Captain Paul Jones goes down to l’Orient to begin the overhaul and
refit of the _Richard_. The ship is twenty years old, and he finds it
shaken and worn by time and weather. It is not a good ship, not a
ship on which a prudent commander would care to stake his life and
reputation; but it is the best he can get, and Captain Paul Jones
accepts it, shrugging his shoulders. He has been so beaten upon by
disappointments, so carked and rusted by delays, since his old ship
_Ranger_ spread its sails for home, and left him as it were an exile
on French shores, that rather than further endure such heart-eating
experiences he is ready to embrace the desperate. As the work of
refitting progresses, Doctor Franklin comes over from Passy.
“The ship is old, Doctor,” says Captain Paul Jones, as he and Doctor
Franklin canvass the situation. “That, however, is the least of my
troubles. What causes me most uneasiness is the crew. Out of a whole
muster of three hundred and seventy-five, no more than fifty are
Americans.”
“Then you do not trust the French? Surely you don’t mean to say they are
not brave men?”
“Brave enough--the French; but that is not the point. They are not good
water fighters. By nature they are too hysterical, too easily excited,
to both sail and fight a ship. Those English whom we go to meet are born
water dogs, stubborn and cool; and the only ones afloat who, man for
man, may match them are Americans.”
“And of Americans you have but fifty?”
“Only fifty.” Then, with a heartfelt oath: “I would give my left hand to
have back my old crew of the _Ranger_.”
Captain Paul Jones begins pacing to and fro, his thoughts running
regretfully on the _Ranger_, and those stout hearts with whom he fought
the _Drake_. But the _Ranger_ and those stout, tarry ones are half a
world away; and in the end he returns perforce to the _Richard_, and
what poor tools in the way of crew are offered him by Fate. There is,
too, a matter of gravity which he desires to lay before the Doctor’s
older and more prudent judgment. For Captain Paul Jones, so unmanageable
by others, defers to the sagacious Doctor, and accepts his opinions and
follows his commands with closed eyes.
“This Captain Pierre Landais, Doctor,” he begins, “who is to sail the
_Alliance_ in my company?”
“Yes?” interrupts the Doctor.
“You know him?--you have confidence in him?”
The Doctor purses his lips, but says never a word.
“Then I’ll tell you what I think!” cries Captain Paul Jones, who reads
distrust in the good Doctor’s pursed but silent lips; “I’ll tell you
what I think, and what I’ll do. Already I’ve had some dealings with this
Landais. The fellow is mad--vanity-mad. Jealous, insubordinate, he has
twice taken open occasion to disobey my orders. This I have stomached in
silence--being on French shores. I now warn you that as soon as I find
myself in blue water, at a first sign of rebellion against my authority,
I’ll clap the fellow in irons. By heaven! I’ll string him to his own
yard arm, sir; make a tassel of him for the winds to play with, if it
be required to preserve a discipline which his example has already done
much to break down.”
Doctor Franklin meets this violent setting forth concerning the
recalcitrant Landais with a negative gesture of unmistakable emphasis.
“You must do nothing of the kind, Paul!” he replies. “Captain Landais,
as you say, is doubtless mad--vanity-mad. But he is also French; and we
must do nothing to estrange from our cause French sympathy and French
assistance. I urge you to bear with Landais in silence, rather than
jeopardize us with King Louis.”
Captain Paul Jones growlingly submits. “It will result disastrously,
Doctor,” he says. “We shall yet suffer for it, mark my word.” Then,
disgustedly: “I marvel that the Marine Committee in Philadelphia should
turn over to such a madman a brisk frigate like the _Alliance_.
“Your friend, the Marquis de Lafayette, had something to do with it, I
think. You observe that on his present visit to France, it is Landais
with his _Alliance_ who brings him.”
Captain Paul Jones says no more, but seems to accept Landais as he
accepts the _Richard_, desperately. His final comment shows the uneasy
complexion of his thought.
“We shall do the best we can, Doctor,” he says.
“Young as I am, I have lived long enough to know that one can’t have all
things ordered as he would.”
Captain Paul Jones, now commodore, clears for the Irish coast on a
bright, clear day in June. Besides the _Richard_, he has with him the
_Alliance_, thirty-two guns, Captain Landais; the _Pallas_, twenty-eight
guns, Captain Cottineau; and the _Vengeance_, twelve guns, Captain
Ricon. Four days later he returns limping into l’Orient for repairs,
the _Richard_ having been fouled by the _Alliance_ through the criminal
carelessness or worse of Captain Landais.
The breast of the young commodore is on fire with anger over the delay,
and the vicious clumsiness that caused it. He burns to destroy Landais,
as the mean reason of his troubles, but the thought of Doctor Franklin
restrains him. Also, as events unfold, that enforced return to l’Orient
proves of good fortune, and he forgets his chagrin in joy over the
flattering new turn in his affairs. Doctor Franklin has succeeded in
bringing about an exchange of prisoners, and barters to the British
admiralty one hundred and nineteen Englishmen, captured in the _Drake_
and other prizes taken by the _Ranger_, for one hundred and nineteen
Americans held by King George. While Commodore Paul Jones is curing the
damage done the _Richard_ by the evil Landais, those exchanged Americans
are landed under a cartel in Nantes. He goes down to Nantes and enlists
one hundred and fifteen of them for the _Richard_.
