In a tremendous storm he bore away, and after several days of gales and heavy seas, approached the shore of Scotland.
Taking several prizes near the Firth of Forth, he ascertained that a twenty-four-gun ship and two cutters were in the roads. These he determined to cut out, and, landing at Leith, lay the town under contribution.
The inhabitants supposed his little fleet to be English vessels in pursuit of Paul Jones; and a member of Parliament, a wealthy man in the place, sent off a boat requesting powder and balls to defend himself, as he said, against “the pirate Paul Jones.”
Jones very politely sent back the bearer with a barrel of powder expressing his regrets that he had no shot to spare.
Soon after this, he summoned the town to surrender, but the wind blowing steadily off the land, he could not approach with his vessel.
At length, however, the wind changed and the Richard stood boldly in for the shore. The inhabitants, as they saw her bearing steadily up towards the place, were filled with terror, and ran hither and thither in affright; but the good minister, Rev. Mr. Shirra, assembled his flock on the beach, to pray the Lord to deliver them from their enemies. He was an eccentric man, one of the quaintest of the quaint old Scot divines, so that his prayers, even in those days, were often quoted for their oddity and roughness.
Having gathered his congregation on the beach in full sight of the vessel, which under a press of canvas, was making a long tack that brought her close to the town, he knelt down on the sand and thus began:—
“Now, dear Lord, dinna ye think it a shame for ye to send this vile pirate to rob our folk o’ Kirkaldy; for ye ken they’re puir enow already and hae naething to spare.
“The wa the wind blaws he’ll be here in a jiffie, and wha kens what he may do! He’s nae too good for ony thing. Mickle’s the mischief he has dune already. He’ll burn their hooses, tak their very claes, and tirl them to the sark. And waes me! wha kens but the bluidy villain might tak their lives? The puir weemen are maist frightened out o’ their wits, and the bairns skirling after them.
“I canna think of it! I canna think of it! I hae been lang a faithful servant to ye, Lord; but gin ye dinna turn the wind about and blaw the scoundrel out of our gate, I’ll nae stir a foot. But will just sit here till the tide comes. Sae tak ye’r will o’t.”