By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL

DECATUR AND SOMERS

LITTLE JARVIS

PAUL JONES

The guns broke loose.

PAUL JONES

BY
MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL

AUTHOR OF
LITTLE JARVIS, MIDSHIPMAN PAULDING, CHILDREN OF DESTINY, MAID MARIAN, THROCKMORTON, ETC.

D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY
INCORPORATED
NEW YORK LONDON
1936

Printed in the United States of America.

INTRODUCTION.

“The fame of the brave outlives him; his portion is immortality.” From the funeral discourse pronounced over Paul Jones.

The writer feels the most sincere diffidence in making use of the mighty name and personality of Paul Jones, who, as Cooper justly says, was not only a great seaman but a great man. An excuse, however, is not wanting. It is justifiable and profitable to bring before the eyes of American youth this heroic figure, and if it be done inadequately, the fault is not in the intention. It is not too much to say that the achievements of Paul Jones, the ranking officer in the Continental marine, had much to do with placing the American navy upon that lofty plane of skill and intrepidity which can only be matched by England, the Mistress of the Seas.

Strangely enough, Paul Jones is but little known to the multitude, and the misrepresentations concerning him that occasionally appear in print to this day are the more inexcusable because few public men ever left a more complete record. This record has been carefully studied by the writer, and, although this story is professedly and confessedly a romance, history has been consulted at every point. Log books, journals, and biographies have been searched, especially the logs, journals, and letters of Paul Jones himself. Much relating to him has been left out, but nothing of consequence has been put in that is not historically true. The language ascribed to him is, whenever possible, that used by him at the time, or afterward, in his letters and journals. When it is wholly imaginary it is made consistent, as far as lies in the writer’s power, with what is known of his mode of expression. The mere recital of Paul Jones’s actual adventures is a thrilling romance, and his character was so powerfully romantic and imaginative that it lends itself readily to idealization. But he is more than the type of mere daring. Technical authors write of him with the most profound admiration, and among naval men of all nations he stands as the model of resource as well as boldness. His plans were far-reaching, and his most hazardous undertakings were inspired by a sublime common sense. John Adams said of him: “If I could see a prospect of half a dozen line-of-battle ships under the American flag and commanded by Commodore Paul Jones engaged with an equal British force, I apprehend the result would be so glorious for the United States, and lay so sure a foundation for their prosperity, that it would be a rich compensation for the continuance of the war.” And Franklin, his steadfast friend, in one noble sentence described him: “For Captain Paul Jones ever loved close fighting.” Washington, Lafayette, Jefferson, and Morris esteemed him, and left evidence of it. Nor did his enemies fail to pay him the compliment of wishing to ruin him, for at one time there were forty-two British frigates and line-of-battle ships scouring the seas for him. He was the first to raise the American flag on the ocean, and so well did he maintain its honor that he kept it flying in the Texel, with thirteen double-decked Dutch frigates menacing him in the harbor, while twelve British ships lay in wait for him outside. He was offered comparative security if he would hoist the French ensign and accept a commission in the French navy. More than that, he was told that unless he agreed to this he must give up the splendid trophy of his valor, the captured British frigate Serapis—“the finest ship of her class I ever saw,” he wrote. But cruel as this last alternative was, Paul Jones unhesitatingly transferred his flag from the beautiful Serapis to the inferior Alliance and got to sea in the face of the British fleet, with his “best American ensign flying,” as he himself wrote at the moment. Well might Paul Jones say proudly to the American Congress: “I have never borne arms under any but the American flag, nor have I ever borne or acted under any commission except that of the Congress of America.”

He served without pay or allowance, and made advances out of his private fortune to the cause of independence. He was wounded many times in his “twenty-three battles and solemn rencounters by sea,” as he expressed it. Yet there is not one word of his wounds in any line of his official correspondence, although the wounds of others are frequently called to the attention of the Congress. He fought whenever he had a chance, and he was never defeated. The two British war-ships he captured were taken in the face of enormous odds and within sight of the three kingdoms, when both seas and shores were swarming with his enemies. The captain who surrendered to him was made a baronet for the defense of the British ship. What, then, must have been the splendor of the attack! Truly, Paul Jones deserved well of his country, and he was not without proof of its gratitude. He was unanimously elected the ranking officer of the American navy by the Continental Congress, which also gave him a gold medal and the thanks of Congress. France showed her appreciation of his services by awarding him the cross of the order of Military Merit, never before given a foreigner, and a gold sword. Thus was the splendid roll of American sea officers made lustrous from the beginning by the name of Paul Jones.

The words of Lamartine about the great profession in which Paul Jones served gloriously, and the language of Cooper regarding Paul Jones himself, may be quoted. Lamartine says: “Among the illustrious men who have filled the foremost ranks in great contests, men have always been most dazzled and interested by the heroes of the sea.... The variety and extent of natural and acquired faculties which must of necessity be united in one individual to constitute a great seaman, astonish the mind and raise the perfect sailor beyond all comparison above all other warriors.”

Cooper says: “In battle, Paul Jones was brave; in enterprise, hardy and original; in victory, mild and generous; in motives, much disposed to disinterestedness, although ambitious of renown and covetous of distinction; in his pecuniary relations, liberal; in his affections, natural and sincere; and in his temper, except in those cases which assailed his reputation, just and forgiving.” Moreover, he was a true and patriotic American, and, except Columbus, the Admiral of the Ocean Seas, Paul Jones was the very boldest man who ever sailed blue water.

Molly Elliot Seawell.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

FACING PAGE [The guns broke loose]Frontispiece [“Hooray for Cap’n Paul Jones!”]23 [The Ranger and the Drake]43 [“Haul away! Yo ho, boys!”]50 [At the first discharge two of the guns burst]93 [Battle of the Bonhomme Richard and the Serapis]102 [Paul Jones and Franklin at the Court of Louis XVI]147 [Paul Jones]162

PAUL JONES.

CHAPTER I.

On a bright day in January, 1776, a lithe, handsome young man, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the Continental navy, stood on the dock at Philadelphia gazing keenly down the river. His eyes were peculiarly black and beautiful, and had an expression of command in them that is seldom absent from those of a man born to lead other men. His figure was slight, and he was not above medium height; but he was both graceful and muscular.

The river was frozen, except a tortuous channel cut through the ice and kept open with difficulty. Innumerable masts and spars made a network against the dull blue of the winter sky, and fringed the docks and wharves; while far down the glittering sea of ice lay a small squadron of five armed vessels, which was the beginning of the glorious navy of the United States.

This young lieutenant, Paul Jones by name, looked about for a boat to take him down the river to the squadron; and seeing a ragged, bright-eyed boy about twelve years old sitting in a rickety skiff from which a passenger had just been landed, he called the boy, and, jumping lightly into the boat, said:

“Take me to that ship over yonder with ‘Alfred’ painted on her stern.”

The boy pulled away with a will, but kept his eyes fixed on Paul Jones’s uniform and the sword which lay across his knee.

“Them ships is to fight the British, ain’t they?” he asked presently, jerking his head toward the ships then just collected in the river, whose crews and armaments were yet to be provided.

“Yes,” answered Paul Jones, smiling. “If you were a man I would enlist you.”

The boy said nothing more, but pulled steadily toward the Alfred. When they reached the side of the ship her decks were heaped with coils of rope, piles of shot, some unmounted guns, and all the litter of a merchant vessel being converted into a man-of-war. But the Alfred, although not built for fighting, was yet a stanch little ship, and when armed and manned had no cause to run away from any vessel of her class.