Before Commodore Paul Jones weighs anchor for a second start, he goes
over to Passy for a final word with Doctor Franklin. The pair walk in
the Doctor’s favorite garden, now a wilderness of foliage and flowers,
the Doctor serene, the boy commodore cloudy, taciturn and grim. His
resolution has set iron-hard to do or die; the cruise shall be a
glorious one or be his last. Doctor Franklin asks about his plans.
“I shall make for the west coast of Ireland,” says he, “and go north
about the British islands. Wind and weather favoring, I may sack a town
or two by way of retaliation for what the foe has done to us. They will
find that I have not forgotten Lord Dunmore, and my ruined plantation by
the Rappahannock.”
“The waters you will sail in are alive with British ships of war. With
your poor force it seems a desperate cruise.”
“Desperate, yes; but, Doctor, we are in no shape to play cautious. We
are weak; therefore we must be reckless.”
“It is a strange doctrine,” muses the Doctor. “And yet I will not say
but what it smells of judgment. I have faith in you, Paul; it teaches me
to hope that, when next I greet you, I shall greet a victor.”
“Doctor,” returns Commodore Paul Jones, and his tones are grave with
meaning, “I shall not disappoint you. Nor do I care to conceal from you
my resolution. When I sail, I sail looking for battle; and I shall not
hesitate to engage an enemy superior to my force. The condition of our
cause is such that, to sustain it, we need a striking, ay! a startling
naval success, and I shall do all I know, fight all I know, to bring
it to pass. More; my mind is made up: If I fail, I fall; I shall return
victorious or I shall not return.”
It is daybreak on a day in middle August when Commodore Paul Jones, with
the _Richard_ as flagship of the little squadron of four, puts the Isle
of Groaix astern, and points for the open ocean. His course is west
by north, so as to weather Cape Clear, and fetch the Irish coast close
aboard. With winds light and baffling, the squadron’s pace is slow; it
is nine days out of France before Cape Clear is sighted. Then it creeps
northward along the Irish coast, Commodore Paul Jones vigilant and
alert. He takes a prize or two, and one after the other sends into
French ports the British ships _Mayflower_ and _Fortune_. The young
commodore’s brow begins to clear; those prizes comfort him vastly. At
least the cruise shall not be registered as altogether fruitless.
It is the last day of August; the Hebrides lie off the _Richard_‘s
starboard beam. A stiff gale from the northwest sets in, and the
squadron is driven east by north under storm staysails. This dovetails
with the desires of Commodore Paul Jones; wherefore he welcomes the
gale as friendly weather. Also, it gives him a chance to try out the
_Richard_, which shows lively with the wind abaft the beam, but dull
to the confines of despair when sailing on a wind. Close-hauled, the
_Richard_ makes more lee than headway.
“Which means, Dick,” says Commodore Paul Jones judgmatically, to
Lieutenant Richard Dale--“which means, Dick, that we must have the
weather-gage before we lock horns with an enemy.”
Off Cape Wraith, Commodore Paul Jones is so fortunate as to take two
further prizes. He turns them over to Captain Landais, with orders to
send them into Brest. The Frenchman, who only receives an order for the
purpose of breaking it, sends them into the port of Bergen, where the
Norwegians promptly turn them over to the English, on an argument that
they do not officially know of any government called the United States.
Commodore Paul Jones works slowly and cautiously southward along the
east coast of Scotland. Off the Firth of Forth he decides to attack the
Port of Leith, and stands in for that fell purpose. An adverse gale,
seconded by off-shore currents, comes to the rescue of the threatened
Scotchmen; in the teeth of his best seamanship Commodore Paul Jones and
his squadron are driven out to sea. Thus the chance passes, and the sack
of Leith is abandoned. It is a sore setback to the hopes of Commodore
Paul Jones; but it lifts a load from the Scottish heart, to whom
the Stars and Stripes have brought visions of pillage and torch and
desolation. The news flies over England; beacons burn on each headland;
while every semaphore is telling that the dreaded Paul Jones is hawking
at the English coasts. The word causes a tremendous loss of British
sleep.
Off Spurn Head our industrious young commodore sinks one collier and
chases another ashore. Being full of curiosity, he takes a peep into
the mouth of the Humber, and discovers a frightened fleet of British
merchant vessels. The merchantmen are in a flutter at the sight of the
_Richard_‘s dread topsails; the frigate that it conveying them has its
work cut out, to nurse them into anything like calmness.
Following the look into the Humber, that sets so many timid merchantmen
to shivering, Commodore Paul Jones puts out to sea under doublereefs.
