard and fast,Burgoyne laid down his arms at last,And that is why we brave the blast,To carry the news to London!Heigh-ho! Carry the News!Go! Go! Carry the News!Tell old King George that he’s undone!He’s licked by the Yankee squirrel gun.Go!Go!Carry the news to London!”
“So now we had him hard and fast,Burgoyne laid down his arms at last,And that is why we brave the blast,To carry the news to London!Heigh-ho! Carry the News!Go! Go! Carry the News!Tell old King George that he’s undone!He’s licked by the Yankee squirrel gun.Go!Go!Carry the news to London!”
And Captain John made haste to proceed to Paris, placing the dispatches in the hands of Dr. Franklin early upon the fifth day of December,—travelling two hundred and twenty miles in sixty hours. He returned to his ship about the middle of the month, to find that several of the crew were mutinous.
“See here, Captain,” said one—a seaman from Portsmouth, New Hampshire—“Me and my pals enlisted at home after readin’ a hand-bill which said that we wuz to get $40.00 apiece extra, for this cruise. Now, your young Lieutenant tells us that the reg’lations of Congress say that we are to only get th’ reg’lar salary allotted by those old pals, who make our laws. We came with you thinkin’ that we wuz ter git this money, and, by gum, we intend to git it!”
“Calm yourself, my good fellow,” said Jones soothingly. “If the hand-bill said that you were to receive $40.00 you shall have it. You shall get this sum even if I have to pay it myself.”
And this he did.
“I would not deceive any man who has entered or may enter, to serve in my command,” remarked John Paul Jones. “I consider myself as being under a personal obligation to these brave men, who have cheerfully enlisted to serve with me, and I accept their act as a proof of their good opinion of me, which I value so highly, that I cannot permit it to be dampened in the least degree, by misunderstanding, or failure to perform engagements. I wish all my men to be happy and contented. The conditions of the hand-bills will be strictly complied with.”
Accordingly he disbursed one hundred and forty-seven guineas (about $800.00) out of his own pocket, in making good the terms of the hand-bill. Is it any wonder that the gallant seaman was popular with his followers?
But theRangerlay at Brest—eager for action—her light sails furled; her spars shining with new varnish; her polished guns winking in the rays of the sun.
“Come, my Hearties!” cried Captain Jones on April the 10th, “we’ll hie us out to the west coast of Ireland and see if our new ship cannot make a good name for herself.”
Sails were hoisted upon the staunch, little vessel. Her bow was turned toward the ocean—and—with the new flag of the infant republic fluttering from her masts, theRangerwent forth for battle, for plunder, and for glory. She was to get a little of each.
Arriving off the coast of Cumberland, and, learning from fishermen decoyed on board, that there was a large amount of shipping in the harbor of Whitehaven, with no warship of superior force in the neighborhood to protect it, the bold American skipper resolved to make a dash into this quiet cove, with a view of destroying the ships there in port. The British authorities had no suspicion of his presence in the Irish Sea.
As theRangerdrew near to Whitehaven, the wind blew such a gale from the southwest, that it was impossible to land a boat.
“We must hold off until the breeze slackens!”cried bold Captain Jones. “This cannot last forever, and our opportunity will soon be here.”
Sure enough—the wind died out about midnight of April 22nd—and theRangerbeat up towards the town. When about five hundred yards from the shore, the vessel was hove to—two boats were lowered—and twenty-nine seamen, with third Lieutenant Wallingford, Midshipmen Arthur Green and Charles Hill, jumped into them. With Jones in command they hastened toward the coast.
The surprise was complete. Two small forts lay at the mouth of the harbor, but, as the seamen scrambled ashore, they were precipitately abandoned by the garrison of “coast-guards.” Captain Jones, Midshipman Green, and six men rushed shouting upon one of these, capturing it without an effort; the other was taken by Lieutenant Wallingford and eight sailors,—while four were left behind as a boat-guard. A few pistols spattered, a few muskets rang; but, when the stout sea-dogs reached the tidal basin, where the shipping lay, the townsfolk were thoroughly aroused. Burning cotton was thrown on board of the ships lying at anchor, but only one took fire. It was full daylight, and the insignificance of Jones’ force became evident to the townsfolk, who were rallying from all directions.
“Retreat to the ships,” shouted the Yankee Captain, “there is no time to lose!”