Paul Jones studied her with the eye of a seaman, as they approached. Meanwhile a crowd of strange thoughts rushed upon him. “At last,” he thought to himself, “I am at the beginning of my career. A poor Scotch gardener’s son, shipping as a common sailor boy because there were so many mouths to feed at home—coming, at thirteen, to this new country that I have learned to love so well—left a modest fortune, and rising to the command of a ship before I was twenty, I determined to cast my fate with these people, to whom I owe all the kindness I ever knew, and I was proud to be among the first to raise my arm in the defense of these colonies against tyranny. All those I loved as a child in Scotland are dead, and all that is now dear to me is in my adopted country. The cause of these colonies is a just one, and I could no more refuse to fight for that cause than any man born here. The chances for success and promotion are all with the army; our few small vessels can hope for but little in contests with England, the Mistress of the Seas; but I think I was born a sailor, and my heart turns ever toward blue water. The day that I received my commission as a lieutenant in the Continental navy was surely the most blessed and fortunate of my life, and my adopted country shall never have cause to regret giving it me.” Deep in his heart Paul Jones had a strange feeling that glory awaited him; for those destined to immortality have mysterious foreknowledge of it.

Occupied with these thoughts, Paul Jones did not come out of his daydream until the boat’s nose touched the accommodation ladder over the Alfred’s side. He rose with a start, and held out a piece of money to the boy, who blushed, and shook his head.

“I don’t want no money,” he said diffidently, “for helpin’ my country.”

Paul Jones paused and looked steadily at the ragged lad, who looked back steadfastly at him.

“You seem to be rather an odd sort of boy—and, by my life, I like such boys,” said he. The quartermaster had then come down the ladder, and stood ready to salute as soon as he caught the young lieutenant’s eye. This man, Bill Green, was a remarkably handsome, bluff sailor of about forty-five, with a fine figure, and was dressed with as much care and neatness as if he were a quarter-deck officer. Paul Jones was instantly struck by his admirable appearance, and more so when he spoke. His voice was full and musical, and his manner extremely polite and respectful, without being in the least cringing. The lad, too, seemed taken by the quartermaster’s pleasant looks, and spoke again, after a moment, looking alternately from him to Paul Jones:

“I’m a very strong boy—and I allus thought I’d like to be a sailor. Won’t you take me now, sir, and let me fight the British?”

The quartermaster grinned broadly at this, but Paul Jones did not smile.

“What is your name, my lad?—and have you parents?”

“My name’s Danny Dixon, sir, and I ain’t got any father or mother or brothers or sisters; and I’d ruther be a sailor, sir, nor anything.”

Paul Jones looked hard at the boy, and then turned to the quartermaster.

“We’ll see if his story is true, and if it is—why, we shall have use for powder boys on this ship, and we might do worse than take this lad.”

“In course, sir,” responded Green. “I’ll find out something about him, and I’m thinkin’ he’d make a good, strong powder monkey and maybe he’s old enough to be helper to the jack-o’-the-dust.”

Danny’s eyes gleamed.

“I’ll go ashore now, sir, and bring you back some one to prove who I am,” he cried eagerly; and Paul Jones had to step hurriedly out of the boat to keep from being carried back to the dock, so keen was the boy to put off. And in two hours he was back again on the Alfred, and regularly entered on the ship’s books.

“Because,” said Bill Green, who was a foks’l wag, “when we comes to fightin’ the British, most likely the cap’n will call you up and make you a quarter gunner, or sumpin’ on the spot, boy; and you can’t git your share of the prize money if you ain’t entered on the ship’s books, reg’lar.”

Danny luckily did not mention his expectation of becoming a quarter gunner to Paul Jones, who, as first lieutenant, had charge of the ship in the absence of her captain. But he did ask that he might be put on the books so he could get his prize money; which the young lieutenant promised to do, laughing in spite of himself at Danny’s serious expectation of a considerable fortune in prize money.

Captain Saltonstall was to command the Alfred, but he had not yet arrived, and upon Paul Jones rested the duty of preparing the ship for sea. From the day his foot first touched the deck his active spirit pervaded everything, and the officers under him, as well as the men, felt the force of his commanding energy. Besides working all day, he and the other officers stood watch and watch on deck throughout the wintry nights, to prevent desertions; and although every other ship in the squadron had her crew lessened by desertion, not a single man was lost from the Alfred.

“And I’m a-thinkin’, mates,” remarked Bill Green, in the confidence of the foks’l, “as how we’ve got a leftenant as is a seaman; I seen it by the cut o’ his jib; and if he was the cap’n o’ this ’ere ship, he’d lock yardarms with a Britisher if he had half a chance.”

One day, in the midst of the bustle of fitting the ship out, Commodore Hopkins, who was to command the little squadron, came on board the Alfred. He was formally received at the gangway by Paul Jones and shown over the ship by him.

The commodore was a big, burly man, who had spent the best part of his life at sea. He examined the ship carefully, and his silence, as Paul Jones explained what he had done and was doing with the means at his command, made the young lieutenant fear that it had not met with the commodore’s approval. But, secure in the consciousness that he had done his duty, Paul Jones could afford to do without the praise of his superiors. He was not, however, destined to this mortification. Standing on the quarter-deck, surrounded by the officers, Commodore Hopkins turned to Paul Jones, and said:

“Your activity has pleased me extremely, and my confidence in you is such, that if Captain Saltonstall should be unable to reach here by the time the ships can get away, I shall hoist my flag on this ship, and give you the command of her.”

A flush rose in Paul Jones’s dark face, and he bowed with the graceful courtesy that always distinguished him.

“Thank you, commodore,” he said, “and may I be pardoned for hoping that Captain Saltonstall may not arrive in time? And when your flag is hoisted on the Alfred, there will be, I trust, a flag of the United Colonies to fly at the peak, and I aspire to be the first man to raise that flag upon the ocean.”

Commodore Hopkins smiled.

“If the Congress is as slow as I expect it to be, it will be some time yet in adopting a flag; and there will not be time to have one made for the ship before we sail.”

“I think there will, sir,” replied Paul Jones.

The young lieutenant had good reason for his expectation. The Congress had practically decided upon the flag, and Paul Jones, out of his own pocket, had bought the materials to make one. Bill Green was an expert with the needle, boasting that he could “hand, reef, and steer a needle like the best o’ them tailor men,” and was fully capable of making a flag.

On a stormy February day, when the channel had been freed from ice enough for the little squadron to get out, the Alfred was made ready to receive her flag officer. Captain Saltonstall had arrived some days before, to Paul Jones’s intense disappointment. But he was as ready to do his duty as first lieutenant as he had been that hoped-for duty as acting captain.

The commodore’s boat was seen approaching on the wind tossed water. The horizon was overcast, and dun clouds scurried wildly across the troubled sky, with which the pale and wintry sun struggled vainly. The boatswain’s call, “All hands to muster!” sounded through the ship, and in a wonderfully short time, owing to the careful drilling of Paul Jones, the three hundred men and one hundred marines were drawn up on deck. The sailors, a fine-looking body of American seamen, were formed in ranks on the port side of the quarter-deck, while abaft of them stood the marine guard, under arms. On the starboard side were the petty officers, and on the quarter-deck proper were the commissioned officers in full uniform with their swords, and Paul Jones headed the line.

When it was reported, “All hands up and aft!” Captain Saltonstall appeared out of the cabin. Paul Jones, having previously arranged it, called out, “Quartermaster!” and Bill Green, neat, handsome and sailorlike, stepped from the ranks of the petty officers.

