“Thankee for that ’ere private signal!” And a roar of laughter from the foks’l showed the sailors’ appreciation of the joke. But the pilots went off well satisfied with their fee and perfectly unsuspicious.
As soon as the pilot boat was out of sight, Bill Green, under Dale’s orders, hoisted the private signal, and lay near the mouth of the river. The armed vessel came a little way down the stream, but something aroused her suspicions, and she put back hastily. The entrance to the Humber being very difficult and dangerous, Paul Jones concluded not to attempt it, but to cruise around Flamborough Head, in the hope of rejoining his consorts, the Pallas and the Vengeance, and also with the hope of intercepting the Baltic fleet, which was due about that time.
This was the night of the 22d of September, the turning point in the career of Paul Jones, and it was one of the most miserable nights he had ever spent in all his adventurous life. The time of his cruise was now up, and upon joining the other two ships it would be his duty to proceed to the Texel, after a fruitless and inglorious expedition. After having endured all the agony of hope deferred, of suspense and almost of despair for fifteen months, he had at last got to sea in a miserable old hulk that was only a travesty on the fair frigate that he had hoped to command. He had lost one of his best officers and twenty-three of his men. More than half his squadron had deserted him, and he had been humiliated by the insubordination of a French captain that he could not properly punish without incurring the displeasure of the only ally that his distressed and struggling country could claim. He had taken a few prizes, most of which had been lost by caprice or folly, and he was now about to return to bear all the shame of failure, for to Paul Jones’s lofty and comprehensive mind the lack of brilliant success was failure.
A spirit of fierce unrest seemed to possess him as he walked the quarter-deck of the Bon Homme Richard while the twilight fell on that September evening. The darkness came on fast, and with it a fresh but fickle wind. The moon was near its full, and as it rose from the water it cast a pale and spectral glare over the vast expanse of the North Sea. Clouds were scudding wildly across the sky, and occasionally the moon was obscured for long periods. It was one of those ghastly nights when misfortune and sorrow and disappointment seem to brood over the universe.
The Bon Homme Richard was under easy canvas, and the crew were sitting around the foks’l after their day’s work was done, listening to yarns and songs. Presently, in the stillness of the September night, Paul Jones heard Bill Green’s rich voice singing. Scarcely knowing why he did it, so heavy was the weight upon his heart, Paul Jones walked quietly along the deck, and, leaning over the rail, unobserved by the men, he listened to the song. It was sad enough, and the air had a melancholy beauty in it that went to his very soul. It struck him with the deadly chill of a presentiment. The men, too, listened with a subdued and silent attention. This was the song:
Call the watch! Call the watch!
Ho! the starboard watch, ahoy! Have you heard
How a noble ship, so trim, like our own, my hearties, here,
All scudding ’fore the gale, disappeared
When yon southern billows rolled o’er their bed so green and clear?