It was a fair and lovely May morning when the Ranger, still towing the
Drake, appeared off the bay of Brest. The American ensign was hoisted on
the Drake over the Union Jack, and this told the glorious story. Word
flew from mouth to mouth among the French men-of-war in the roads to the
people in the dockyards and the town. A fleet of pilot boats put off,
each eager to have the honor of taking the Ranger and her prize in
through the narrow and dangerous channel of Le Goulet. Paul Jones stood
on his quarter-deck, as calm and easy as ever, but his soul thrilled
with patriotic pride. The British had denounced him as a pirate, a
traitor, and a felon, and he had had first, the justifiable revenge of
showing himself alone and undaunted in the midst of his enemies,
capturing a ship of equal size and force, and afterward, the nobler
revenge of treating his prisoners with the utmost kindness and courtesy.
As the Ranger passed the flagship she gave thirteen guns, and every ship
in the French squadron in return saluted the flag flying at the Ranger’s
mizzen peak. The French sailors manned the yards of the flagship without
orders, and a volley of cheers mingled with the hoarse thunder of the
guns as the little American vessel made her way cautiously up the narrow
channel. The great clouds of white smoke rose in the clear May sunshine,
and almost hid the Ranger’s hull and that of her consort: but high above
the white and drifting mist the American ensign floated proudly.
Paul Jones was greeted with the most intense enthusiasm among the naval
men at Brest, and France rang with his exploits. Benjamin Franklin wrote
him letters of affectionate praise, and the French Minister of Marine,
M. de Sartine, requested the American commissioners to detain Captain
Jones in Europe, as it was desired to employ him against the British, in
conjunction with the French fleets. War between France and England was
then imminent, and, in fact, was declared within a few weeks. Paul Jones
therefore wrote to the Congress, saying he desired that no command be
reserved for him, as he had been directed by the American commissioners
to remain in France.
And now, in place of these bright anticipations came a long and
torturing period of suspense for Paul Jones, mingled, it is true, with
many compliments on his prowess, and sustained by the friendship of
Franklin, of the King of France, of the Duke de Chartres, and the
admiration of all the naval and military men of France. More than that
was the gratitude and respect of the men who had fought under him, and
of the two hundred prisoners from the Drake—for Paul Jones’s conduct at
this time gained him the lasting good will of these men. The affairs of
the American Government had then reached their most desperate state, and
the French Government was a government by intrigue and corruption,
which, not many years after, produced the bloodiest revolution the world
ever saw. No money was forthcoming as the prize justly earned by the
Ranger’s officers and crew, nor were they even paid their wages while
waiting at Brest for a promised ship for Paul Jones. Worse still was the
condition of the English prisoners, who would actually have starved but
for Paul Jones himself paying out of his own pocket for food to keep
them alive. It was his earnest desire to secure an exchange of
prisoners, so that he could get a crew made up wholly of Americans, but
with the general trickery, inefficiency, and jealousy of the French
administration he could do nothing. One fine ship after another was
promised him, through Benjamin Franklin, who looked to Paul Jones as the
hope of the new nation upon the seas, but disappointment followed
disappointment.
Paul Jones’s restless spirit was the last one to submit to this enforced
idleness, and he complained in his letters that “this shameful
inactivity is worse to me than a thousand deaths.” Every moment lost to
the service of his country was, in Paul Jones’s esteem, “shameful.”
So months passed, Paul Jones in his small lodging at Brest vainly
endeavoring, with Franklin’s earnest help, to get afloat once more in
any sort of a ship. The King of France requested him to write a full
account of the Ranger’s daring cruise, which Paul Jones did. But
fighting, not writing, was his choice when his country needed every arm
that could be raised in her defense.