From some unknown regions about his clothes Bill produced a flag, rolled up, and, following Paul Jones, stepped briskly aft to the flagstaff. He affixed the flag to the halyards, along with the broad pennant of a commodore, saw that they worked properly, and then stood by. The commodore’s boat was then at the ladder, and the commodore came over the side. Just as his foot touched the quarter-deck the flag with the pennant flew up on the staff like magic, under Paul Jones’s hands, the breeze caught it and flung it wide to the free air, and the sun, suddenly bursting out, bathed it in glory. Every officer, from the commodore down, instantly removed his cap, the drummer boys beat a double ruffle on the drums, and a tremendous cheer burst from the sailors and marines. As Paul Jones advanced, Commodore Hopkins said to him:

“I congratulate you upon your enterprise. The flag was only adopted in Congress yesterday, and this one is the very first to fly.”[1]

“Such was my hope, sir,” answered Paul Jones, modestly. “I wished the honor of hoisting the flag of freedom the first time it was ever displayed; and this man,” pointing to Bill Green, who stood smiling behind him, “sat up all last night in order to make this ensign for the ship—an ensign which will ever be attended with veneration upon the ocean.”

Bill Green came in for his share of congratulation too; and as if the appearance of the flag had bewitched the wind, it suddenly shifted to fair, the sun came out brilliantly, and within half an hour the squadron of five ships—the Columbus, the Andrew Doria, the Sebastian Cabot, and the Providence, led by the Alfred—had spread all their canvas, and were winging swiftly toward the free and open sea.

CHAPTER II.

The first enterprise determined upon was an expedition to the island of New Providence, in the West Indies. On the 17th of February the squadron had set sail from the Delaware, and on the morning of the 1st of March it appeared off the harbor of New Providence. There were two forts to protect the town, but at that moment there was not a soldier on the island. When the American squadron was sighted, though, an alarm gun was fired, and the inhabitants manned the forts and turned the guns on the American vessels just outside the bar. The little American squadron carried only two hundred marines, and it was determined to land them under the fire of the ships; but owing to the bar at the mouth of the harbor the Alfred and the Columbus could not pass in; only the smaller vessels could get in with any prospect of coming out at low tide. From the lack of charts, the Americans had to take great risks in finding safe anchorages. But the pilot taken on board the Alfred declared that he knew of an anchorage, under a key three leagues to windward of the harbor, where the larger vessels might safely await the result of the attack on the town. This news was carried to Commodore Hopkins as he restlessly paced the Alfred’s deck, looking at the white-walled town lying before him in the warm March sunshine.

“But, Mr. Jones,” said he to Paul Jones, who had brought the pilot aboard, “how can we answer for the faithfulness of these pilots? They may cheerfully take the risk of being lost along with us rather than put us in a position to take the town.”

“Quite true, sir,” answered Paul Jones, “but if you will give me leave, I will undertake, with this pilot, to carry the ship to a safe anchorage, and I will answer for it with my commission if I do not take her safely.”

“Very well, then,” replied the commodore; “if you will assume the responsibility, I will trust the ship.”

It had then fallen dead calm, and all through the long spring day they waited for a puff of wind. The short twilight of the tropics was upon them before the wind sprang up again. At the first breeze the Alfred set every sail that would draw, and, followed by the Columbus, headed for the key. The sky was a deep rose-red in the west, and overhead of a pale and luminous green. The full moon was rising, round and yellow, over the town, and a few solitary stars twinkled in the vast expanse of the sky. Paul Jones, followed by the pilot, went aloft to the foretopmast head, where a clear view of everything was to be had. In the deep and breathless silence every occasional sound could be heard, and scarcely a word was uttered except the orders, as the ship ran down the chain of islands, with a fair wind, in the moonlit night. Bill Green was at the wheel, while three or four officers, stationed at various points along the deck, repeated the orders called out in Paul Jones’s clear and penetrating voice, so that no mistake might be made. A man on the port side and another on the starboard kept the lead going constantly. Commodore Hopkins and Captain Saltonstall paced the deck together.

At intervals Paul Jones’s voice would be heard calling out:

“Port a little—hard aport—steady!” While the man with the lead on the starboard side would sing musically, in the peculiar cadence used in sounding:

“And a quarter—less—six.”

This meant they were in five and three quarter fathoms—plenty of water for the ship. The sailor sounding on the port side would sing in the same key:

“And a quarter—less—six.”

Paul Jones, with every nerve strained, listened to the soundings, the sweet call ringing softly in the half darkness as the ship glided through the purple night. Sometimes she was in the full light of the moon, and then a shadow would descend upon the sea, and she would slip through it like a phantom ship. Two cables’ length off, the Columbus followed in her wake. Once the man sang out:

“And a quarter—past—three!”

Every soul on board gave a gasp—the water was getting shoal; and Paul Jones shouted quickly from the fore-topmast, “Starboard—starboard your helm!” The next sounding was four and a half fathoms, and at last, just as the moon emerged in splendor from a thin white cloud, the Alfred rounded the key, and the cable rattled out noisily as the anchor was dropped in six fathoms of water. Paul Jones felt as if a hand clutching his heart had been suddenly loosed. He had piloted the ship safely, and had anchored her; his commission was safe; and he was from that moment the best known junior officer in the squadron.

Next morning the marines were landed, a large quantity of arms and stores were captured and embarked, and the squadron set sail for home.

CHAPTER III.

The morning of the 9th of April dawned clear and lovely. The American squadron, on its return from New Providence, was making its way cautiously along the New England coast, and although every part of it was swarming with British vessels, it was determined to take the squadron into Long Island Sound by the way of Narragansett Bay.

Paul Jones went about his arduous duties as first lieutenant with his usual steady determination, but at heart he cherished a secret dissatisfaction. His bold and enterprising spirit was not adapted to submission. He could obey, but his destiny was to command. Commodore Hopkins was a brave man, but he was not above the average in either enterprise or intelligence. Several strategic mistakes that he made during the affair at New Providence had not escaped the searching eye of Paul Jones, and he felt a dread of encountering the British then, for fear that the American commodore would not be equal to so great an occasion. He knew that they would have to run the gauntlet of Commodore Wallace’s fleet off Newport, and his brave heart trembled at the idea that all of glory possible would not be reaped.

The day passed, though, without any adventures. Numerous white sails were seen, but the squadron, sailing well together, was not molested. Although not disposed to decline a fight, the value of the arms and ammunition on board to the Continental army made Commodore Hopkins quite willing to “let sleeping dogs lie.” But this was contrary to the temperament of Paul Jones. He realized instinctively his capacity for meeting extraordinary dangers with extraordinary resources of mind and courage, and he could not but despise the risks that other men shunned.

Toward night they entered the blue waters of Narragansett Bay. A young moon hung trembling in the heavens, the sky was cloudless, and the stars shone brilliantly.

Although Paul Jones, being first lieutenant, had no watch on deck, he remained above. About midnight the lookout on the quarter made out Block Island, and almost at the same moment a cry was heard from the Cabot, known as “the black brig,” of “Sail, ho!”

“What do you think it is, Mr. Jones?” asked Commodore Hopkins, with night glass in hand, examining the shadowy form of a ship under light canvas about half a mile off.

“I think it is a British frigate, sir,” replied Paul Jones, after looking intently at her. “She is too small for a ship of the line, and she does not carry sail enough for a merchant vessel with a good wind. She is simply cruising about, and probably looking for us.”

The Cabot being in the lead, night signals were made to her to engage the attention of the stranger, which had tacked, and was now making straight for the American squadron. Paul Jones then, as first lieutenant, saw the captain’s orders carried out to clear the Alfred for action as quietly as possible. No drums were beat, and the men went silently to their quarters. The batteries were lighted up, but by keeping the ports closed as little was shown as possible. A string of battle lanterns was laid in a row on the gun deck by little Danny Dixon, who wagged his head knowingly at Bill Green, who happened to be passing, and remarked:

“I say, Mr. Green, there will be some prize money for we arter this.”