The landing party—small as it was—had become separated into two groups; one commanded by Jones, the other by Wallingford. Thinking that Wallingford’sparty was, for the moment, more seriously menaced than his own, Jones attacked and dispersed—with his dozen men—a force of about one hundred of the local militia who were endeavoring to retake the lower fort, or battery, whose guns had been spiked by the Americans. The townsfolk and coast-guards had joined and were making a vigorous assault upon Wallingford. But shots flew thick and fast from the muskets of the followers of the daring Paul Jones—as they retreated to their own boats. The whole landing party—with the exception of one man—finally leaped safely into the boat, and were on board theRangerbefore the sun was an hour over the horizon.
Jones was delighted.
“The actual results of this affair,” said he, “are of little moment, as we destroyed but one ship. The moral effect—however—is very great, as it has taught the English that the fancied security of their coasts is a Myth.”
In fact this little raid of the valiant John Paul made the Government take expensive measures for the defense of numerous ports hitherto relying for protection upon the vigilance and supposed omnipotence of the navy. It also doubled the rates of marine insurance; which was the most grievous damage of all.
“Now to attack a castle!” cried Jones, “and bag an Earl, too, if he is around!”
TheRangerwas headed for Solway Firth—not more than three hours’ sail away—where, upon St. Mary’s Isle, was the castle of the Earl of Selkirk.
“If we can catch the noble owner of this keep,” said John Paul, “we will hold him as hostage for the better treatment of American prisoners in England.”
As luck would have it, the Earl was away at this particular time, and, although the wild sea-dogs of theRangercarried off several pieces of silverware from the castle, this was all that was captured. Lucky Earl! But, had he fallen into the clutches of John Paul, he would have been treated with the greatest consideration, for the Captain of theRangerwas the most chivalrous of conquerors.
TheRangerstood across the Irish Channel and next day ran into some fisher boats.
“Ah! Ha!” laughed one of the sons of Ireland. “TheDrake—the guard-ship at Carrickfergus—is after you, and she’s a twenty-gun sloop-of-war.”
John Paul smiled.
“To lessen trouble,” said he, “I’ll heave-to off the mouth of Belfast Lough and wait for her to work out. This will save her the pains of coming after me.”
So he luffed his ship, lay to, and waited for theDraketo sail on. Her white sails could be seen more clearly as she neared the adventurous American. A boat was sent out to reconnoitre—but—as it approached, it was surrounded by tenders from theRanger; a midshipman and five men in her, were made prisoners. Tide and wind were both against theDrake; she came on slowly; and, at an hour before sundown, was just within hail. The sea was fairly smooth, the wind southerly and very light.
“What ship is that?” sounded from the deck of theDrake.
“The American Continental shipRanger,” rang the clear reply. “Lay on! We are waiting for you!”
Both ships bore away before the wind and neared each other to within striking distance.Boom!a broadside roared from the side of theDrake, and the fight had begun.
Crash! Crash!Muskets spoke from the rigging of theRanger, where several seamen had climbed in the endeavor to pick off the gunners on the deck of the British warship. There were one hundred and fifty-seven men upon theDrake; Paul Jones had one hundred and twenty-six. TheDrake’s battery was sixteen nine-pounders and four sixes. Thus—you see—the advantage was clearly with the Britishers.
Both boats swung along under full canvas, pounding away at each other like prize-fighters. Spars were shattered; sails ripped; masts splintered in the hail of iron. And—as the fight progressed—it could be plainly seen that the marksmanship of those upon theDrakewas infinitely less accurate than that of the Americans.
“Every shot of our men told,” said Jones—not long afterwards. “They gave theDrakethree broadsides for two, right along, at that. The behavior of my crew in this engagement more than justifies the representations I have often made, of what American sailors would do, if given a chance at the enemy in his own waters. We have seen that they fight withcourage on our own coast—but fought here, almost in hail of the enemy’s shore.”
From “The Army and Navy of the United States.”
From “The Army and Navy of the United States.”
“BEGAN TO HULL THE ‘DRAKE’ BELOW THE WATER-LINE.”
As the two ships were going off the wind, which was light, they both rolled considerably, and together; that is, when theRangerwent down to port, theDrakecame up to starboard. The gunners upon the quarter-deck of theRangertimed their guns, so that they were fired as their muzzles went down and the enemy’s side arose. By this practice they began to hull theDrakebelow the water-line.
“Sink the English! Sink the English!” cried the powder-blackened fighters.
But Captain Jones thought differently.
“Don’t sink her!” he yelled to gunner Starbuck, above the din of battle. “I want to take her alive, instead of destroying her; for it will be much more to our advantage if we carry her as a visible prize into a French port.”
“All right, Cap’n!” shouted his men. “We’ll cripple her aloft!”
They now fired as the muzzles rose, and, so terrific were their broadsides, that the fore and main topsail-yards came tumbling across the starboard quarter, in a tangle of ropes, sails, and rigging.
