A little Scottish lad dreamed of a great sea fight--of a flag with
red and white stripes, and white stars on a blue field. This story
tells how his dream came true.
The summer afternoon was fair, and the waves that rolled upon the north
shore of Solway Firth in the western Lowlands of Scotland were calm and
even. But the tide was coming in, and inch by inch was covering the
causeway that led from shore to a high rock some hundred yards away.
The rock was bare of vegetation, and sheer on the landward side, but on
the face toward the sea, were rough jutting points that would give a
climber certain footholds, and near the top smooth ledges.
On one or two of these ledges sea-gulls had built their nests, tucked
in under projecting points where they would be sheltered from wind and
rain. Now the gulls would sweep in from sea, curving in great circles
until they reached their homes, and then would sit on the ledge calling
to their mates across the water. Except for the cries of the gulls,
however, the rock was very quiet. The lazy, regular beat of the waves
about its base was very soothing. On the longest ledge, below the
sea-gulls’ nests, lay a boy about twelve years old, sound asleep, his
face turned toward the ocean.
Either the gulls’ cries or the sun, now slanting in the west, disturbed
him. He did not open his eyes, but he clenched his fists, and muttered
incoherently. Presently with a start he awoke. He rubbed his eyes, and
then sat up. “What a queer dream!” he said aloud.
The ledge where he sat was not a very safe place. There was scarcely
room for him to move, and directly below him was the sea. But this boy
was quite as much at home on high rocks or in the water as he was on
land, and he was very fond of looking out for distant sailing-vessels
and wondering where they might be bound.
He glanced along the north shore to the little fishing hamlet of
Arbigland where he lived. He saw that the tide had come in rapidly
while he slept, and that the path to the shore was now covered. He
stood up and stretched his bare arms, brown with sunburn, high over
his head. Then he started to climb down from the ledge by the jutting
points of rock.
He was as sure-footed as any mountaineer. His clothes were old, so
neither rock nor sea could do them much harm; his feet were bare. He
was short but very broad, and his muscles were strong and supple. When
he came to the foot of the rock he stood a moment, hunting for the
deepest pool at its base, then, loosing his hold, he dove into the
water.
In a few seconds he was up again, floating on his back; and a little
later he struck out, swimming hand over hand, toward a sandy beach to
the south.
A young man, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the British navy,
stood on the beach, watching the boy swim. When the latter had landed
and shaken the water from him much as a dog would, the man approached
him. “Where on earth did you come from, John Paul?” he asked with a
laugh. “The first thing I knew I saw you swimming in from sea.”
“I was out on the rock asleep,” said the boy. “The tide came up and cut
me off. And oh, Lieutenant Pearson, I had the strangest dream! I dreamt
I was in the middle of a great sea fight. I was captain of a ship, and
her yard-arms were on fire, and we were pouring broadsides into the
enemy, afraid any minute that we’d sink. How we did fight that ship.”
The young officer’s eyes glowed. “And I hope you may some day, John!”
he exclaimed.
“But the strangest part was that our ship didn’t fly the English flag,”
said the boy. “At the masthead was a flag I’d never seen, red and white
with a blue field filled with stars in the corner. What country’s flag
is that?”
Pearson thought for a moment. “There’s no such flag,” he said finally.
“I know them all, and there’s none like that. The rest of your dream
may come true, but not that about the flag. Come, let’s be walking
back to Arbigland.”
Although John Paul’s father came of peaceful farmer and fisher folk
who lived about Solway Firth, his mother had been a “Highland lassie,”
descended from one of the fighting clans in the Grampian Hills. The
boy had much of the Highlander’s love of wild adventure, and found it
hard to live the simple life of the fishing village. The sea appealed
to him, and he much preferred it to the small Scotch parish school. His
family were poor, and as soon as he was able he was set to steering
fishing yawls and hauling lines. At twelve he was as sturdy and capable
as most boys at twenty.
Many men in Arbigland had heard John Paul beg his father to let him
cross the Solway to the port of Whitehaven and ship on some vessel
bound for America, where his older brother William had found a new
home. But his father saw no opening for his younger son in such a life.
All the way back to town that afternoon the boy told Lieutenant Pearson
of his great desire, and the young officer said he would try to help
him.