“No, there won’t,” answered Bill, gruffly. “This ’ere commodore, he ain’t got a very good appetite for fightin’. Now, if Mr. Jones was commandin’—”

Just as the words were out of his mouth the quartermaster turned suddenly and saw Paul Jones’s stern eyes fixed on him. The first lieutenant, on making his last round, had come unexpectedly upon Bill, who knew better than to express such opinions about the commodore.

A dead silence followed. Paul Jones did not speak, but the look in his eye commanded discretion to Bill, who immediately began fumbling about the lanterns and instructing Danny in his duty.

The incident, though, made a deep impression upon Paul Jones. “If that is the feeling among the men, there is little hope of capturing the British ship,” he thought bitterly to himself.

He then went above, and just as his foot touched the deck he heard the frigate, which was now close upon them, hail the black brig.

“Who are you, and where are you bound?”

The black brig answered: “This is the Betsy, from Plymouth. Who are you?”

Every ear was strained to catch the answer. It came ringing over the smooth water:

“This is His Majesty’s ship Glasgow, of twenty-four guns.”

It was now about half past two o’clock in the morning. The moon had gone down, and in the darkness the Glasgow evidently was ignorant of the character of the five vessels strung out together. The Cabot had now got very close on the lee bow of the Glasgow, and suddenly poured a broadside into her. Instantly the British ship seemed to wake up to her danger. She bore up and ran off to clear for action, but within a quarter of an hour she came up gallantly to engage the whole American squadron.

Paul Jones was in command of the gun deck. The Alfred was so heavily laden that she was down in the water almost to her portsills; the sea, however, being smooth, he was enabled to work his batteries whenever the manœuvres of the ship made it possible. The two ships finally got into such a position that they kept up a furious cannonade until daybreak. The Glasgow was hulled a number of times, her mainmast was crippled, and her sails and rigging almost destroyed; she had fifty-two shot through her mizzen staysail, one hundred and ten through her mainsail, and eighty-eight through her foresail, besides having her royal yards carried away. But she had disabled the Cabot at the second broadside, and then, concentrating her fire on the Alfred, the wheel block and ropes of the American ship were carried away, and she came up into the wind, giving the Glasgow a chance to pour in several raking broadsides before the ship could be brought on the wind again. Daylight coming, the Glasgow made signals to the rest of the British fleet, then plainly in sight, and the American drew off.

The action might be considered a draw, taking into account the damage done the British ship, and that she evidently had had enough of it. To the impetuous soul of Paul Jones though it seemed from the first to be what he afterward pronounced it—“the disgraceful affair with the Glasgow.”

From that hour there was no longer any confidence possible between him and Commodore Hopkins. The commodore had acted according to his best judgment; but he was not a Paul Jones. As Bill Green expressed it in the foks’l: “When the Glasgow went off howlin’ like a broken-legged dog, there oughter been somebody to stop her; and, mates, if Mr. Paul Jones had ’a’ been in command, we’d ’a’ had some prize money sure, as well as savin’ our credit.” Although there was a subtile estrangement between Commodore Hopkins and Paul Jones, each respected the other’s character. But it was more agreeable to the commodore to have Paul Jones anywhere than on the Alfred, so that in a very short while he was placed in command of the sloop of war Providence.

In manning the sloop, Commodore Hopkins gave Paul Jones the privilege of taking his petty officers from the crew of the Alfred. As soon as this was known Bill Green begged hard to be of the number, and so he was permitted to go.

In the bustle and excitement of the change Paul Jones had quite forgotten Danny Dixon. While making his final preparations in his cabin to change his quarters to the Providence, Danny appeared at the door with his best clothes on and a bundle in his hand.

“What is it, Danny?” asked Paul Jones kindly.

“Nothin’, sir,” answered Danny, “’cep’ I’m ready to go, sir, whenever you are.”

“What do you mean?” said Paul Jones, looking closely at the boy.

“Why, sir, ain’t I a-goin’ with you on the Providence?” replied Danny, in a surprised voice. “When I heard you had done got your orders, I went and made up my kit. Mr. Green, the quartermaster, come along, sir, and he says you axed for him to go with you, and that you had said you was goin’ to make me a boatswain’s mate, and for me to git my kit. I wanted to go with you anyhow, sir, though I didn’t expect to be nothin’ but a ship’s boy; but when you axed for me—”

The boy’s simplicity was so genuine that Paul Jones could not laugh at him. He only said, smiling a little:

“Very well. Green is to be my quartermaster, and I’ll see the captain, and perhaps he may let me have you.”

“Thankee, sir,” replied Danny gratefully, and sitting down outside the cabin door he kept his earnest eyes fixed on Paul Jones, like a dog on his master. Presently Paul Jones came out, and after a few words with the captain, Danny was told that he might go along with the new commander of the Providence. Paul Jones was touched by the boy’s devotion, and took him for the captain’s cabin boy.

Paul Jones had good reason to be satisfied with all the people he had brought from the Alfred. Bill Green, besides being a first-class quartermaster, was such a pleasant, cheery, waggish fellow that he kept everything forward in a good humor. Moreover, he had a very valuable talent—he could sing beautifully, and had a store of sea songs, some of which he had picked up in the British navy, where he had served some time, and others were patriotic songs which were often composed and much sung in those days. But Bill had a weakness—he always professed to have composed all his songs himself, and to have written them out, when it was a well-known fact that he could not write a word. He had signed the ship’s books with a cross instead of his name, which he explained by saying: “The officer, he was in a hurry, and it was gittin’ on toward my watch, and I didn’t have no half hour to spend writin’ ‘Bill Green,’ so I jest made a cross mark, not thinkin’ as how nobody would suspicion I couldn’t write; and then, it takes so much o’ my time to write my songs, I ain’t got none for to write my name.” All this was received with many sly winks by the men, but they were willing to humor the handsome quartermaster in anything, he was such a favorite with them. Bill, also, like other artists, liked to be urged. This, too, was fully understood, and he always yielded to pressure.

The Providence was a good sailer, but she carried only twelve small guns and seventy men. She was employed in transporting men and stores along the shores at the eastern entrance of Long Island Sound, and as this was done in the face of overwhelming British fleets, the address and seamanship of young Captain Jones was fully proved. So great was his success in eluding the British, that the Cerberus frigate made it an especial object to capture the little sloop. She got the Providence under her guns several times, but the sloop always managed to edge away. Once, while the Providence was convoying a brig loaded with military supplies for General Washington, the Cerberus caught sight of her and crowded on sail to overhaul her. Captain Jones signaled to the brig to get out of the way as fast as possible, while he manœuvred with studied awkwardness in sight of the Cerberus. On came the powerful frigate to crush the little sloop, but as soon as Paul Jones saw the brig safe, he made for shoal water, where the frigate dared not follow him, and escaped as night came on.

Early in August he was regularly commissioned as captain, and sailed for the Bermudas, on his first independent cruise. By that time the officers and men under him had come to know what manner of man he was, and looked forward to a glorious cruise with him.

It was characteristic of Paul Jones to make the best of all his opportunities, and he managed out of a feeble sloop to make an efficient and fast-sailing cruiser. He trimmed the ship so that she sailed well both on and off the wind, and he was thus in condition either to fight or run away, whichever he chose.

The officers and men were in fine spirits, and the very first evening out, as they sailed along with a spanking breeze, Bill Green piped up an inspiring song to his mates on the foks’l, which echoed even to the quarter-deck. The officers listened with pleasure, while Bill sung in his full, round, and musical baritone the following song:[2]

“When the anchor’s weighed and the ship’s unmoored,

And landsmen lag behind, sir,

The sailor joyfully skips on board,

And, swearing, prays for wind, sir.

