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.