Bill Green, the quartermaster, whose time was up, had elected to stay
with Paul Jones until he had another ship, and little Danny Dixon
followed him about like a dog. The two humble friends gave Paul Jones
more real comfort than all the compliments showered upon him by people
of rank and consequence. Danny was still “the captain’s boy,” and Bill
Green had a humble sleeping place close by the captain’s lodgings. When
successive disappointments had preyed upon Paul Jones’s bold spirit, and
he would return home in the evening sad and dispirited, the sight of
Danny’s affectionate eyes and anxiety to serve him would sometimes
console him a little. Bill Green was always at hand to carry a letter or
a message, and Paul Jones, in his temporary distress, did not lack for
two devoted friends. Bill had quite adopted Danny by this time, but was
always growling and grumbling about “ships’ boys as is more trouble than
they’re wuth,” and “boys as oughter have the cat reg’lar along with
their ’lowance.” He did not sing much, though; and when Danny would
tease him to sing “Come, all ye tars that brave the sea,” or “I’m here
and there a jolly dog,” Bill would shake his head and say dolefully:
“No, boy. I can’t sing them songs without I can hear the water runnin’
against the ship’s side and the wind makin’ music through the riggin’,
and the bo’s’n’s pipe once in a while. Them is sea songs, and the only
land song _I_ knows is ‘Land lubbers lie down below,’ and that ain’t no
song to speak of. Landsmen ain’t got no music of no account; and as for
their songs—Lord! they’re all about love and the moon, and that sort o’
loblolly that sailormen ain’t got no appetite for.” Danny, perforce, had
to put up with this explanation, and do without Bill’s music.
Meanwhile, so great had been the alarm upon the coast of the United
Kingdoms that the British Admiralty had issued a circular letter warning
the people living on the coasts that a descent by Paul Jones might be
expected. This further stung the daring sailor, who beheld the days go
by fruitlessly while he lingered at Brest, unable to get a vessel. At
one time it was thought a ship had been secured for him, and the young
Lafayette, then on a visit from America, desired to sail with him in
command of some troops that he was to carry. Afterward this design
failed, and Lafayette wrote to Paul Jones: “I can not tell you, my good
friend, how sorry I am not to be a witness of your success, abilities,
and glory.” At last, nearly a year after his glorious cruise in the
Ranger, Paul Jones, in despair of doing better, accepted the command of
the Duc de Duras—the ship that, under the new name of the Bon Homme
Richard, was to immortalize herself and the great man who became her
captain. She was reported to be new and fast, but turned out, though, to
be old and much decayed. She was a long ship, and carried twenty-four
guns in broadside and eighteen smaller guns. She had a crew of three
hundred and eighty men, of all nationalities under the sun. Not more
than thirty of them were Americans, but among these Americans, besides
Bill Green and two or three other men who had sailed with him in the
Ranger, Paul Jones had Stacy, his old sailing master. He had the name of
the ship changed from the Duc de Duras to the Bon Homme Richard, in
compliment to Dr. Franklin, whose Poor Richard’s Almanac was then making
a great stir in the world.
The Bon Homme Richard was to be the first ship in a motley squadron made
up of the Alliance, a fine American frigate of thirty-six guns, with an
American crew, but commanded by a French captain. Of this man—Captain
Landais—it is proper to say in the beginning that he had a distinct
tinge of madness in his composition, and it is generally agreed that he
was not thoroughly sane at any time during the memorable cruise he made
with Paul Jones. He had been compelled to leave the French navy upon the
ground of an intolerable temper, which was the beginning of the insanity
from which he undoubtedly suffered at one time during his life. He had
been considered a brave and faithful officer under the old _régime_ of
the French navy, and therefore his subsequent conduct to Commodore
Jones, as Paul Jones had now become, is entitled to the doubt that he
was not responsible for what he did. Franklin, however, did not think
this, and in a letter written afterward to the officers and men of the
Bon Homme Richard, expressed the difference between Paul Jones and
Landais thus: “For Captain Paul Jones ever loved close fighting, but
Landais was skillful in keeping out of harm’s way.”
The third ship of the squadron, the Pallas, was frigate built, and
carried thirty-two guns. Then there was the Vengeance, a brig carrying
twelve guns, and a small but beautiful cutter of eighteen guns, the
Cerf. Paul Jones was the commodore of this little squadron, but there
seems to have been great uncertainty about his powers.
Not more than thirty Americans were available for the Bon Homme Richard
at first, but Commodore Jones managed so that most of the petty officers
were Americans. The rest of the crew were a motley set, of every nation
under the sun. But along with his good luck in having Mr. Stacy and Bill
Green, of his old company, he was to have a young lieutenant who was
worthy to carry out the orders of such a man as Paul Jones.