Towing here,

Yeoing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free.

Is a sailor’s life at sea.

“When we sail with a freshening breeze,

And landsmen all grow sick, sir,

The sailor lolls with his mind at ease,

And the song and the glass go quick, sir.

Laughing here,

Quaffing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free,

Is a sailor’s life at sea.

“When the wind at night whistles over the deep,

And sings to landsmen dreary,

The sailor, fearless, goes to sleep,

Or takes his watch most cheery.

Boozing here,

Snoozing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free,

Is a sailor’s life at sea.

“When the sky grows black and the winds blow hard,

And landsmen skulk below, sir,

Jack mounts up to the topsail yard,

And turns his quid as he goes, sir.

Hauling here,

Bawling there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free,

Is a sailor’s life at sea.

“When the foaming waves run mountain high,

And landsmen cry, ‘All’s gone!’ sir,

The sailor hangs ’twixt sea and sky,

And jokes with Davy Jones, sir.

Dashing here,

Splashing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free,

Is a sailor’s life at sea.

“When the ship, d’ye see, becomes a wreck,

And landsmen hoist the boat, sir,

The sailor scorns to quit the deck

While there’s a single plank afloat, sir.

Swearing here,

Tearing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free,

Is a sailor’s life at sea.”

A loud chorus of cheers greeted the song, and Bill retired, covered with glory and embarrassment.

CHAPTER IV.

It was on the first day of September that the Providence sighted a large ship, which was mistaken for an Indiaman, homeward bound. She proved to be the Solebay, frigate, with twenty guns mounted on one deck. On seeing the Providence, the Solebay made for her, and the sloop had to take to her heels. But the Solebay proved to be a magnificent sailer on the wind, and the Providence had evidently more than her match in speed. The Providence, small as she was, had cleared for action, for, as Paul Jones declared, “I will give her one round, if I go to the bottom for it.” The men highly approved of this sentiment, and the little four-pounders were run out to salute the flag the Providence carried—because her fire was little more than a salute.

The day was warm and clear, and the breeze fresh. The little Providence was legging it briskly over the water, but the Solebay gained upon her every hour. The chase had begun about noon, and by four o’clock the frigate was within pistol shot. Paul Jones was on the horse block of his little vessel, and Bill Green was at the wheel. Danny Dixon had gravely prepared for action upon the sly hints given by his friend and patron, Bill. The boy had stripped to the waist, and, wrapping a handkerchief about his head, instead of his hat, was all ready to take his place at the head of the line of powder boys.

As the frigate gained more and more on the little Providence, every heart sank except that of the dauntless captain. Paul Jones, however, remained calm, and even confident.

“Look,” said he, “their guns in broadside are fast. They think they can take us by firing a bow chaser, but they are mistaken. What would be easier than to bear away before the wind under their broadside?”

The Providence had all her light canvas set, and was flying like a bird from her pursuer; but the pursuer was nevertheless perceptibly gaining.

“We will show our ensign as well as give her a volley,” cried Paul Jones gayly, and the next moment the American colors fluttered out.

To their surprise, the Solebay now hoisted American colors too.

“Lying, lying,” said Paul Jones, turning to his officers. “Would that we had such a vessel in our little navy! She is British, depend upon it. Her lines tell it too plainly.”

The Solebay though imagining that she was weathering on the chase and sure to capture the saucy American, soon hauled down her American colors and ran up the Union Jack.

The officers saw by the light in Paul Jones’s eyes that he still had a trump card to play. All this time he was walking the quarter-deck with his light and springy step, his face wearing a smile. Presently he called out himself to Bill Green, at the wheel:

“Give her a good full, quartermaster.”

“A good full, sir,” replied Bill in a sailor’s musical singsong.

Paul Jones then ordered the square sails and then the studding sails set.

“Hooray for Cap’n Paul Jones!”

The next moment the helm was put up, and before the astonished people on the Solebay knew what was happening, the American sloop of war ran directly under her enemy’s broadside and went off dead before the wind. The keen eyes of Paul Jones had noticed that in the Solebay’s fancied certainty of capturing the American she had not even cast loose and manned her batteries in broadside, thinking a shot or two from her bow guns would bring the Providence to when she was overhauled. But the Providence had a captain the like of which the Solebay had never met before, and he could dare and do unlooked-for things.

In vain the frigate came about in haste and confusion. Her prey was gone, and the Americans were cheering and jeering.

“Boy,” said Bill Green in a hoarse whisper to Danny Dixon, who was passing near him: “I can’t do no cheerin’ at the wheel, so you cheer for me; and if you don’t pipe up as loud as the best of ’em I’ll tan your hide for you the wust you ever see, jest as soon as my relief comes.”

Danny was disposed to cheer anyhow, but Bill Green’s promise of a licking in case he did not do his full duty in the matter, tended to encourage him. He took his stand by the foremast and a series of diabolical whoops and yells resounded. “Hooray!” bawled Danny. “Hooray for Cap’n Paul Jones! Hooray for the Providence! Hooray for Mr. Bill Green! Hooray for the powder monkeys on this ’ere ship!” and so on indefinitely.

“What is that youngster yelling?” asked Paul Jones, laughing at the gravity and persistence with which Danny kept up his performance.

One of the officers went up to him, and returned laughing too:

“He says, sir, that Green, the quartermaster, told him to hurrah, and if he doesn’t keep it up he is afraid Green will give him the cat.”

Everybody laughed, and they agreed the best plan was to let Danny and the quartermaster settle it between them. Danny hurrahed for a solid half hour, until Green’s relief came. The old sailor then went up to him, grinning.

“You can shet that potato-trap o’ yourn now,” he said, “and I’ll take a turn myself,” whereupon Bill, inflating his lungs, roared out solemnly:

“Three cheers for Cap’n Paul Jones!”

“Hooray! hooray! hooray!” piped Danny Dixon’s shrill treble.

Paul Jones’s daring exploit still further increased the respect that his officers and men felt, and they showed it in a hundred ways.

Three weeks now passed, and the Providence steered to the northern seas. One day, off Cape Sable, in Nova Scotia, the weather being brilliantly clear, Bill Green and others of the men asked permission to catch for their mess some of the fish that abounded. As they had been on salt provisions for a long time, Paul Jones readily gave the desired permission, and the ship was hove to. A sharp lookout was kept, however, but nothing occurred to disturb the men in their amusement, until toward afternoon, when a sail was made out to windward of them. Instantly the fishing came to a stop, and the Providence, setting some of her light sails, waited for the stranger on an easy bowline.

As the ship approached, Paul Jones plainly saw that she was no such sailer as the Solebay, and thought he could amuse himself with her.

“That vessel, I take it,” he remarked to his first lieutenant, “is the Milford frigate. I have expected to fall in with her, and we can outfoot her, that is clear.”

The Milford, however, began to chase. When she got within cannon shot Paul Jones doubled on her quarter; when, seeing he had the advantage of her in speed, he began to lead her a wild-goose chase. For eight hours the pursuit continued, the Providence keeping just out of range of the cannonade which the Milford kept up unceasingly, wasting in it enormous quantities of powder and shot. Paul Jones was much too astute to throw away any of his ammunition in a perfectly useless cannonade, but as he said, “I can not be so rude as to receive a salute without returning it.” Turning to his marine officer, he said:

“Direct one of your men to load his musket, and as often as the Milford salutes our flag with her great guns, we will reply with a musket shot at least.”

