With John Paul Jones

by John T. McIntyre

There came a dimness to the boy’s eyes and he patted the old trooper upon the back.

“You cared a very great deal for my father, didn’t you, Longsword?”

“I did,” said the other steadily, looking straight before him with unwinking eyes, “and I think as much of your father’s son, faith.”

“I know that, old friend. You’ve been with me through everything. You even gave up your hopes of meeting the British in battle to be with me here in Philadelphia.”

“It was a hard wrench,” spoke Shamus, a note of regret in his voice, “but the war is not over, Master Ethan, and I have hopes that we two will see service yet.”

There was some more talk of a like nature, and then Ethan went back to his work upon Mr. Jefferson’s papers, while the ex-dragoon went outside the south door and paced slowly up and down in the warm sunlight. Ethan’s father had been a British cavalry major who sold out and emigrated to Virginia. Upon a visit to New Orleans he met and married the daughter of a French merchant and engaged with the old man in his business. Clarette & Co. had many ships in the Gulf, and Ethan was practically raised on board of them, as his father was continually voyaging from one place to another in search of trade. In those days the Gulf and the Caribbean swarmed with buccaneers, and every merchantman was armed and strongly manned; the ships of Clarette & Co. were often called upon to defend themselves from these rovers, and some of Ethan’s most vivid recollections were of shot-swept decks and men leaping back from the cut of Shamus O’Moore’s mighty brass-hilted sword.

The Irish dragoon had been his father’s orderly in the English army, and had come to America with him; Major Carlyle was an Oxford man, and attended to his son’s education himself while at sea; but it was the grim, hard visaged Shamus that taught him how to develop his muscles to the hardness of steel, and how to use cutlass, sabre, pike, bayonet and small-sword. The Irishman had spent years in the study of arms; his sword-play had been the marvel of the British army when he served in the Inniskillens, and had earned for him the name of “Longsword.” Day by day this master of fence had drilled the boy in sword-play. But in spite of his aptness, Ethan never drew a word of praise from Longsword, who continued to labor with him, between decks, in the dog watches, relentlessly, remorselessly, mercilessly. The boy could close his eyes in his bunk, during his watch below, and still see the angular, powerful figure of the dragoon before him; he could see the light from the ports falling upon the scarlet scar that crossed his face, he could see the flashing of the heavy double-edged sword and the constant movement of the tireless arm. He never complained at the labor of the drill.

But one day as they were in the midst of a lesson that had lasted above an hour, Ethan in a sudden burst of impatience had refused to give way before the dragoon’s heavy attack; a desperate rally ensued, and to the astonishment of the watching sailors, the boy actually drove Shamus back before a storm of lightning-like blows. And then Longsword threw down his blade, uttered a wild Irish whoop that rang through the ship, sprang forward and clutched his pupil in a bear-like hug.

“At last!” he exulted. “Ye’ve done it at last. I’ve taught ye all I know, and I’ve only been waiting to have ye use it on meself to get the feel of it. There will be no more lessons, Master Ethan; all ye need is strength and weight, and then faith, even Shamus O’Moore will be careful how he stands forninst ye!”

These things were running through Ethan Carlyle’s head as he sorted over the papers of Mr. Jefferson. At last Congress adjourned, and the members streamed out of the building and down the quiet street. Then Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Hancock entered the room with quiet steps. The boy arose and bowed and then was about to go on with his work, when his employer said: