The top-heavy little Ranger, with her acre of canvas, heels over until, with decks awash, she glides eastward like a ghost.
“Pipe all hands aft, Mr. Bo’sen!” commands Captain Paul Jones.
Boatswain Jack Robinson puts his whistle to his lips, and sends a shrill call singing through the ship. The crew come scampering aft; all save a contingent aloft, who race down by the backstays, claw under claw, as might so many cats. Some of our old friends of the Providence are there—the aquatic Scipio and Cato, with the little red Indian port-fire, Anthony Jeremiah.
“My men,” cries Captain Paul Jones, “we’re off for France. We shall meet nasty weather, for it’s the beginning of winter, and I shall steer the northern course. It is to be a case of crack-on canvas, foul weather or fair: and, since the ship is oversparred and cranky, we must mind her day and night. To make all safe, the watch shall be lap-watched, so as to keep plenty of hands on deck. This will double your work, but I shall also double your grog. Now, my hearties, let every man among you do his duty by flag and ship. Burgoyne has surrendered, and it’s for us to carry the word to France.”
“Shipmates,” observes Boatswain Jack Robinson, judgmatically, as the hands go tumbling forward, “shipmates, the old Ranger is a damned comfortable ship. ‘Double watches, double work!’ says the skipper; but also ‘Double grog!’ says he. Wherefore, I says again, the old Ranger is a damned comfortable ship.”
Eight bells now, breakfast; and the Isles of Shoals are vanishing over the Ranger’s stern. Suddenly a boyish voice strikes up:
“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 France.”