The Bon Homme Richard was fitting out at L’Orient, when one day, as Paul
Jones was standing on the dock looking at the ship, that resounded with
the clamor of preparation, a handsome young fellow of twenty-three,
wearing an American naval uniform, stepped up to him and spoke, saluting
at the same time.
“This is Commodore Jones, I presume, and I am Lieutenant Dale,” he said.
Paul Jones grasped his hand cordially.
“I have heard of you, Mr. Dale. And how did you get the British uniform
with which you escaped from Mill Prison?” he asked.
Dale shook his head and smiled.
“That secret must remain with me until the end of time,” he said. “But I
have had enough of British prisons. After my first escape and recapture
every amusement was forbidden me; and so, as I had nothing else to do, I
was forced to sing patriotic songs to keep up my spirits; and for that I
spent forty days in the Black Hole.”
Something like a smile shone in Paul Jones’s dark and somber eyes. He
had heard of the young lieutenant captured on the Lexington, confined in
Mill Prison, and who had once escaped only to be recaptured, but this
time had succeeded in getting out of harm’s way while the British police
scoured the city of London for him.
“Were you ordered to report to me, Mr. Dale?” asked Paul Jones.
“No, sir,” answered Dale; “but I desire to see service, and those who
serve under you will stand an excellent chance of immortality, for, as
Dr. Franklin says, ‘Captain Paul Jones ever loves close fighting.’”
Paul Jones took off his cap at the mention of Dr. Franklin’s name.
“The praise of that great man is ever dear to me; and for yourself, Mr.
Dale, your skill and intrepidity are well known, and your escape from
Mill Prison shows that you are no ordinary man, and I shall be happy to
have you as my first lieutenant on the Bon Homme Richard,” said he.
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.
“It ain’t hardly fittin’ to sing,” answered Bill deprecatingly. “It
begins sumpin’ about you: ‘“A sail! all hands!” the boatswain cries.’”
“Seems to me,” said the boatswain, with a wink to the men, “I heard that
’ere song, or one monstrous like it, while we was at L’Orient, and
somebody said as it were composed by a officer—”
“You ain’t heard no sich a thing,” tartly answered Bill. “I thought it
out in the dog-watch last night, and I wrote it out at nigh eight bells
this mornin’. I ain’t got no need to sing other folks’s songs. _I_ got
the savey to make ’em up and sing ’em too.”
“Then shake out your reefs and go ahead,” said the boatswain; and after
the regulation amount of urging from his mates Bill began:
“‘A sail! all hands!’ the boatswain pipes,
And instant at the signal sound,
Beneath the waving Stars and Stripes,
Each sailor at his post is found.
“Due south, close hauled, in trim array,
A gallant frigate’s on our lee;
She hoists her flag.—My hearts, huzza!
Huzza! the English ensign see.
“O’er all the crew, with heart elate,
Our captain glanced his eagle eye,
And saw each tar impatient wait
To meet the veteran enemy.
“And see! with topsail to the mast,
The foe destructive fires prepare
As ship to ship, approaching fast,
All calm and silent, down we bear.
“But, when yardarm and yardarm met,
Our cannon swept his decks amain.
In vain that boasted flag he set
Which long had awed the subject main.
“In vain unto the mast he nails
That flag; for, carried by the deck,
Like shattered oaks in wintry gales,
Each, crashing, falls—a lumbering wreck.
“No Frenchman now the conflict wage—
The Briton finds another foe,
And learns, amid the battle’s rage,
Columbia’s hearts and hands to know.
“What shall the desperate captain do?
Around his bravest men expire!
No hope is left! He speaks—his crew
A leeward gun, reluctant, fire.
“Columbia! from your youthful sleep
Arise, your tars, your rights to save!
Thus guard their freedom on the deep,
Thus claim your empire on the wave!”
This song was greeted with great applause, and Bill stoutly claimed the
honor of its composition.
The cruise was uneventful except for the capture of a few prizes, and,
battered by the storms in the Bay of Biscay, the squadron returned to
L’Orient to refit. Here Paul Jones had the good luck to find a
considerable number of Americans who were anxious to enlist with him.
Every quarter-deck officer was an American except one midshipman. Paul
Jones distributed the Americans among his crew, so that nearly all the
petty officers were of the sort described by Washington when he said,
“Put none but Americans on guard.” Many of the ordinary seamen, though,
were of other nationalities.
At last the necessary repairs were made, and at daybreak on the morning
of the 14th of August Paul Jones set sail, with a premonition that, even
with an inferior ship and a squadron unworthy to serve under him, he
would yet do great things. This feeling was shared by Dale, and by every
officer and man on the Bon Homme Richard.
Several prizes were taken, but within a week the extraordinary temper of
Captain Landais manifested itself. On the 21st of August it fell calm;
the squadron was then off Cape Clear, and was motionless on the still
and glassy sea. The sun was sinking redly. In full view lay a fine
brigantine, her sails hanging limp in the perfectly still August air.
Paul Jones at once gave orders to hoist out the boats, and, putting
Lieutenant Dale in charge of the expedition, they pulled off to capture
the brigantine.
In the clear atmosphere everything could be plainly seen on the surface
of the water, and Paul Jones could almost hear, in the perfect silence
of the fast waning afternoon, the orders of his favorite lieutenant, who
hailed the brigantine and demanded her surrender. There was, of course,
no resistance to be made to armed boats, and in a very short time a
hawser was passed aboard, and the men started to tow the captured vessel
to where the Bon Homme Richard lay.
The twilight had come on fast, and the flood tide was rising. The Bon
Homme Richard begun to drift dangerously near the Skelligs, that are
among the most dangerous rocks on the wild Irish coast. It became
necessary to tow the ship, so as to keep her head to the tide, and the
commodore’s barge, being the only large boat on board, was hoisted out,
with a tow line to keep the ship off the rocks.
Danny Dixon, being a strong boy, and many of the crew being absent, was
in the barge. It grew dark rapidly, and in the dusk the barge looked
like a black shadow ahead of the ship, as the men bent slowly to their
oars, just enough to hold the ship against the tide. Suddenly Lieutenant
Dale, who had the deck, noticed that the ship’s head was wearing round.
At the same moment he heard a splash in the water. The boat, however,
was still pulling ahead, but much faster than it had been.
For a moment he was puzzled at this, but he called out in a moment,
“Avast, there! the line has parted!”
The boat, however, paid no attention to his cry, but continued to pull
away faster and faster. It dawned upon him then that the line had been
cut purposely, and he shouted the louder, “Return to the ship at once!”
He had seen a shadow upon the water, and a continual splash after the
first one, and in a moment or two he saw Danny Dixon’s tow head just
under the ship’s quarter.
“Give me a line, please, sir,” called Danny, and the next moment he was
landed on deck dripping wet.
“They’ve stole the barge, sir,” he gasped out, sputtering, “and run
away, some o’ the Portygees and Malays—there warn’t no ’Mericans among
’em. They wanted me to go along, but I jest slipped overboard and swam
for the ship, and here I is.”
Angry and indignant as Dale felt at the conduct of the barge’s crew,
Danny’s matter-of-fact way of telling of his loyalty both pleased and
amused him. He said hastily to Danny, “Go below and report to the
captain,” and without waiting for orders, the only boat left on the ship
was manned, and, with Mr. Lunt in command, put briskly after the
deserters. Lieutenant Dale also brought one of the ship’s long twelves
to bear on the retreating boat and fired several shots, but both the
barge and her pursuers were soon lost in the increasing darkness. In a
little while the other boats reached the ship towing the brigantine. The
vessel proving stanch and her cargo valuable, Paul Jones threw a prize
crew on her and sent her to L’Orient.
As the night wore on a dense white fog descended upon the ocean, and the
calm continued. There was no sign of Mr. Lunt’s boat. The Bon Homme
Richard fired signal guns all night, and all the next day, as the fog
showed no sign of lifting. The Cerf was sent in the morning to
reconnoiter the coast for the missing boat. The same degree of cowardice
or insanity appeared to possess the cutter as the Alliance. She was seen
by the boat and would have been rejoined, but, the Cerf hoisting British
colors, and firing at the unfortunate boat, Mr. Lunt was forced to run
ashore, when he and all his boat’s crew were captured. Thus did the
commodore lose the services of one of his best officers and two boats
full of men, amounting to twenty-four in all.