The officer, smiling, went after his man, and stationed him on the quarter-deck. The next time the slow-sailing frigate thundered out a tremendous volley, the marine, with his musket at his shoulder, stood ready for the word. The officer called out, “Fire!” and the marine banged away at the frigate amid the uproarious laughter and cheering of the American sailors. This was kept up for an hour or two, when, a good breeze springing up, the Providence set all her canvas and ran off, leaving the Milford completely in the lurch.

They had another brush with the Milford before the cruise was up. Captain Jones had captured a fine ship, the Mellish, loaded with clothing, which was badly needed by the army of Washington. While convoying her, and with his ship filled with prisoners taken from other prizes, he ran across the Milford. The frigate immediately gave chase. As it was night, Captain Jones set lights at his topmast, and everywhere a light could be put, while the Mellish, with her valuable cargo, carried no lights at all, and slipped off in the darkness. When day broke, Captain Jones found that the Mellish was not in sight, while the Milford was crowding on sail to overhaul him. But the little Providence again showed a clean pair of heels, and some days afterward the Mellish was brought in, to the great rejoicing of the patriotic army.

CHAPTER V.

The repute of Paul Jones was now great, and the American Congress intended sending him abroad to take command of a splendid frigate, then building in Holland. But owing to the representations of the British Government to Holland, and also to France, which had not then openly joined the American cause, the frigate was handed over to the French Government instead of to the American commissioners at Paris. These commissioners were Benjamin Franklin, Silas Deane, and Arthur Lee. The next best thing to be done for Captain Jones was to give him command of the Ranger, sloop of war. She was then fitting out at Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

The Congress had adopted, on the 14th of July, 1777, the present national ensign of the stars and stripes, and on the same day Paul Jones received his orders to command the Ranger. He at once started for Portsmouth, carrying with him one of the new flags, and as he had before hoisted for the first time the original flag of the colonies, so he had the honor of raising the new ensign upon the Ranger the first time the Stars and Stripes ever floated over an American man-of-war.

There never was any trouble about manning Paul Jones’s ships, and neither Bill Green nor little Danny Dixon could have been kept off with a stick. Therefore, on the fair, bright summer day that Paul Jones arrived at Portsmouth the very first creature he put his eyes on was Danny.

“Why, how are you, my lad?” cried Paul Jones, as he sprang out of the lumbering stagecoach, and saw Danny standing by the door of the inn where it stopped.

“Quite well, sir,” answered Danny with shining eyes, and stepping up to take Paul Jones’s luggage. He shouldered two portmanteaus manfully, but Paul Jones held on to a large parcel that he carried under his arm.

“No, no,” he cried, “this is too precious to be trusted out of my own hand. And how did you know I would be here to-day?”

“I didn’t know it for certain, sir, but Mr. Green and me, we has stood watch and watch for two days lookin’ for you, and Mr. Green says, if he ain’t the fust man aboard the Ranger to know you has come as how he’ll take it out on my hide, certain. But that’s only Mr. Green’s way o’ jokin’, sir.”

Danny went through with this very respectfully, and Paul Jones’s smiling eyes showed that he knew perfectly well the relations between the devoted little cabin boy, and the sturdy quartermaster. “Come on, then,” cried he, “and I have something here to decorate my ship with, that will make her shine indeed.”

In a little while they reached the ship, Danny red and proud with the honor of carrying the captain’s luggage. Sure enough, there stood Bill Green at the gangway, and he took his hat off as soon as he caught sight of Paul Jones. For his part, Paul Jones was delighted to know that he could count upon such a reliable petty officer as Bill, and greeted him warmly. Bill immediately snatched the luggage from Danny, who was left disconsolate, without even the Captain’s portmanteau to comfort him. The first lieutenant was on deck, and as soon as Paul Jones had greeted his officers he went aft, and, unrolling his parcel, shook out a large and handsome silk flag, the “Uncle Sam’s gridiron,” which he was destined, as he himself expressed it, “to attend with veneration on the ocean.” Bill Green fastened the flag to the halyards, but Paul Jones himself drew it up to the peak, amid the cheers of officers and men. Thus had he hoisted with his own hands the Stars and Stripes for the first time on an American ship of war, as he had been the first man to hoist the original flag of freedom.

From the day he stepped on board the Ranger, matters went on as they only can under the direction of a perfect sailor. The officers were enthusiastic and the crew made up of excellent material. Bill Green had long ago proved himself a very valuable man. He continued, however, to harass Danny Dixon with foks’l wit. But Danny had discovered that Bill’s magnificent promises of promotion and assurances of Captain Jones’s favor, were merely “pullin’ a leg,” in sailor language. Danny was now a tall, stout boy of fourteen, and very active aloft. Therefore, a day or two after Paul Jones got on board he said to the boy:

“Dixon, I think you can be classed as a seaman apprentice, and thereby raise your rating.”

“I’d ruther wait on you, sir,” promptly answered Danny.

“But your share of prize money would be larger if you were rated as a seaman apprentice, instead of merely a ship’s boy.”

“I’d ruther wait on you, sir—”

“And then you’d stand a chance of being rated as an able seaman in two or three years.”

“I’d ruther wait on you, sir,” doggedly answered Danny.

Paul Jones smiled, and said no more.

This all occurred in July, but it was not until November that the ship was ready to sail. She was by that time well manned, but owing to the poverty and lack of resource of the struggling Government she was poorly equipped. She had only one suit of sails, and those very indifferent, and not a single spare sail in case any mishap should befall her canvas in a wintry passage across the stormy Atlantic. There was likewise another deficiency, which gave the men much disquietude, especially Bill Green—there was only a single barrel of rum on board.

“I tell you what it is, youngster,” said Bill solemnly to Danny, it being a favorite amusement of his to tell the most grewsome yarns he could invent to the boy, “this ’ere’s a ornlucky ship—mark my words.”

“Why, Mr. Green,” answered Danny earnestly, “ain’t Cap’n Paul Jones commandin’ of her?”

“W’y, yes, boy, but you know there’s lucky ships and ornlucky ships. There ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen to we—’cause Cap’n Paul Jones is commandin’, as you say—but we ain’t goin’ to git no prize money to speak of. Likely as not, we won’t capture nothin’ wuth havin’. We ain’t got but one barrel o’ rum aboard, and that’s the ornluckiest thing that ever was. It’s worse nor a black cat aboard ship. I’d ruther have ten black cats and sail on a Friday, and meet all the pirates afloat, than to start on a short ’lowance o’ rum. It’s dreadful ornlucky, boy, and it’s dreadful tryin’ besides.”

Danny fully believed him, as Bill, with a huge sigh, cut a quid of tobacco and began to chew dolefully.

Bill’s prediction was carried out to the letter, for from the cheerless day the Ranger sailed out of Portsmouth harbor until she made the coast of France no prize was taken.

This was partly due to Captain Jones’s desire to get to the other side as quickly as possible. The weather was rough and the Ranger proved very crank, and it was not until the 2d of December that the port of Nantes was made. The guns were covered up, the portlids lowered, and everything as far as possible done to conceal the warlike character of the ship.

Paul Jones immediately set out for Paris, and on the third day he knocked at the door of a charming house at Passy, one of the most beautiful suburbs of Paris. This was a house belonging to M. Ray de Chaumont, a rich French gentleman whose sympathies with the American cause were so strong that he offered the American commissioners the use of his house until they could make permanent arrangements. Some instinct had told Paul Jones that he should find a friend in Benjamin Franklin, then at the zenith of his fame, and the most influential of the three American commissioners at Paris. The first meeting of these two great men, destined to be lifelong friends, was an event in history. Without the confidence and support of Franklin, Paul Jones would probably never had the means of achieving greatness, and this support and confidence never wavered from the moment these two immortal men stood face to face and looked through their eyes into each other’s souls. Franklin’s venerable figure and grave, concentrated glance contrasted strongly with Paul Jones’s lithe and active form and the piercing expression of his clear-cut features. The two men grasped hands and so stood for a moment, each fascinated by something in the aspect of the other.

“Welcome to France,” said Franklin. “I have heard of you, and every such man as you is a mighty help to our cause.”

Paul Jones murmured some words expressive of the admiration he felt for a man so truly eminent as Franklin, but his bold spirit was abashed in the presence of so much greatness in this patriarchal old man. They spent the whole of the short winter day in converse, each more and more dazzled and charmed by the other. At twilight they said farewell at the open door. As they clasped hands in parting, Paul Jones said:

“I had the honor of hoisting the flag of our country for the first time upon the ocean, and I intend to claim for it all the honors that it deserves. As soon as I am in the presence of the French fleet I shall demand a salute; and I shall get it, mark my words.”

“I believe you, if any man can, will get it,” answered Franklin. “And remember—if we can not secure you a ship worthy of you, and you are still compelled to keep the Ranger, you shall at least have carte blanche for your cruise, for I do not believe in hampering spirits so bold and enterprising as yours.”

As Paul Jones walked away in the dusk of twilight he glanced back and saw Franklin still standing in the doorway, with the light from an overhead lantern falling on his silvery hair. Paul Jones felt that the day of his meeting with Franklin was a great, a memorable day for him.

The American commissioners were indeed unable to obtain a better ship for him than the Ranger, and Paul Jones returned to his little vessel sore-hearted from his disappointment, but with the authority to rank all officers of American ships in European waters, and with perfect freedom to make his cruise as he liked. He determined, as he always did, to make the best of what he had. His first duty was to convoy a number of American merchant vessels from Nantes into Quiberon Bay, where a large French fleet, under Admiral La Motte Picquet, was to sail for America. There was now no need for disguising the character of the Ranger, and she sailed openly as a man-of-war. Paul Jones, with resistless energy, had worked at his ship until he had remedied many of her defects. Her lower masts were shortened; she was ballasted with lead; and she was much improved, as every ship that he commanded was improved by him. He also had, as a tender, the brig Independence.

It was on the 13th of February, 1778, that Paul Jones, flying the Stars and Stripes for the first time in the presence of a foreign fleet, anchored off the bay at Quiberon. He had a motive in not coming in the bay, and this was, as he had told Franklin, to have the flag of the United States saluted in open day by the French admiral. The treaty of alliance between the United States and France was not then published, and it required much address to obtain a salute.

As soon as the Ranger dropped her anchor Paul Jones sent his boat off to the French admiral, desiring to know, if he saluted the admiral’s ship, if the salute would be returned.

Paul Jones remained walking the quarter-deck of the Ranger until the boat was seen pulling back. A letter was handed him from the French admiral, which he eagerly opened.

The letter stated courteously that the salute would be returned, but with four guns less than the American ship fired, as it was the custom in the French navy to fire four guns less to a republic than the salute offered.

Paul Jones immediately went below, where he wrote the following spirited letter to the American agent at the port:

“I think the admiral’s answer requires some explanation. The haughty English return gun for gun to foreign officers of equal rank, and two less only by captains to flag officers. It is true my command is not important, yet, as the senior American officer at present in Europe it is my duty to claim an equal return of respect to the flag of the United States that would be shown to any other flag whatever.

“I therefore take the liberty of inclosing an appointment[3] as respectable as any the French admiral can produce. If, however, he persists in refusing to return an equal salute, I will accept of two guns less, as I have not the rank of an admiral.”

To this he added, that unless his flag should be properly saluted he would certainly depart without coming into the bay.

Next day, however, he discovered that the French admiral was acting in good faith, and could not, according to his regulations, return gun for gun to the flag of a republic; and therefore Paul Jones determined to accept of the salute offered.

The wind was blowing hard, and the sea very high, so that it was after sunset before the Ranger could get near enough to the admiral’s ship to salute. The brig Independence had been ordered to lay off the bay for a particular purpose. Paul Jones was afraid that some advantage might be taken of the salute being fired in semi-darkness—such as saying the flag was mistaken for another—and he determined to have a salute also in broad daylight.

The short February twilight was fast going, and the wind drove the lowering clouds furiously across the sky, when the Ranger, under close-reefed topsails, entered the bay and sailed close under the lee of the admiral’s ship, where she hove to. Instantly her guns thundered out thirteen times. The report echoed over the dark water, where the great French fleet, looming up grandly in the half-darkness, lay majestically at anchor. As soon as the last gun had been fired the admiral’s ship promptly gave back nine guns. The Ranger then returned to the mouth of the bay, where she anchored alongside of the Independence, the wind having abated.

Next morning—a beautiful, bright day—Paul Jones sent word to the French admiral that he intended sailing through the French fleet in the brig and again saluting him, to which the admiral returned a courteous reply.

About ten o’clock in the morning Paul Jones went on board the Independence, which then stood boldly in the harbor. She was a beautiful, clipper-built brig, and as clean and fresh as hands could make her. A splendid new American flag floated proudly from her mizzen peak.

The French fleet was anchored in two great lines, rather wide apart, with the flagship in the middle of the outer line. The Independence, with all her canvas set, entered between the two rows of ships. Her guns were manned, and Paul Jones, in full uniform, stood on the quarter-deck. As the Independence came abreast of the flagship the brig fired thirteen guns with the most beautiful precision and with exactly the same interval between each report. The admiral paid the American the compliment of having his guns already manned, and as the little Independence passed gracefully down the line, enveloped like a veil in the white smoke from her own guns, the flagship roared out nine guns from her great thirty-six-pounders. Paul Jones’s satisfaction was seen on his face, although he said no word; but as soon as he returned on board the Ranger he wrote to Franklin a joyous letter, telling him of the honor paid the American flag.

From this on the relations between the officers of the French fleet and the two American vessels were most cordial. The Frenchmen had heard of Paul Jones as an enterprising and promising officer, and his running under the guns of the Solebay had become generally known in Europe, much to the chagrin of the Solebay’s officers. The Count d’Orvilliers, one of the highest officers in the service of France, thought that, as France and America were bound to be shortly allied, that it would be well for Paul Jones to hold a captain’s commission in the French navy as well as an American commission. But this he declined. An American commission was good enough for Paul Jones.

CHAPTER VI.

It was upon the 10th of April, 1778, that Paul Jones sailed from Brest upon the first of his two immortal cruises.

The respect with which he had been treated, and the dignity he maintained, had had great effect upon the officers and men under him. They knew neither the time nor the place of the enterprise they were entering upon; but that it was bold and venturesome they were well assured. The seas were swarming with British cruisers, and alone among this multitude of enemies the little Ranger sailed gallantly. As she passed out of the harbor of Brest the sailors on the French ships gave her a ringing cheer, to which the Americans responded.

Paul Jones then called his officers around him, and his daring words were plainly audible to many of the men.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I propose to steer straight for the Irish Sea. What my plans are I shall tell you when we are in sight of the three kingdoms. I know every foot of the narrow seas, and every bay, inlet, and headland on the shores of Scotland and Ireland. Give me your full support, and we shall return covered with glory.”

A shout of applause greeted these brave words.

As soon as the Ranger was out of sight of land every effort was made to disguise her as a merchantman. Her guns were hid, and her white sails were daubed with lamp-black, to give the idea of being old and patched. The crew was kept below as much as possible, to be out of sight, and in this guise she made boldly for St. George’s Channel.

