_To
Rebbie and Fanny Graham_
[Illustration: _JOHN PAUL JONES FLUSHED WITH PLEASURE_]
[Illustration]
_With_
JOHN PAUL
JONES
_by_
John T. M^cIntyre
_Author of_
“Fighting King George” etc.
Illustrated
_by_
Clyde O. Deland
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMVI
[Illustration]
COPYRIGHT 1906 BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
Contents
CHAP. PAGE
I HOW ETHAN CARLYLE BROUGHT THE NEWS OF BURGOYNE’S SURRENDER 9
II HOW A SPY LISTENED AT THE WINDOW 21
III HOW THE SHALLOP ATTACKED THE ISLAND QUEEN 32
IV SHOWS HOW THE RANGER SAILED FOR FRANCE 46
V HOW ETHAN CARLYLE FACED THE BULLY OF THE RANGER 62
VI WHAT HAPPENED BY NIGHT IN THE HARBOR OF NANTES 73
VII HOW LONGSWORD STRUCK HOME 82
VIII SHOWS HOW BENJAMIN FRANKLIN OPENED THE SECRET DISPATCH 104
IX HOW ETHAN AND LONGSWORD MET A MAN NAMED FOCHARD 114
X THE CRUISE OF THE RANGER 130
XI ON ST. MARY’S ISLE 151
XII IN WHICH DANVERS APPEARS ONCE MORE 162
XIII HOW THE SPY LOST HIS PRISONERS 176
XIV HOW ETHAN AND LONGSWORD TOOK THE SCHOONER 192
XV HOW THE SCHOONER CAME UPON THE DRAKE IN THE DARKNESS 209
XVI HOW THE RANGER FOUGHT THE DRAKE 216
XVII THE SECRET AGENT ONCE MORE 230
XVIII THE ROAD TO BREST 251
XIX HOW THE ERIN PUT TO SEA 266
XX SHOWS HOW A SOLDIER CAME OUT OF MILL PRISON 279
XXI THE EXPLOIT OF MASTER DIRK HATFIELD 293
XXII THE PRESS-GANG 304
XXIII HOW THE BON HOMME RICHARD MET THE SERAPIS 319
XXIV HOW THE SERAPIS STRUCK HER FLAG 339
XXV HOME AND LIBERTY 354
Illustrations
JOHN PAUL JONES FLUSHED WITH PLEASURE _Frontispiece_
PAGE
“I’LL DO IT,” SAID ETHAN PROMPTLY 26
“KEEP THEM AT SWORD’S LENGTH,” SAID CAPTAIN JONES 99
DANVERS CAME DOWN INTO THE HOLD 171
ETHAN CARLYLE STOOD BEFORE THEM 204
AN ANGRY LOOK CAME INTO HATFIELD’S EYES 313
HE BEGAN TO THROW THE GRENADES 349
With John Paul Jones
CHAPTER I
HOW ETHAN CARLYLE BROUGHT THE NEWS OF BURGOYNE’S SURRENDER
“Who is that man that is so much at the Wheelocks’ just now?” asked
young Walter Stanton of his friend Philip Morgan.
“Some Tory friend, I suppose. I don’t like him; see the sneer upon his
face as he looks at the members upon the steps of the State House.”
It was about noon on a day late in September in the year 1777. A group
of young men and boys were lounging upon some benches in the shade of
two big buttonwoods directly across from the quaint old State House at
Philadelphia. The sun hung almost over the tower whose bell had boomed
freedom to a nation only a little more than a year before; upon the
stone steps of the building stood a number of grave-faced, earnest
gentlemen, members of the first Continental Congress, talking of the
weighty matters that were to be discussed in the approaching session.
The man who had attracted Walter Stanton’s attention was a person of
striking appearance. He had thick, coal-black hair, a pale, keen face
and a frame that showed strength and endurance. A boy of about nineteen
stood at his side, and they were both talking in low tones and watching
the patriot-legislators as they slowly assembled. Philip Morgan was
right when he said that the stranger wore a sneer upon his face. That
cold look of pitying contempt and the curl of the man’s lip could
mean nothing else. A stir went through the crowd of lads as an erect,
care-worn man passed slowly along, with bent head and an air of great
abstraction, every hat came off with a sweep of respect.
“Who is that man?” asked the stranger of Walter.
“That,” answered the boy, “is Mr. Hancock, president of Congress.”
The stranger’s teeth gleamed in a mocking smile.