The morning after the boat was lost the captain’s gig of the Alliance
was seen at the side of the Bon Homme Richard. In a few minutes the tall
and imposing figure of Captain Landais appeared upon the ship. Paul
Jones was on deck at the time, and, advancing to greet Captain Landais
courteously, he was struck by the savage scowl upon the Frenchman’s
countenance. The general repute of Captain Landais’s ungovernable temper
and Paul Jones’s previous experience made him prefer to see the captain
in the cabin. He invited a French marine officer on board, M. de
Chamillard, and an American army officer, Colonel Weibert, who had
volunteered to serve on the Bon Homme Richard, to accompany him and hear
what passed.
As soon as they reached the cabin, Landais, throwing his glove violently
on the table, exclaimed in English, “So you have lost your boats!” This
he immediately repeated in French for De Chamillard’s benefit, who did
not understand English.
“What do you mean?” asked Paul Jones calmly.
“That you have lost your boats—and this comes of attacking a brigantine
with boats.”
“But my boats were not lost while attacking the brigantine,” replied
Paul Jones, thinking that Landais was under a mistake. “My barge was cut
adrift while towing the ship, and the deserters absconded. The
brigantine was captured.”
“And yet I was not allowed to cruise on my own responsibility upon this
coast!” shouted the captain.
Something in the wild gleam of his eye gave Paul Jones the calmness to
reason with him.
“Do you know the Irish coast?” he asked.
“No,” shouted Landais, excitedly, “but I was willing—I and my brave
officers—to risk it.”
“But I was not willing to risk a ship under my command, with a captain
who is entirely ignorant of this coast, the most dangerous one I know,”
replied Paul Jones.
All this time De Chamillard and Weibert sat amazed spectators of the
scene. Paul Jones’s swarthy skin had turned a shade darker. A kind of
lambent flame shone in his dark, inscrutable eyes. He strongly suspected
a taint of madness in the infuriated man before him, and was careful not
to exasperate him unnecessarily. Landais continued translating his
insubordinate language into French, and looking at De Chamillard. But
the French marine officer looked steadily away, blushing for the
language of his superior. Again Landais burst out violently:
“But you lost your boats through the folly of attacking with them.”
“It is an untruth,” answered Paul Jones, rising. His manner was still
composed, but his eyes were blazing.
“Do you hear that, gentlemen?” shouted Landais furiously, in French; and
turning to De Chamillard, “He has given me the lie direct.”
Paul Jones then said coolly, “M. de Landais, your boat is ready.”
The words were calm, but even the half-mad Landais was recalled to his
senses by them. Paul Jones fixed his dark eyes on him. Slowly, yet
inevitably, the expression of Landais’s face changed, he sank into a
sullen silence, and then abruptly walked out of the cabin.
Paul Jones turned to De Chamillard and Weibert in deep agitation.
“You see, gentlemen,” he said in French, “what I have patiently endured
for the sake of the great cause in which we are all engaged. M. de
Landais was in my power, and you see how merciful I have been to him.”
“And we will remember it,” answered De Chamillard, also much moved.
The Bon Homme Richard remained on and off the coast until the 26th of
August, hoping to find the missing boat, but at last was forced to give
it up, and steered for the northward. The Cerf had never reappeared, so
the squadron was reduced to the Bon Homme Richard, the Alliance, the
Pallas, and the Vengeance.
On the morning of the 27th of August, when Paul Jones came on deck at
daybreak and swept the horizon with his glass, the Alliance was not in
sight, nor did she turn up any more until the 31st, when her appearance
proved most inopportune, as it always seemed to be during the memorable
cruise.
