“When the ship, d’ye see, becomes a wreck,And landsmen hoist the boat, sir,The sailor scorns to quit the deckWhile 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.”
“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.
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.
To their surprise, the Solebay now hoisted American colors too.
“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:
“Give her a good full, quartermaster.”
“A good full, sir,” replied Bill in a sailor’s musical singsong.
Paul Jones then ordered the square sails and then the studding sails set.
“Hooray for Cap’n Paul Jones!”
“Hooray for Cap’n Paul Jones!”
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.
One of the officers went up to him, and returned laughing too:
“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:
“Three cheers for Cap’n Paul Jones!”
“Hooray! hooray! hooray!” piped Danny Dixon’s shrill treble.
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.
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.”
“I’d ruther wait on you, sir,” promptly answered Danny.
“But your share of prize money would be larger if you were rated as a seaman apprentice, instead of merely a ship’s boy.”
“I’d ruther wait on you, sir—”
“And then you’d stand a chance of being rated as an able seaman in two or three years.”
“I’d ruther wait on you, sir,” doggedly answered Danny.
Paul Jones smiled, and said no more.
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 towe—’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 believeyou, 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 havecarte blanchefor 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 Statesthat 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.
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.”
A shout of applause greeted these brave words.
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:
“This is the United States ship Ranger, and you are her prize.”
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.”
“I know it, sir. But I ain’t afraid o’ nothin’.”
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.
The Ranger and the Drake.
The Ranger and the Drake.
“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.
“It is the Drake, sir; sloop of war.”
“Of how many guns?”
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.”
“And who commands her?”
“Burden, sir; Cap’n Burden they calls him.”
Paul Jones’s eyes gleamed. No better news could be brought him.
“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 swordWe will die or conquer here.To your posts, my faithful tars!Mind your rigging, guns, and spars!’
“‘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.”
The men fully believed him.
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.
“What ship is that?” was called from the boat.
Paul Jones, standing at Stacy’s elbow, told him in a low voice what to say.
“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:
“What ship is that?”
“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.”