CHAPTER VIII.

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.

“I ask you, for the third time, what ship is that?”

“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 tryTo make Columbia’s colors fly.Haul away! Yo ho, boys!”

“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!”

“Haul away! Yo ho, boys!”

“Yankee sailors when at sea,Haul away! Yo ho, boys!Pipe all hands with merry gleeWhile 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 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 ragThe world combined shall never bragThey made us strike the Yankee flag.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.

“Haul away! Yo ho, boys!”

“Haul away! Yo ho, boys!”

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.

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 songIknows 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 oldrégimeof 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.

“This is Commodore Jones, I presume, and I am Lieutenant Dale,” he said.

Paul Jones grasped his hand cordially.

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

Dale shook his head and smiled.

“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.

“Were you ordered to report to me, Mr. Dale?” asked Paul Jones.

“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.’”

Paul Jones took off his cap at the mention of Dr. Franklin’s name.

“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.”

“Lord knows I does,” earnestly responded Danny.

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.

“Let’s have it, quartermaster,” said the boatswain.

“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.Igot 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.

“‘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.

“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 waitTo meet the veteran enemy.

“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 prepareAs ship to ship, approaching fast,All calm and silent, down we bear.

“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 setWhich long had awed the subject main.

“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 nailsThat flag; for, carried by the deck,Like shattered oaks in wintry gales,Each, crashing, falls—a lumbering wreck.

“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.

“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 crewA leeward gun, reluctant, fire.

“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 sleepArise, your tars, your rights to save!Thus guard their freedom on the deep,Thus claim your empire on the wave!”

“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.

“What do you mean?” asked Paul Jones calmly.

“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.

“Do you know the Irish coast?” he asked.

“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:

“But you lost your boats through the folly of attacking with them.”

“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.”

Paul Jones then said coolly, “M. de Landais, your boat is ready.”

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.

Paul Jones turned to De Chamillard and Weibert in deep agitation.

“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.”

“And we will remember it,” answered De Chamillard, also much moved.

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.


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