“Rake her! Rake her!” shouted Jones to his men.
TheRangerluffed and crossed the stern of theDrakewith the purpose of spanking a full broadside down her decks. The British boat was badly crippled and had lost steering way.
But, before the well-aimed guns belched another destructive volley into the shattered Englishman, awhite flag went aloft, and a voice came: “Hold your fire. We surrender!” TheDrakewas a prisoner-of-war.
Thus Paul Jones had won a notable victory, and thus he had proved that the British were not invincible, and could be defeated, upon the sea, by their own cousins, as readily as upon the land.
When theRangerlay in the harbor of Brest, a few days later, with theDrakealongside, boats crowded about in order to view the vessel which had captured another,—larger than herself. And, as theRangerhad taken three merchant ships on the way to the coast of France, the black eyes of the natives shone with beady lustre as they gazed upon the graceful hull of the victorious sloop-of-war from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
“See Monsieur Jones,” said they, as they nudged each other. “Voilà! Here is a man who is better than our own sailors. Look at this American sea-devil!”
And the chest of John Paul Jones swelled with pride.
Eager and active, the gallant Commodore was most unhappy during the next few months, for theRangerwas ordered back to America—under his Lieutenant Simpson. Twenty-seven of his crew, however, elected to remain and fight with him, when he should get another command,—among them a little Narragansett Indian called Antony Jeremiah.
“Me like to see big gun shoot,” said he. “Me like to walk on deck of enemy’s big boat when youtake it! Byme-by we take bigger ship thanDrakeand kill heap more enemy! Ugh! Ugh!”
At this John Paul laughed.
“Antony Jeremiah,” said he, “you shall witness one big fight if you stay with John Paul. You wait and see!”
And what John Paul had said soon came to pass.
“The French,” writes the doughty warrior, “have little conception of an expedition such as I propose; to harry the coast and destroy the commerce of the enemy. Their idea is to leave all of that to privateers, of which I have already been offered a dozen commands. Some of the ships they fit out as privateers are really respectable frigates in size, and I have seen one, called theMonsieur, that mounts thirty-eight or forty guns. But I do not wish to engage in privateering. My object is not that of private gain, but to serve the public in a way that may reflect credit on our infant navy and give prestige to our country over the sea.”
Noble sentiments—nobly expressed!
In spite of the gloomy outlook he at last secured a vessel from the King himself, called theDuras, which he re-christened “Le Bon Homme Richard”—“The Good Richard”—the name assumed by Dr. Benjamin Franklin when writing his famous “Almanack,” except that he called him “Poor Richard.” This was a well-merited compliment to the great and good man, who was then Commissioner from the United States to France, and a firm friend to the ardent John Paul. The vessel had forty guns, “and,”writes the Minister of Marine, “as you may find too much difficulty in enlisting a sufficient number of Americans, the King permits you to levy French volunteers, until you obtain a full crew.”
John Paul hastened to get her ready for a cruise. “I mounted twenty-eight long twelve-pounders on the gun-deck,” he says, “put eight of the long nines on the quarter-deck, and discarded the six-pounders of her old battery. This gave her a battery of forty-two guns, throwing two hundred and fifty-eight pounds of metal in a single broadside. She was the fair equivalent of a thirty-six gun frigate.”
From February to June she was worked over; refitted; resparred. On June 19th, 1779, the gallant John Paul Jones swung out into the English Channel; he, himself, in command of theGood Richard, which carried a crew of three hundred and seventy-five, not more than fifty of whom were Americans. Four other vessels were with him: theAlliance, a thirty-two gun frigate; thePallas, a twenty-eight gun frigate; theVengeance, a twelve gun brig; and theCerf, a cutter.
On the second day out theAlliancefouled theRichard, causing so much damage to both, that the squadron was compelled to return to port for repairs, which—with other transactions—consumed six weeks. But the accident was a lucky one, for numerous American sailors, who were in English prisons, were shortly exchanged with English seamen in French dungeons; and thus Paul Jones was able to man theGood Richardwith one hundred and fourteen native Americans,who were anxious to have a crack at those who had captured them but a short time before.
Finally, with refitted ships and reorganized crews, Paul Jones was ready to sail from the roadstead of Isle de Groaix, in the early part of August, 1779, bound upon his cruise around the British Islands. There were four ships in this squadron: theGood Richard; theAlliance, under Pierre Landais (a depraved and dishonest Frenchman); thePallas, under Cottineau (an honest Frenchman); and theVengeance, a sloop-of-war. The prevailing winds were light and baffling, so the squadron moved slowly.