The boy’s chance, however, came in another way. A few days later
it chanced that Mr. James Younger, a big ship-owner, was on the
landing-place of Arbigland when some of the villagers caught sight of a
small fishing yawl beating up against a stiff northeast squall, trying
to gain the shelter of the little tidal creek that formed the harbor of
the town.
Mr. Younger looked long at the boat and then shook his head. “I don’t
think she’ll do it,” he said dubiously.
Yet the boat came on, and he could soon see that the only crew were a
man and a boy. The boy was steering, handling the sheets and giving
orders, while the man simply sat on the gunwale to trim the boat.
“Who’s the boy?” asked the ship-owner.
“John Paul,” said a bystander. “That’s his father there.”
Mr. Younger looked at the man pointed out, who was standing near,
and who did not seem to be in the least alarmed. “Are you the lad’s
father?” he asked.
The man looked up and nodded. “Yes, that’s my boy John conning the
boat,” said he. “He’ll fetch her in. This isn’t much of a squall for
him!”
The father spoke with truth. The boy handled his small craft with
such skill that he soon had her alongside the wharf. As soon as John
Paul had landed Mr. Younger stepped up to the father and asked to be
introduced to the son. Then the ship-owner told him how much he had
admired his seamanship, and asked if he would care to sail as master’s
apprentice in a new vessel he owned, which was fitting out for a voyage
to Virginia and the West Indies. The boy’s eyes danced with delight; he
begged his father to let him go, and finally Mr. Paul consented. The
twelve-year-old boy had won his wish to go to sea.
A few days later the brig _Friendship_ sailed from Whitehaven,
with small John Paul on board, and after a slow voyage which lasted
thirty-two days dropped anchor in the Rappahannock River of Virginia.
The life of a colonial trader was very pleasant in 1760. The
sailing-vessels usually made a triangular voyage, taking some six
months to go from England to the colonies, then to the West Indies, and
so east again. About three of the six months were spent at the small
settlements on shore, discharging goods from England, taking on board
cotton and tobacco, and bartering with the merchants.
The Virginians who lived on their great plantations with many servants
were the most hospitable people in the world, always eager to entertain
a stranger, and the English sailors were given the freedom of the
shore. The _Friendship_ anchored a short distance down the river from
where John Paul’s older brother lived, and the boy immediately went to
see him and stayed as his guest for some time.
This brother William had been adopted by a wealthy planter named Jones,
and the latter was delighted with the young John Paul, and tried to get
him to leave the sailor’s life and settle on the Rappahannock. But much
as John liked the easy life of the plantation, the fine riding horses,
the wide fields and splendid rivers, the call of the sea was dearer to
him, and when the _Friendship_ dropped down the Rappahannock bound for
Tobago and the Barbadoes he was on board of her.
Those were adventurous days for sailors and merchants. Money was to be
made in many ways, and consciences were not overcareful as to the ways.
The prosperous traders of Virginia did not mind taking an interest in
some ocean rover bound on pirates’ business, or in the more lawful
slave-trade with the west coast of Africa. For a time, however, young
John Paul sailed for Mr. Younger, and was finally paid by being given a
one-sixth interest in a ship called _King George’s Packet_.
The boy was now first mate, and trade with England being dull, he
and the captain decided to try the slave-trade. They made prosperous
voyages between Jamaica and the coast of Guinea, helping to found the
fortunes of some of the best-known families of America by importing
slaves.
After a year, however, John Paul tired of the business, and sold his
share of the ship to the captain for about one thousand guineas. He was
not yet twenty-one, but his seafaring life had already made him fairly
well-to-do. He planned to go home and see his family in Scotland, and
took passage in the brig _John o’ Gaunt_.
Life on shipboard was full of perils then, and very soon after the
brig had cleared the Windward Islands the terrible scourge of yellow
fever was found to be on the vessel. Within a few days the captain, the
mate, and all of the crew but five had died of the disease. John Paul
was fully exposed to it, but he and the five men escaped it. He was
the only one of those left who knew anything about navigation, so he
took command, and after a stormy passage, with a crew much too small
to handle the brig, he managed to bring her safely to Whitehaven with
all her cargo. He handled her as skilfully as he had the small yawl in
Solway Firth.