“Ah, yes, I have heard of him,” he said. “It was he that caused this
war with England.”
Walter and Philip looked at each other; the boy at the man’s side
nudged him in a manner that said as plainly as words: “Be careful of
what you say.”
“It’s news to me,” spoke Walter Stanton, “to hear that Mr. John Hancock
was the cause of the war.”
“We had always fancied that it was begun by that old madman, King
George,” said Philip Morgan, who was a blunt spoken lad at best; and
the man’s manner irritated him. The stranger bent his brows and a glint
of anger came into his sharp, black eyes. He seemed upon the point of
making a biting retort; but once more the boy at his side warned him to
beware.
“Be careful, Danvers,” he whispered. “You’ll get into trouble. They are
all Whigs here.”
Danvers hesitated a moment; then he turned to Philip with a cold smile
that showed his strong white teeth.
“If it had not been for Major Pitcairn’s being called out that day
with his men to seize this Mr. Hancock for treason to the crown, there
would have been no fight at Lexington; and had that skirmish not taken
place there would have been no rebellion.”
“Revolution is a better word, I think,” said Walter Stanton, quietly.
“Call it what you will,” answered the man sneeringly, “the fact remains
the same.”
“And I don’t like your calling the fight at Lexington a skirmish,”
spoke the blunt-tongued Philip, who had come to think of that first
exchange of shots as a most glorious engagement. “It resulted in three
hundred British troops being killed, and when Putnam and Arnold hurried
up to take command of the minutemen, they walled General Gage up in
Boston, for all his army and ships.”
“Putnam!” said the man in his mocking way. “What is he? An old farmer
turned soldier; and Arnold is a swaggering, reckless ruffian.”
“Be quiet,” whispered Stephen Wheelock, as he dragged at the man’s
sleeve, his face growing pale as he noted the resentful expressions of
those about them. “Be quiet, I tell you!”
Danvers’ quick eye saw the effect of his words and he smiled coolly. It
seemed as though he rather enjoyed the risk he ran in being so open in
his words.
“Never fear,” said he, in a low tone to young Wheelock. “I only want to
stir them up a bit. I’ll be careful not to go too far.”
“You’ll get my father into hot water, Danvers, if you don’t mind
yourself,” warned Stephen, drawing the man aside. “The Whigs know that
our family sympathize with the cause of the king; and it must not be
known that we harbor agents of Lord North’s government.”
“Hush!” warned Danvers, in his turn. “They will know it soon enough,
and you’ll have my neck in a halter, if you use such terms as that in
this public place.”
“Give them no cause for suspicion, then,” said young Wheelock. “I’ve
seen them aroused more than once, and it’s not a pleasant thing to look
at, indeed.”
Philip Morgan’s ire was aroused by the words of Danvers, and he was
talking loudly.
“Let the English say what they like,” cried he, “we have as good
officers as they, and perhaps better. And we were faithful to the king,
too, until he hired the Brunswickers and Hessians to come and fight
against us. No free men could stand such a thing as that.”
“No, no,” chorused the boys upon the benches.
“That was the last straw,” said Walter Stanton. “If King George had
not done that, the gentlemen across the way would never have written,
passed and signed the Declaration of Independence, July a year ago.”
So interested were all the boys in the talk, which now became general,
that they did not notice a horseman ride up, dismount and tie his nag
to a post near at hand. He was a tall, spare, raw-boned man, with fiery
red hair. He held himself with the rigid bearing of a man trained in
the army; his face was resolute, indeed fierce looking; and an ugly
sword slash had left a red scar across it that did not add to his
appearance. He stood at his horse’s head listening, as Philip Morgan
went on, addressing Danvers.
“You may sneer at Putnam if you like, sir, but he is a bold and able
officer, and so is General Arnold. Why, Arnold’s invasion of Canada
alone would stamp him as an uncommon man.”
“He had Richard Montgomery with him,” said Danvers, coldly, “and
Montgomery got what little training he had as an officer in the British
army. The best that one can say of him is that he was brave.”
At the name of the intrepid and lamented Montgomery, the fierce looking
man with the scar upon his face had bent forward interestedly; but at
the words of Danvers he stepped forward, his strong fingers twisting
nervously.
“I knew General Montgomery,” said he to Danvers; “he was the cleverest
officer I ever saw.”
Danvers turned and swept him with an insolent look.
“And, pray, sir, who are you?” he asked.