War had been declared between France and England, and thus the English Channel was thronged with privateers from both countries. TheRichardand a French privateer, in company, re-captured a large ship belonging to Holland, but bound from Barcelona to Dunkirk, France, which had been taken some days before by an English vessel off Cape Ortegal and ordered into Falmouth, England. England and Holland were still at peace, at this time, but the English claimed the right to intercept and send into their own port for examination, all neutral vessels bound to French ports, as England and France were then at war. Commodore Jones took the English prize-crew out of the Dutch ship, as prisoners of war, and then ordered the ship into l’Orient in charge of her own crew, but under the command of one of his midshipmen, until she could come under the protection of a French port.
“Things are going well with us!” cried Captain Jones, rubbing his hands gleefully.
He soon felt much happier. For, on the morning of August 23rd, when in the vicinity of Cape Clear, theRichardsent three boats, and afterwards a fourth, to take a brig that was becalmed in the northwest quarter—just out of gun-shot. It proved to be theFortune, of Bristol, bound from Newfoundland for her home-port with whale-oil, salt fish, and barrel staves. Manned by a prize-crew of two warrant officers and six men, she was sent to Nantes.
All were happy. All were looking forward to a good fight. It was to come to them.
The little fleet of war-dogs sailed northward, and, on September 1st, about ten o’clock in the morning, the northwest promontory of Scotland was sighted. At the same instant, two large ships bore in sight on the same quarter, and another vessel appeared to windward.
“Bear up! Bear up!” cried Jones.
TheRichardheld over toward the first two ships until he saw that it was theAllianceand a prize she had taken about daylight,—a vessel bound for Jamaica, from London.
“Now chase the other fellow!” he cried, turning the wheel with his own hands, and soon theGood Richardwas bounding over the waves in hard pursuit of the second sail. Slowly but surely she was overhauled. Heavily armed, she did not surrender until after the exchange of several shots, which theRichardpumped into her, after running up close enough to show her broadside.
A boat soon carried a number of seamen to take possession of her, and she proved to be the British privateer, theUnion, mounting twenty-two six-pounders, and bound northward from London to Quebec, in Canada, laden with a cargo of naval and military stores for the British troops and flotillas on the Lakes. TheUnionalso carried a valuable mail, including dispatches for Sir William Howe, in New York, and Sir Guy Carleton, in Canada. “These were lost,” writes John Paul to good Doctor Franklin, at Paris, for theAllianceimprudently showed American colors, though English colors were still flying on theBon Homme Richard; “the enemy thereby being induced to throw his papers of importance overboard before we could take possession of him.” The prizes were manned from theAllianceand sent (by Landais) into the seaport of Bergen, in Norway.
The squadron now beat down the east coast of Scotland, and, after capturing five or six small prizes, rounded-to off the Firth of Forth.
“I intend to attack the port of Leith!” cried Jones, “as I understand that it is defended only by a small guard-ship of twenty-two guns, and an old fortification (old Leith Fort) garrisoned by a detachment of Militia.”
The wind was adverse, blowing off shore, with frequent heavy squalls, but about noon of the 17th of September, theRichardand thePallasbeat up within gun-shot of Leith Fort and were loweringaway their tenders in order to land, when a heavy Northwest gale sprang up, compelling them to hoist their boats, and put to sea. The gale lasted about twenty-four hours, but, on the morning of the 19th, the wind took another turn, the sea grew calm, and Jones proposed to renew the attack upon Leith. The Commander of thePallasmade strong objection to this. “I do not believe that we should stay here,” cried he. “If we persist in the attempt to remain on this station three days longer, we shall have a squadron of heavy frigates, if not a ship of line, to deal with. Convinced of this, I offer it as my judgment that we had better work along the shore to-day and to-morrow, as far as Spurn Head, and then, if we do not fall in with the Baltic merchant fleet, stand off the coast and make the best of our way to Dunkirk.”
Commodore Jones spent a few moments in reflection. “You are probably right, Cottineau,” said he. “I only wish that another man like you were in command of theAlliance. However, we cannot help what is and must make the best of it. Go aboard your ship and make sail to the south-southwest. Speak theVengeanceas you run down, and tell Ricot—her commander—to rendezvous off Spurn Head. I will bring up the rear with this ship. We may fall in with the Baltic fleet between here and Scarboro’, which is usually their first English port of destination at this time of the year. Should you happen to sight theAlliance, inform Captain Landais of our destination, but do not communicate it to him as an order,because that would be likely to expose you only to insult.”