On the night of the 14th of April, while standing in between Cape Clear and the Scilly Isles, the lookout on the quarter sang out, “Sail, ho!”

The sail was a fine, large brigantine, which allowed the strange ship, which she took for a merchantman, to approach quite near her, as if to pass on the opposite tack. Suddenly the strange ship doubled on her quarter and came bearing down upon her, and at the same moment a blank cartridge was fired across her bows. The brigantine hove to in obedience to this peremptory command, and hailed the approaching Ranger. To this hail the sailing master of the Ranger replied:

“This is the United States ship Ranger, and you are her prize.”

Resistance was useless. The ship contained a valuable cargo, but no attempt was made to take anything except what could be easily transferred to the Ranger. Paul Jones had determined not to fire the ship, lest her burning should attract other vessels that swarmed the narrow seas, and thereby raise an alarm on land. Therefore he sent the carpenter and all his mates on board to scuttle her. The captain and crew of the brigantine were brought off, and the carpenters went to work with a will. In two hours from the time that she had been sailing confidently along, unsuspicious of an enemy, the brigantine had disappeared from the face of the ocean.

Three days now passed in cruising about St. George’s Channel. So great was the number of ships, both men-of-war and merchantmen, in sight and passing at all times, that Captain Jones did not consider it prudent to attack, because no man excelled Paul Jones in the prudence of the valiant. Several times during those three days and nights vessels that would have been valuable prizes were close under the guns of the little Ranger, but the presence of a frigate or two or other ship of war in the distance made an attack impracticable. Back and forth for three days and nights Paul Jones sailed dauntlessly among a multitude of enemies, thus venturing boldly into the very nest of the hornets. On the evening of the third day, the 17th of April, a large merchant vessel was seen off the coast of Ireland. No ship of war was in sight, and the Ranger therefore gave chase. Within an hour or two the vessel was overhauled, almost at the mouth of the Liffey. A blank cartridge fired across her bows and the Ranger’s hoisting the American ensign brought her to. She proved to be the Lord Chatham, fast and new, bound for Dublin.

“We can not sink so good a ship as this,” said Paul Jones to his first lieutenant. “And, besides, the scheme I have in view does not permit us to encumber ourselves with prisoners. She will answer excellently to carry our prisoners back to Brest.”

A prize crew and an officer were therefore thrown on board the Lord Chatham, the prisoners transferred, and she was carried off when almost within sight of her port. Paul Jones then put out to the open sea again, and steered straight for the coast of Scotland.

On the 18th of April, a beautiful, mild evening, he entered the Frith of Solway. It was the first time his eyes had rested on it, except for one brief and unhappy visit, since his childhood. He was now an American officer, of the highest rank possible to give him in the infant navy of the colonies, and it was his plain duty to use the knowledge he had of the Scotch coast in the service of his country.

The port of Whitehaven, on the opposite side of the Solway, was the point Paul Jones meant to attack. Here was collected a great company of shipping, estimated at between two and three hundred sail. The Ranger was, as usual, closely disguised, and excited no suspicion as she entered the Solway. The evening was beautiful and bright, but as the sun went down the indications of a hard squall became evident. The furious tides rushed in, driven by a rising gale from the Irish Sea, and the wind blew directly on shore.

Paul Jones determined to wait for night to complete his design, and when it grew too dark for the Ranger to be distinguished from another ship he ordered the men mustered on deck. Then, in a few decisive words, he announced his plan to them.

“We shall have a chance,” he said, “to avenge some of the dreadful burnings practiced uselessly upon our own coasts; but this will not be useless. The fleet now collected at Whitehaven is the coal fleet for Ireland. To destroy it would be to embarrass the enemy greatly. I call for thirty volunteers to assist me in this patriotic work. No man need go unless he wants to. But those who share with me the danger of this enterprise will also share with me the glory.”

It seemed as if every man on the deck shouted “I, sir,” and “I!” and “I!” and “I!” and loud among the voices sounded the piping treble of little Danny Dixon. Paul Jones raised his hand to command silence.

“I shall have to choose thirty men, because I can not take you all. I shall take the strongest and most active men.”

At that he told off thirty men, including Bill Green, the quartermaster. But when the number was selected, and the men had gone forward, Paul Jones noticed that Danny, the cabin boy, lingered.

“If you please, sir,” said Danny, diffidently, “you surely ain’t a-goin’ to leave me behind, sir?”

“Why, you are nothing but a lad,” answered Paul Jones. “This is an enterprise for men, not boys.”

“I know it, sir. But I ain’t afraid o’ nothin’.”

Paul Jones was about to reply, but at that moment Mr. Stacy, the sailing master, came up hurriedly, to say that at the rate the wind was rising and shifting it was necessary to claw off the land, and he thought a landing would be impossible that night. A few minutes convinced Paul Jones that his sailing master was right, and that the enterprise would have to be postponed. The Ranger was driving furiously before the wind, and at every lurch she buried her nose deep in the foaming waves. The gale shrieked angrily, and a bank of coppery clouds in the west darkened ominously. The ship was therefore brought about, and under straining canvas she beat her way back to the mouth of the Solway.

No man slept on the Ranger that night. The weather was thick, and Paul Jones was averse to running into the open sea for safety. The next morning dawned clear, but windy. The ship was close enough to the shores of Scotland to be seen from a hundred hamlets, and her situation became too risky to let anything escape that could tell on her. A revenue wherry was seen, chased and cannonaded, but escaped. A coasting vessel was overhauled, her crew taken out of her, and she was then scuttled and sunk; so was a Dublin schooner, while a cutter seen off the lee bow was chased into the Clyde, and up as far as the Rock of Ailsa. The weather still prevented a descent upon the coast, but Paul Jones boldly awaited his chance to make it, in spite of the enemies that swarmed around him.

Boldness meant prudence in the affair Paul Jones had undertaken, and therefore, not wishing to remain too long in any locality, he again stood across the Irish Sea, and entered the Lough of Belfast, off which lay the town of Carrickfergus.

It was on the afternoon of the 21st of April. The Ranger, sailing with a long leg and a short one, cautiously approached the roadstead. Never was there a lovelier scene. The harbor was of a deep ultramarine blue, and a faint golden haze enveloped sky and sea and castle and ships. Upon a grandly projecting cliff stood the stern gray castle, with its twenty-two great guns, frowning upon the rippling water. Out in the soft, yet dazzling, afternoon light lay a sloop of war, about the size of the Ranger. A gentle breeze fanned the Union Jack that floated from her mizzen peak. Over the whole scene was the still beauty of “a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”

The officers of the Ranger were all on deck, for in that perilous cruise neither officers nor men went below except for necessary food and sleep. Paul Jones, with his glass, carefully examined the ship, and then, turning to his officers, said quietly:

“Gentlemen, here is the chance we have all longed for. Yonder is a ship of war of a rate that we can give battle to. We will fight that ship, and we will take her.”

Scarcely were the words out of the captain’s mouth when “Ahoy!” sounded from the port side of the Ranger. A fishing boat had come alongside, with three fishermen in it. One of them held up a string of beautiful fish.

“Yes, we want your fish, and you, too,” cried Stacy, the sailing master, at Captain Jones’s orders; and in a few moments, to the astonishment of the fishermen, they were on the Ranger’s deck, and their boat was hanging astern.

The Ranger and the Drake.

“What is that vessel yonder?” asked Captain Jones of the elder man, for they proved to be a father and two sons.

The man looked about him dazed for a moment. He did not recognize Captain Jones’s uniform, nor did he understand the character of the vessel that looked so peaceable, but which a close inspection proved was well able to take care of herself in a fight. He hesitated a moment, but one commanding look from Paul Jones brought the truth out.