The owners of the _John o’ Gaunt_ were delighted and gave John Paul and
his five sailors the ten per cent. share of the cargo which the salvage
laws entitled them to. In addition they offered him the command of a
splendid full-rigged new merchantman which was to sail between England
and America, and a tenth share of all profits. It was a very fine offer
to a man who had barely come of age, but the youth had shown that he
had few equals as a mariner.
Good fortune shone upon him. He had no sooner sailed up the
Rappahannock again and landed at the plantation where his brother
lived than he learned that the rich old Virginian, William Jones, had
recently died and in his will had named him as one of his heirs. He
had always cherished a fancy for the sturdy, black-haired boy who had
made him that visit. The will provided that John Paul should add the
planter’s name to his own. The young captain did not object to this,
and so henceforth he was known as John Paul Jones.
Scores of stories are told of the young captain’s adventures. He loved
danger, and it was his nature to enjoy a fight with men or with the
elements. On a voyage to Jamaica he met with serious trouble. Fever
again reduced the crew to six men, and Jones was the only officer able
to be on deck. A huge negro named Maxwell tried to start a mutiny and
capture the ship for his own uses. He rushed at Jones, and the latter
had to seize a belaying-pin and hit him over the head. The man fell,
badly hurt, and soon after reaching Jamaica died.
Jones gave himself up to the authorities and was tried for murder
on the high seas. He said to the court: “I had two brace of loaded
pistols in my belt, and could easily have shot him. I struck with a
belaying-pin in preference, because I hoped that I might subdue him
without killing him.” He was acquitted, and soon after offered command
of a new ship built to trade with India.
The charm of life in Virginia appealed more and more strongly to the
sailor. He liked the new country, the society of the young cities along
the Atlantic Coast, and he spent less time on the high seas and more
time fishing and hunting on his own land and in Chesapeake Bay. He
might have settled quietly into such prosperous retirement had not the
minute-men of Concord startled the new world into stirring action.
John Paul Jones loved America and he loved ships. Consequently he was
one of the very first to offer his services in building a new navy.
Congress was glad to have him; he was known as a man of the greatest
courage and of supreme nautical skill.
On September 23, 1779, Paul Jones, on board the American ship _Bon
Homme Richard_, met the British frigate _Serapis_ off the English
coast. A battle of giants followed, for both ships were manned by brave
crews and commanded by extraordinarily skilful officers. The short,
black-haired, agile American commander saw his ship catch fire, stood
on his quarter-deck while the blazing spars, sails, and rigging fell
about him, while his men were mowed down by the terrific broadsides of
the _Serapis_, and calmly directed the fire of shot at the enemy.
Terribly as the _Bon Homme Richard_ suffered, the _Serapis_ was in
still worse plight. Two thirds of her men were killed or wounded when
Paul Jones gave the signal to board her. The Americans swarmed over the
enemy’s bulwarks, and, armed with pistol and cutlass, cleared the deck.
The captain of the _Serapis_ fought his ship to the last, but when he
saw the Americans sweeping everything before them and already heading
for the quarter-deck, he himself seized the ensign halyards and struck
his flag. Both ships were in flames, and the smoke was so thick that
it was some minutes before the men realized his surrender. There was
little to choose between the two vessels; each was a floating mass of
wreckage.
A little later the English captain went on board the _Bon Homme
Richard_ and tendered his sword to the young American. The latter
looked hard at the English officer. “Captain Pearson?” he asked
questioningly. The other bowed.
“Ah, I thought so. I am John Paul Jones, once small John Paul of
Arbigland in the Firth. Do you remember me?”
Pearson looked at the smoke-grimed face, the keen black eyes, the fine
figure. “I shouldn’t have known you. Yes, I remember now.”
Paul Jones took the sword that was held out to him, and asked one of
his midshipmen to escort the British captain to his cabin. He could not
help smiling as a curious recollection came to him. He looked up at the
masthead above him. There floated a flag bearing thirteen red and white
stripes and a blue corner filled with stars. It was the very flag of
his dream as a boy.
Thus it was that the sturdy Scotch boy, full of the daring spirit of
his Highland ancestors, became the great sea-fighter of a new country,
and ultimately wrote his name in history as the Father of the American
Navy.