The two ships turned South, and the next three days were without events of importance. At length they neared the harbor of Scarboro’, and, as they hovered about twelve miles off the land, they saw some vessels making for the shore, and protecting a fleet of merchantmen.
“They’re a heavy man-of-war—either a fifty-gun frigate, or a fifty-four—with a large ship-of-war in company,” cried one of his Lieutenants, who had been watching them through a glass. “The Captain of the larger one has cleverly manœuvered to protect his merchant ship.”
Commodore Jones seemed to be much pleased.
“At last we’ll have a little fight,” cried he. “Bear hard for the land, and get between the larger vessel and the shore!”
Captain Cottineau was signalled to and requested to go after the sloop-of-war. About sundown theRichardsucceeded in weathering the large frigate and manœuvered between her and the land.
The ships neared each other very gradually, for the breeze was slight. They were on opposite tacks and Commodore Jones readily made out the force and rate of his antagonist. By the light of the dying day—for it was about sevenP. M.—he saw that she was a new forty-four; a perfect beauty. It was theSerapis—Captain Richard Pearson commanding—but six months off the stocks and on her first cruise as a convoy to the Baltic fleet of merchantmen: consistingof about forty vessels laden with timber and other naval stores for the use of the British dockyards. Jones had hoped to have an opportunity to attack this flotilla, but his plans had been frustrated by the vigilance and skill of the commander of the men-of-war in convoy.
Even now Landais might have got among the merchantmen in the fast-sailingAlliance, while Jones and Cottineau occupied the attention of the two men-of-war; but the French officer did not have sufficient courage to tackle them, and kept well beyond striking distance.
The Captain of theSerapisstood upon the deck, intently gazing at the on-coming vessel.
“Gad Zooks!” he uttered. “From the size of her spars and her height out of water I take her to be a French fifty of the time of the last war. It’s too dark for me to see whether she has any lower ports or not.” He raised his night glasses to his eyes, and, in the light of the full moon which was now flooding the sea with a silvery haze, saw that his opponent was intent upon a fight.
“It is probably Paul Jones,” said he, lowering the glasses. “If so—there’s tight work ahead. What ship is that?” he cried out in loud tones.
No answer came from the dark hull of theGood Richard, but, as she swung nearer upon the rolling waves, suddenly a flash, a roar, and a sheet of flame belched from her side. The battle was on!
It was a struggle which has been talked of for years. It was a battle about which the world neverseems to tire of reading. It wasthebattle which has made the name of John Paul Jones nautically immortal.
The two warriors of the deep were on the same tack, headed northwest, driven by a slight wind which veered to the westward. The sea was smooth, the sky was clear, the full moon was rising—the conditions for a night struggle were ideal.
Crash! Crash! Crash!
Broadside after broadside rolled and shrieked from ship to ship, as the air was filled with flying bits of iron.
Crash! Crash! Crash!
Travelling very slowly, for the wind was little more than sufficient to give them steering-way in the tide, the two antagonists drifted along for twenty minutes, at cable length (600 to 900 feet—about the distance of the 220 yard dash). But suddenly—Boom!an explosion sounded in the gun-room of theGood Richard. Two of her eighteen-pounders had blown up back of the trunnions; many of the crew lay dead and dying, the after part of the main gun-deck was shattered like a reed: Senior Midshipman and Acting Lieutenant John Mayrant—who had command of this battery—was severely wounded in the head by a fragment of one of the exploded shells, and was scorched by the blast of flame.
“Abandon your guns!” shouted First Lieutenant Dale, “and report with your remaining men to the main-deck battery!”
“All right!” answered Mayrant, as he bound awhite kerchief around his bleeding head. “I’ll be with you just as soon as I give them one more shot.”
This he endeavored to do, but not a gun could be touched off. “The old sixteen-pounders that formed the battery of the lower gun-deck, did no service whatever, except firing eight shots in all,” writes John Paul Jones. “Two out of three of them burst at the first fire, killing almost all the men who were stationed to manage them.”
The gunnery of theGood Richardwas excellent. Though her battery was one-third lighter than that of theSerapis; though her gun-crews were composed—to a great extent—of French volunteers, who had never been at sea before—in quickness and rapidity of fire, the shells from the American fell just as accurately as did those from the Britisher; pointed and gauged by regular, trained English men-of-war seamen. The roar of belching cannon was deafening. The superior weight and energy of the British shot began to tell decisively against the sputtering twelve-pounders of theRichard, in spite of the fact that they were being served with quickness and precision. As the two battling sea-monsters drifted slowly along, a pall of sulphurous smoke hung over their black hulls, like a sheet of escaping steam. They were drawing nearer and nearer to each other.
