“I have the best crew I have ever seen,” said he. “I believe it is the best in the world. They are nearly all native Americans, and the proportion of able seamen to the total is much beyond the average. I’m going to make one or two short runs off the coast—a day or two at a time—to shake down the sails and find the best trim of the ship. Then away to the shores of England and France!”
He waited impatiently for orders to proceed across the blue Atlantic. On October the 18th, 1777, a courier raced frantically into Portsmouth, crying,
“Burgoyne has surrendered! Burgoyne has surrendered!” And Jones’ impatience to be off increased ten-fold.
There were no details of the American victory, for the courier had reached the sleepy New England town from the field of Stillwater, in about thirty hours, and it was one hundred and forty-seven miles—as the crow flies—or, about one hundred and seventy-five by the shortest road. He had stopped only long enough to saddle a fresh horse and shift his saddle, eating his meals in the stirrups, and never thinking of rest until he had shouted his tidings for three full days. The patriot country was wild with enthusiasm.
“I will spread the news in France in thirty days,” said Jones, when his dispatches were placed in his hands, about midnight of October the thirty-first. And, running by the whirling eddies of “Pull-and-be-damned” Point, he soon had the Ranger clear of the low-lying Isle of Shoals: the sea cross and choppy, but the good ship bowling along before a fresh gale of wind.
“I had sailed with many Captains,” writes Elijah Hall, second Lieutenant of the staunch, little vessel, “but I never had seen a ship crowded as Captain Jones drove the Ranger. The wind held northeasterly and fresh ’til we cleared Sable Island and began to draw on to the Banks. Then it came northeast and east-northeast with many snow squalls, and thick of nights.”
Imagine the situation of the Ranger’s crew, with a top-heavy, cranky ship under their feet, and a Commander who day and night insisted on every rag she could stagger under, without laying clear down!
As it was, she came close to beam-ends more than once, and on one occasion righted only by letting-fly her sheets cut with hatchets. During all this trying work Captain Jones was his own navigating officer, keeping the deck eighteen or twenty hours out of the twenty-four; often serving extra grog to the men with his own hands; and, by his example, silencing all disposition to grumble. In the worst of it, the watch and watch was lap-watched, so that the men would be eight hours on to four off; but no one complained. It speaks well alike for commander and crew that not a man was punished or even severely reprimanded during the terrific voyage.
But Captain Jones made good his boast. He actually did land at Nantes—upon the coast of France—early in the morning of December second, 1777, thirty-two days out from Portsmouth. His crew were jubilant, and sang a song which ran:
“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!”