“Shamus O’Moore, once of the Inniskillens,” answered the newcomer,
standing very erect and speaking in a harsh, high voice.
“Ah,” sneered Danvers, “an English dragoon.”
“No,” said the other with great promptness, “an Irish dragoon.”
“It is all the same,” spoke Danvers.
“Pardon me,” protested the other, still in the same tone, and never
budging an inch in his ramrod like attitude. “There is no sameness
about it at all. Faith, ye could never make an Englishman out of an
Irishman in the world. They are like oil and water, and they won’t mix.”
“It’s the man they call Longsword,” whispered Walter Stanton to his
chum, Philip Morgan.
“I know,” answered the latter. “I’ve seen him at Ethan Carlyle’s
several times.”
“General Montgomery,” said the soldier-like O’Moore, “were an Irishman
like meself and proud he were of it. He gave up his life for this
struggling nation, sir, in the storming of Quebec; and it was no common
life, I’ll have ye know. There was in him the makings of a general
officer that would have astonished the world.”
“Oh, you fancy yourself a judge, I see,” said Danvers, icily.
“Man and boy, I’ve soldiered for thirty years,” said the other,
“and I’ve had lots of time to pick up stray bits of knowledge by the
wayside.”
As Danvers turned away to give his attention to young Wheelock, who was
again plucking warningly at his sleeve, O’Moore noticed Walter Stanton
and favored him instantly with a stiff, formal salute.
“Hello, O’Moore,” said Walter. “Where is Ethan?”
“Master Ethan will be here in a few moments,” returned O’Moore. “There
he is beyant, speaking with Mr. Jefferson.”
The lads turned their eyes in the direction indicated, and saw a
gentleman garbed in sober black standing in the footway some little
distance off conversing excitedly with a clean built, handsome boy of
seventeen, who was seated astride a powerful bay horse.
“Did you know that Ethan was secretary to Mr. Jefferson, now?” asked
Walter, as they watched the two with interest.
“Yes,” answered Philip. “His father and Mr. Jefferson were great
friends, O’Moore, were they not?”
“Indeed, yes, sir,” said the ex-dragoon. “And Mr. Jefferson visited
him at New Orleans before the war came on.”
“They seem greatly interested in their talk,” observed Walter, still
gazing toward the lad on the bay horse and the black clad statesman. “I
never saw Mr. Jefferson so excited, and I’ve seen him many times and
listened to his speeches.”
“And it’s no wonder, Master Stanton, that he do be excited now,” said
Shamus. “Sure he’s listening to better news then he’s heard in many a
long day. While taking a gallop on the north roads this morning, Master
Ethan and meself came upon a courier from New York whose horse had
stumbled, thrown him and broken his leg. We carried him to an inn where
he’d be taken care of; and when he found out who Master Ethan were he
handed over his despatches and bid us ride to the city wid them and
give them to Mr. Hancock, the president of the Congress.”
“There is news from the north, then?” cried Walter, his eyes opening
wider in expectation.
“Good news, too, you said, O’Moore,” said Philip Morgan. “Come, now,
tell us what it is.”
The other boys had risen from their seats upon the benches, and all
crowded eagerly about the grim looking dragoon.
“What’s the news?” they clamored. “Tell us the news.”
“Ye’ll hear it in another moment,” said O’Moore, a smile flickering on
his lips. “Here comes Master Ethan now.”
The sober looking gentleman in black, had just waved the boy upon the
horse delightedly away; the lad touched his mount with the spur and
dashed down the street toward the state house. Mr. Hancock stood upon
the low stone steps in the midst of a group of members engaged in
earnest talk, when the bay was pulled up sharply, and the boy upon his
back called in a voice that trembled with excitement:
“Mr. Hancock.”
That gentleman raised his brows in some little surprise at this; then
his face wrinkled in a smile and he nodded his recognition.
“News from the north!” cried the boy as he swung a bulky saddle packet
over his head.
The expression of every man present changed instantly; every voice was
hushed, every face was strained and anxious. For weeks they had been
swayed, pendulum-like, between hope and fear; and now the result was to
be known.
“Burgoyne,” shouted the boy, as he swung himself exultantly from his
horse, “has surrendered to General Gates at Saratoga.”
Then, amidst the clapping of hands and the shouts of the crowd that
had gathered like magic, he strode across the walk, his spurs jingling
on the flags, and handed the despatches to the president of the
Continental Congress.