It was now about a quarter to eight. Wounded and dying littered the decks of both Britisher and American, but the fight was to the death.
“Luff! Luff!” cried Captain Pearson, as theRichardbegan to forge near him. “Luff! Luff! and letfly with all guns at the water-line. Sink the Yankee Pirate!”
But Paul Jones was intent upon grappling with his adversary. Quickly jerking the tiller to one side, he shoved theRichardinto the wind and endeavored to run her—bows on—into the side of his opponent. TheSerapispaid off, her stern swung to, and, before she could gather way, theRichard’s jib-boom shot over her larboard quarter and into the mizzen rigging.
Jones was delighted.
“Throw out the grappling hooks!” cried he, in shrill tones. “Hold tight to the Britisher and be prepared to board!”
In an instant, many clawing irons spun out into the mizzen stays of theSerapis; but, though they caught, the lines holding them soon parted. TheSerapisfell off and theRichardlurched ahead. Neither had been able to bring her broadsides to bear.
“We can’t beat her by broadsiding,” cried Jones. “We’vegotto board!”
Crash! Crash! Crash!
Again the cannon made the splinters fly. Again the two game-cocks spat at each other like angry cats, but, the fire from theRichardwas far weaker than before.
Commodore Jones walked hastily to the gun-deck.
“Dick,” said he to Lieutenant Dale, “this fellow’s metal is too heavy for us at this business. He is hammering us all to pieces. We must close with him! We must get hold of him! Be prepared at any moment to abandon this place and bring what men youhave left on the spar-deck—and give them the small arms for boarding when you come up.”
Lieutenant Dale saluted.
“All right!” cried he. “I’ll be with you in a jiffy, Commodore.”
As Jones walked hastily to the main deck—the Lieutenant ran to the store-room and dealt out cutlasses, pistols and pikes, to the eager men. The deck was red with blood.
The worst carnage of all was at “number two” gun of the forward, starboard division. From the first broadside until the quarter-deck was abandoned, nineteen different men were on this gun, and, at this time, only one of the original crew remained. It was the little Indian, Antony Jeremiah; or, as his mates called him, “Red Cherry.”
“Let me join you,” he cried, as he saw Mayrant’s boarding party. Seizing a cutlass and dirk, he stood beside the cluster of men, eager and keen to have a chance at the enemy. A soul of fire was that of the little savage—and now he had a splendid opportunity to indulge in the natural blood-thirst of his race, for an Indian loves a good fight, particularly when he is upon the winning side.
The vessels swung on slowly—the fire from theSerapisstill strong and accurate; the sputtering volleys from theRichardgrowing weaker and weaker. Only three of the nine-pounders on the starboard quarter-deck were serviceable; the entire gun-deck battery was silent and abandoned.
“We have him,” cheerfully cried Captain Pearsonto one of his aides. “But, hello”—he continued, “what sail is that?”
As he spoke theAlliancecame bounding across the waves, headed for the two combatants, and looking as if she were to speedily close the struggle.
“The fight is at an end,” said Jones, jubilantly.
Imagine his astonishment, chagrin, and mortification! Instead of pounding the English vessel, the French ally discharged a broadside full into the stern of theRichard, ran off to the northward, close hauled, and soon was beyond gun-shot.
“Coward!” shouted John Paul, shaking his fist at the retreating ally. “I’ll get even with you for this if it takes me twenty years!”
No wonder he was angered, for, with his main battery completely silenced, his ship beginning to sink, nearly half his crew disabled, his wheel shot away, and his consort firing into him, there remained but one chance of victory for John Paul Jones: to foul the enemy and board her.
Luckily a spare tiller had been fitted to the rudder stem of theRichardbelow the main tiller—before leaving port—because of the fear that the wheel would be disabled. The foresight of the Commodore had effected this; and now—by means of this extra steering-gear—the battered warrior-ship was enabled to make one, last, desperate lunge for victory. It was touch and go with John Paul Jones.
“I could distinctly hear his voice amid the crashing of musketry,” says a seaman. “He was cheering on the French marines in their own tongue, uttering suchimprecations upon the enemy as I have never before or since heard in French, or any other language. He exhorted them to take good aim, pointed out the object of their fire, and frequently took their loaded muskets from their hands in order to shoot them himself. In fact, towards the very last, he had about him a group of half a dozen marines who did nothing but load their firelocks and hand them to the Commodore; who fired them from his own shoulder, standing on the quarter-deck rail by the main topmast backstay.”