The Bon Homme Richard was then off Cape Wrath, and was chasing an armed
vessel—the Union, of twenty-two guns. The American cruiser was flying
British colors, hoping by that means to get very near before her
nationality was discovered, so that if the Union had any valuable
dispatches (which were often carried by fast letter-of-marque vessels)
there would not be time or opportunity to destroy them. But as soon as
Landais got near enough to the Bon Homme Richard, although he must have
known that the commodore for some purpose did not desire American colors
to be shown, the Alliance set two American ensigns. That was warning
enough to the Union. She, indeed, carried important dispatches from the
home Government addressed to the authorities at Quebec, and upon seeing
the Alliance hoist her ensign knew what to do.
When the British captain was brought on board the Bon Homme Richard, his
first remark to Paul Jones, as he handed out his papers, was:
“I had letters containing important information, but the warning so
kindly given me by the frigate yonder enabled me to destroy them.”
Paul Jones ground his teeth with rage. He was tempted for the twentieth
time to put Captain Landais under arrest, but a mistaken clemency
induced him to forbear.
On the 4th of September the commodore signaled all the captains to come
on board the Bon Homme Richard. In a little while boats were seen coming
from the Pallas and the Vengeance, but none from the Alliance. Seeing no
motion toward Captain Landais obeying orders, although the signal had
been flying for half an hour, M. Mease, the purser of the Bon Homme
Richard and a Frenchman, asked for a boat without saying what he wished
to do. It was granted, and the purser went on board the Alliance and
implored Captain Landais to save himself and his ship the disgrace of a
disobedience of orders. Captain Landais appeared inclined to yield at
first, but finally refused. M. Mease returned to the Bon Homme Richard,
and, thinking that some other of the captain’s countrymen might have
better luck, persuaded De Chamillard and the captain of the Pallas
(Cottineau) to return with him. They went and found Landais on his
quarter-deck. He had worked himself into a passion, and as they
approached he roared at them:
“Tell your Commodore Jones that we must have a meeting on shore, and one
or the other of us must die. I will not longer bear his tyranny!”
The three officers looked at each other significantly. First Captain
Cottineau spoke soothingly, but it had no effect upon Landais. Then De
Chamillard tried to reason with him, but to no effect. M. Mease was not
suffered to speak at all by the infuriated captain. As the officers
passed along the deck to take their boat they noticed the sullen looks
and mutinous air of the men, who firmly believed that they had either a
traitor or a madman for a commander.
When they returned on board the Bon Homme Richard and reported to Paul
Jones, he heard them through patiently. De Chamillard then declared that
he believed Landais was crazy—that his language and countenance were
wild and his conduct utterly irrational. To this Captain Cottineau
disagreed. He was furiously angry with Landais, and thought him
treacherous. Between these opposing views Paul Jones concluded to wait
and have a personal interview with Landais. Within a few hours, however,
the wind rose to a terrible gale, and the Alliance again disappeared,
not to be seen until she made her appearance in a manner as unlooked for
as usual.
Some days of alternate storm and fog followed. Paul Jones knew that he
was off the Scottish coast, but not until the evening of the 13th of
September was it clear enough for him to see the blue line of the
Cheviot Hills in the distance.
Being in want of provisions and water, Paul Jones in the middle of the
night sent an armed boat to bring off some sheep and oxen that were seen
near the shore. Lieutenant Dale was in charge of the boat, and had with
him money to pay for the cattle and sheep. This he did, allowing the
owners a generous amount. He managed to extract a good deal of
information from the peasantry, who told him of the capture of Mr.
Lunt’s boat, and that the nature of the expedition was well known, as
well as the fact that Paul Jones was in command, and that no less than
eleven men-of-war were scouring the seas for the audacious Bon Homme
Richard.
Upon their return to the ship Lieutenant Dale reported to the commodore.
When he spoke of the eleven British captains, each one of whom was
eagerly in search of the honor of capturing Paul Jones, a faint smile
passed over the somewhat sad face of the commodore. England, the
mistress of the seas, put forth all her strength and skill against this
bold intruder into her very strongholds. But he was not to become her
captive, but her continued defiance.
The coasts of England, Scotland, and Ireland were in an uproar by this
time. Signal fires blazed on every hill, and expresses were sent to
London announcing the danger. But Paul Jones knew he was in no danger
from the shore, and he trusted to himself to take care of his ship at
sea. Never since the days of the sea kings had any seaman so struck
terror into his enemies as Paul Jones.