He plans to stand off and on throughout the night, and swoop on those
tremblers, like a hawk on a covey of quail, with the first gray streaks
of dawn. The frigate will doubtless fight, but the optimistic young
commodore reckons on making short work of that man-of-war. In the
middle watch the little brig _Vengeance_ runs under the _Richard_‘s lee,
bringing word of a nobler quarry. The Baltic timber fleet, fifty sail in
all, convoyed by the _Serapis_ and the _Countess of Scarboro_ has just
put into Bridlington Bay.
At this good news, Commodore Paul Jones gives up his designs touching
the frightened covey of merchantmen in the Humber. He prefers the Baltic
timber ships with the _Serapis_, the difference between the one and
the other being the difference between deer and hare. He orders the
_Vengeance_ to stand out to sea, find the _Alliance_, and tell Captain
Landais to join him off Scarboro’ Head.
“But do not,” says he to Captain Ricon, “give Captain Landais this notice
in the guise of an order. He would make a point of disobeying, and seize
on its reception as a pat occasion for insulting you.”
While the _Vengeance_ stands eastward in search of the _Alliance_,
Commodore Paul Jones signals the __Pallas__ to follow, and turns his
bows for Scarboro’ Head, then forty miles away.
The _Richard_, the little _Pallas_ close to its heels, cracks on canvas
throughout the night. The winds are mere puffs and catspaws; still, slow
as is their speed, daylight finds them within throwing distance of their
destination. They are the wrong-side of the weather, however, and the
whole day is wasted in beating inshore against the wind. Our young
commodore must do all the work; for the English merchantmen, as though
faint with fear at the sight of him, refuse to come out; while
the _Serapis_ and its consort stick close to them in their role of
guardships. The sun goes down, night descends, and as yet our young
commodore has not been able to get within reach of the foe; for at
beating to windward the _Richard_ is as dull as a Dutchman.
When darkness comes, it unlooses a land breeze. With that the
merchantmen take heart of grace, and resolve to dare all and run for it.
They rush out of Bridlington Bay, wind free, like a flock of seagulls.
What is a fair wind for them is a headwind for the _Richard_ and
_Pallas_; with no one to molest them, the fifty timber ships show a
clean pair of heels. Commodore Paul Jones makes no effort to chase; it
would be seamanship thrown away. Besides, the _Serapis_ has laid its
sails aback, and is waiting to hear from him; while the _Countess
of Scarboro_ guarding the flanks of the fugitive timber ships, seems
eagerly willing to try conclusions with the _Pallas_.
The temptation is too great; Commodore Paul Jones makes no least effort
to resist it. Signaling the _Pallas_ to close with and pull down the
smaller ship, with his own eye on the _Serapis_, he begins manoeuvring
for the upper hand. The sea is as smooth as glass; a great harvest moon
shoots up in the cloudless sky. As when the _Ranger_ fought the _Drake_,
it is to be a fight by the light of the moon.
The _Richard_ tacks starboard and port, the _Serapis_ lying in wait.
Decks cleared, guns shotted and run out, magazines open, men stripped
and at their quarters, both ships are as ferociously ready as bulldogs.
Commodore Paul Jones scans the _Serapis_ through his glass.
“How heavy is he, Commodore?”
It is Dr. Brooke, surgeon of the _Richard_, who puts the question. He
has been laying out his instruments and bandages in the cockpit, in
readiness for a hard night’s work, and now pokes his nose on deck for a
last breath of fresh air.
“Is that you, Doctor?” returns Commodore Paul Jones. The amiable tones
bespeak that bland urbanity which is his dominant characteristic on the
threshold of battle. “It’s the _Serapis_; a forty-four-gun ship of the
Rainbow class, six months off the stocks.”
It should be observed that Commodore Paul Jones’ pet study is the
British navy, and he knows more about it--ships, guns, and men--than
does the king’s admiralty itself.
“Forty-four guns! Rainbow class!” repeats the worthy doctor, who himself
is not without a working knowledge of ships and their comparative
strengths. “Then she’s a stronger ship, with heavier metal, than the
_Richard_?”
“As three is to two, Doctor,” replies Commodore Paul Jones, shutting up
his glass and preparing for action. “None the less, we shall fight them
and beat them just the same.”
Aboard the _Serapis_, Captain Pearson is holding his glass on the
_Richard_, not a cable’s length away. Suddenly the _Richard_ wears
and backs its topsail, thereby bringing its broadside to bear upon the
_Serapis_.
“That was a clever manoeuvre!” remarks Captain Pearson, admiringly,
to Lieutenant Wright, who stands by his side. “It holds for him the
weather-gage, and makes it impossible for me to luff across his hawse,
without exposing my ship to be raked.”
“Who is he?” asks Lieutenant Wright; for the _Serapis_ is just home
from Norway, and the word that set all England to lighting beacons and
doubling coast-guards has not reached it.
“Who is he?” repeats Captain Pearson, soberly. “He is Paul Jones; and,
my word for it, Lieutenant, there is work ahead.”