Luck now came to the disabledRichard. A fortunate puff of wind struck and filled her sails, shooting her alongside of the growlingSerapis, and to windward. The canvas of the Britisher flapped uselessly against her spars. She was blanketed and lost steering-way. In a moment the jib-boom of the English vessel ran over the poop-deck of the American ship. It was seized, grappled by a turn of small hawsers, and made fast to the mizzen-mast.
“She’s ours!” cried John Paul Jones. “Seize that anchor and splice it down hard!”
As he spoke, the fluke of the starboard anchor of theSerapishooked in the mizzen chains. It was lashed fast, and theRichardhad been saved.
Rattle! Rattle! Crash!sounded the muskets of the French marines. The English tried to cut their anchor chains and get free, but all who attempted to sever these hawsers were struck dead by the accurate balls from the marksmen on the poop-deck and round-house of theRichard.
“I demand your surrender!” shouted Pearson.
From an old print.
From an old print.
“THEY SWARMED INTO THE FORECASTLE AMIDST FIERCE CHEERS.”
“Surrender?” cried John Paul Jones. “Why, I am just beginning to fight!”
Then he turned to John Mayrant, who stood ready to rush across the hammock-nettings into the waist of the enemy’s ship. Twenty-seven sailors were nearby, each with a cutlass and two ship’s pistols.
“Board ’em!” he cried.
Over the rail went the seamen—monkey-wise—over the rail, John Mayrant leading with a dirk in his teeth, like a Bermuda pirate. They swarmed into the forecastle amidst fierce cheers, the rattle of musketry, and the hiss of flames. Just at the moment that John Mayrant’s feet struck the enemy’s deck, a sailor thrust a boarding-pike through the fleshy part of his right thigh.Crack!a pistol spat at him, and he fell prostrate.
“Remember Portsea jail! Remember Portsea jail!” cried the dauntless raider, rushing down into the forecastle with his wild, yelping sailors. Pearson stood there; crest-fallen—abashed.
Seizing the ensign-halyards of theSerapis, as the raging torrent of seamen rolled towards him, the brave English sea-captain hauled the flag of his ship to the deck.
TheRichardhad won!
“He has struck; stop firing! Come on board and take possession!” yelled Mayrant, running to the rail.
Lieutenant Dale heard him, and, swinging himself on the side of theSerapis, made his way to the quarter-deck, where Captain Pearson was standing. “I have the honor, sir, to be the first Lieutenant of thevessel alongside,” said he saluting. “It is the American Continental shipBon Homme Richard, under command of Commodore Paul Jones. What vessel is this?”
“His Britannic Majesty’s late man-of-war theSerapis, sir,” was the sad response, “and I am Captain Richard Pearson.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said the American officer, “in the haste of the moment I forgot to inform you that my name is Richard Dale and I must request you to pass on board the vessel alongside.”
Pearson nodded dejectedly.
As he did so, the first Lieutenant of theSerapiscame up from below, and, looking at Captain Pearson, asked,
“Has the enemy struck, sir?”
“No, sir!Ihave struck!” was the sad reply.
“Then, I will go below and order our men to cease firing,” continued the English Lieutenant.
But Lieutenant Dale interrupted.
“Pardon me, sir,” said he, “I will attend to that; and, as for yourself, please accompany Captain Pearson on board the ship alongside.”
With reluctant steps the two officers clambered aboard the batteredGood Richard, where Commodore Jones received them with much courtesy.
Bowing low, Captain Pearson offered him his sword. His first Lieutenant did likewise.
“Captain Pearson,” said the victorious John Paul, “you have fought heroically. You have worn this weapon to your own credit and to the honor of yourservice. I hope that your sovereign will suitably reward you.”
The British commander was the image of chagrin and despair. He bowed again, and then walked slowly into the cabin, followed by his crest-fallen Lieutenant.
It was nearly midnight. The full moon above—in a cloudless sky—made it almost as light as day. Seven feet of water were in the hold of theRichard; she had sunk so much that many shot-holes were below the water-line and could not be plugged. Nearly sixty of her crew lay dead upon her decks; more than a hundred and twenty were desperately wounded. Every twelve-pounder of the starboard broadside was either dismounted, or disabled. The starboard side, which had been opposite theSerapis’s eighteen-pounders, was driven so far in, that, but for a few frames and stanchions which remained, the whole gun-deck would have fallen through. She was afire, and the flames licked upward with an eager hiss.
“Take the wounded aboard theSerapis!” commanded Captain Jones. “We must desert our good ship!”
In an hour’s time all were upon the deck of the vanquished Britisher. No one was left on theRichardbut the dead. The torn and tattered flag was still flying from the gaff, and, as the battered sea-warrior gradually settled in the long swell, the unconquered ensign fluttered defiantly in the slight breeze. At length theBon Homme Richardplunged downwardby the head; her taffrail rose momentarily on high, and, with a hoarse roar of eddying bubbles and sucking air, the conqueror disappeared from view. To her immortal dead was bequeathed the flag which they had so desperately defended.
So ended the great battle. Thus Paul Jones had made his name immortal. And by it he was to be known for all time.
This was not the end of his career, by any means. He never again fought for the infant Republic of the United States. But he became an Admiral in the Russian Navy: battled valorously for the great Empress Catherine against the Turks, and died in Paris, July 18th, 1792.
Buried at the French capital, his body was disinterred in the year 1905, and brought to the United States, to be entombed with military honors, at Annapolis, Maryland.
Paul Jones loved brave men. The braver they were the more he loved them. When he went ashore and happened to meet his old sailors—every one of whom he knew and called by his first name—they seldom failed to strip his pockets of the last shilling. He was generous to a fault and faithful to his friends. His time, his purse, his influence were always at the call of those who had served under him. A typical sea-dog: a brave fighter,—
Then, why not give three times three for John Paul Jones?
Are you ready?
’Tis of a gallant, Yankee ship that flew the Stripes and Stars,And the whistling wind from the west-nor’-west blew through her pitch-pine spars:With her starboard tacks aboard, my Boys, she hung upon the gale;On the Autumn night, that we passed the light, on the old Head of Kinsale.It was a clear and cloudless eve, and the wind blew steady and strong,As gayly, o’er the sparkling deep, our good ship bowled along;With the foaming seas beneath her bow, the fiery waves she spread,And, bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.There was no talk of short’ning sail, by him who walked the poop,And, under the press of her pounding jib, the boom bent like a hoop!And the groaning, moaning water-ways, told the strain that held the tack,But, he only laughed, as he glanced aloft, at the white and silvery track.The mid-tide met in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore,And the mist hung heavy upon the land, from Featherstone to Dunmore,And that sterling light in Tusker Rock, where the old bell tolls each hour,And the beacon light, that shone so bright, was quenched on Waterford tower.What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?’Tis time that our good ship hauled her wind, abreast the old Saltees,For, by her pond’rous press of sail, and by her consorts four,We saw that our morning visitor, was a British Man-of-War.Up spoke our noble Captain—then—as a shot ahead of us passed,—“Haul snug your flowing courses! Lay your topsail to the mast!”Those Englishmen gave three loud cheers, from the deck of their covered ark,And, we answered back by a solid broad-side, from the side of our patriot barque.“Out booms! Out booms!” our skipper cried, “Out booms! and give her sheet!”And the swiftest keel that e’er was launched, shot ahead of the British fleet,’Midst a thundering shower of shot,—and with stern-sails hoisting away,Down the North RacePaul Jonesdid steer, just at the break of day.
’Tis of a gallant, Yankee ship that flew the Stripes and Stars,And the whistling wind from the west-nor’-west blew through her pitch-pine spars:With her starboard tacks aboard, my Boys, she hung upon the gale;On the Autumn night, that we passed the light, on the old Head of Kinsale.
It was a clear and cloudless eve, and the wind blew steady and strong,As gayly, o’er the sparkling deep, our good ship bowled along;With the foaming seas beneath her bow, the fiery waves she spread,And, bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.
There was no talk of short’ning sail, by him who walked the poop,And, under the press of her pounding jib, the boom bent like a hoop!And the groaning, moaning water-ways, told the strain that held the tack,But, he only laughed, as he glanced aloft, at the white and silvery track.
The mid-tide met in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore,And the mist hung heavy upon the land, from Featherstone to Dunmore,And that sterling light in Tusker Rock, where the old bell tolls each hour,And the beacon light, that shone so bright, was quenched on Waterford tower.
What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?’Tis time that our good ship hauled her wind, abreast the old Saltees,For, by her pond’rous press of sail, and by her consorts four,We saw that our morning visitor, was a British Man-of-War.
Up spoke our noble Captain—then—as a shot ahead of us passed,—“Haul snug your flowing courses! Lay your topsail to the mast!”Those Englishmen gave three loud cheers, from the deck of their covered ark,And, we answered back by a solid broad-side, from the side of our patriot barque.
“Out booms! Out booms!” our skipper cried, “Out booms! and give her sheet!”And the swiftest keel that e’er was launched, shot ahead of the British fleet,’Midst a thundering shower of shot,—and with stern-sails hoisting away,Down the North RacePaul Jonesdid steer, just at the break of day.
—Old Ballad.