THE EXPEDITION THAT SAILED FROM GROIX.
Three months after anchoring at Brest, through Dr. Franklin’s
negotiations with the French king, backed by the bestirring ardor of
Paul, a squadron of nine vessels, of various force, were ready in the
road of Groix for another descent on the British coasts. These craft
were miscellaneously picked up, their crews a mongrel pack, the
officers mostly French, unacquainted with each other, and secretly
jealous of Paul. The expedition was full of the elements of
insubordination and failure. Much bitterness and agony resulted to a
spirit like Paul’s. But he bore up, and though in many particulars the
sequel more than warranted his misgivings, his soul still refused to
surrender.
The career of this stubborn adventurer signally illustrates the idea
that since all human affairs are subject to organic disorder, since
they are created in and sustained by a sort of half-disciplined chaos,
hence he who in great things seeks success must never wait for smooth
water, which never was and never will be, but, with what straggling
method he can, dash with all his derangements at his object, leaving
the rest to Fortune.
Though nominally commander of the squadron, Paul was not so in effect.
Most of his captains conceitedly claimed independent commands. One of
them in the end proved a traitor outright; few of the rest were
reliable.
As for the ships, that commanded by Paul in person will be a good
example of the fleet. She was an old Indiaman, clumsy and crank,
smelling strongly of the savor of tea, cloves, and arrack, the cargoes
of former voyages. Even at that day she was, from her venerable
grotesqueness, what a cocked hat is, at the present age, among ordinary
beavers. Her elephantine bulk was houdahed with a castellated poop like
the leaning tower of Pisa. Poor Israel, standing on the top of this
poop, spy-glass at his eye, looked more an astronomer than a mariner,
having to do, not with the mountains of the billows, but the mountains
in the moon. Galileo on Fiesole. She was originally a single-decked
ship, that is, carried her armament on one gun-deck; but cutting ports
below, in her after part, Paul rammed out there six old
eighteen-pounders, whose rusty muzzles peered just above the
water-line, like a parcel of dirty mulattoes from a cellar-way. Her
name was the Duras, but, ere sailing, it was changed to that other
appellation, whereby this sad old hulk became afterwards immortal.
Though it is not unknown, that a compliment to Doctor Franklin was
involved in this change of titles, yet the secret history of the affair
will now for the first time be disclosed.
It was evening in the road of Groix. After a fagging day’s work, trying
to conciliate the hostile jealousy of his officers, and provide, in the
face of endless obstacles (for he had to dance attendance on scores of
intriguing factors and brokers ashore), the requisite stores for the
fleet, Paul sat in his cabin in a half-despondent reverie, while
Israel, cross-legged at his commander’s feet, was patching up some old
signals.
“Captain Paul, I don’t like our ship’s name.—Duras? What’s that
mean?—Duras? Being cribbed up in a ship named Duras! a sort of makes
one feel as if he were in durance vile.”
“Gad, I never thought of that before, my lion. Duras—Durance vile. I
suppose it’s superstition, but I’ll change Come, Yellow-mane, what
shall we call her?”
“Well, Captain Paul, don’t you like Doctor Franklin? Hasn’t he been the
prime man to get this fleet together? Let’s call her the Doctor
Franklin.”
“Oh, no, that will too publicly declare him just at present; and Poor
Richard wants to be a little shady in this business.”
“Poor Richard!—call her Poor Richard, then,” cried Israel, suddenly
struck by the idea.
“’Gad, you have it,” answered Paul, springing to his feet, as all trace
of his former despondency left him;—“Poor Richard shall be the name, in
honor to the saying, that ‘God helps them that help themselves,’ as
Poor Richard says.”
Now this was the way the craft came to be called the _Bon Homme
Richard_; for it being deemed advisable to have a French rendering of
the new title, it assumed the above form.
A few days after, the force sailed. Ere long, they captured several
vessels; but the captains of the squadron proving refractory, events
took so deplorable a turn, that Paul, for the present, was obliged to
return to Groix. Luckily, however, at this junction a cartel arrived
from England with upwards of a hundred exchanged American seamen, who
almost to a man enlisted under the flag of Paul.
Upon the resailing of the force, the old troubles broke out afresh.
Most of her consorts insubordinately separated from the Bon Homme
Richard. At length Paul found himself in violent storms beating off the
rugged southeastern coast of Scotland, with only two accompanying
ships. But neither the mutiny of his fleet, nor the chaos of the
elements, made him falter in his purpose. Nay, at this crisis, he
projected the most daring of all his descents.
The Cheviot Hills were in sight. Sundry vessels had been described
bound in for the Firth of Forth, on whose south shore, well up the
Firth, stands Leith, the port of Edinburgh, distant but a mile or two
from that capital. He resolved to dash at Leith, and lay it under
contribution or in ashes. He called the captains of his two remaining
consorts on board his own ship to arrange details. Those worthies had
much of fastidious remark to make against the plan. After losing much
time in trying to bring to a conclusion their sage deliberations, Paul,
by addressing their cupidity, achieved that which all appeals to their
gallantry could not accomplish. He proclaimed the grand prize of the
Leith lottery at no less a figure than £200,000, that being named as
the ransom. Enough: the three ships enter the Firth, boldly and freely,
as if carrying Quakers to a Peace-Congress.
Along both startled shores the panic of their approach spread like the
cholera. The three suspicious crafts had so long lain off and on, that
none doubted they were led by the audacious viking, Paul Jones. At five
o’clock, on the following morning, they were distinctly seen from the
capital of Scotland, quietly sailing up the bay. Batteries were hastily
thrown up at Leith, arms were obtained from the castle at Edinburgh,
alarm fires were kindled in all directions. Yet with such tranquillity
of effrontery did Paul conduct his ships, concealing as much as
possible their warlike character, that more than once his vessels were
mistaken for merchantmen, and hailed by passing ships as such.
In the afternoon, Israel, at his station on the tower of Pisa, reported
a boat with five men coming off to the Richard from the coast of Fife.
“They have hot oat-cakes for us,” said Paul; “let ’em come. To
encourage them, show them the English ensign, Israel, my lad.”
Soon the boat was alongside.
“Well, my good fellows, what can I do for you this afternoon?” said
Paul, leaning over the side with a patronizing air.
“Why, captain, we come from the Laird of Crokarky, who wants some
powder and ball for his money.”
“What would you with powder and ball, pray?”
“Oh! haven’t you heard that that bloody pirate, Paul Jones, is
somewhere hanging round the coasts?”
“Aye, indeed, but he won’t hurt you. He’s only going round among the
nations, with his old hat, taking up contributions. So, away with ye;
ye don’t want any powder and ball to give him. He wants contributions
of silver, not lead. Prepare yourselves with silver, I say.”
“Nay, captain, the Laird ordered us not to return without powder and
ball. See, here is the price. It may be the taking of the bloody
pirate, if you let us have what we want.”
“Well, pass ’em over a keg,” said Paul, laughing, but modifying his
order by a sly whisper to Israel: “Oh, put up your price, it’s a gift
to ye.”
“But ball, captain; what’s the use of powder without ball?” roared one
of the fellows from the boat’s bow, as the keg was lowered in. “We want
ball.”
“Bless my soul, you bawl loud enough as it is. Away with ye, with what
you have. Look to your keg, and hark ye, if ye catch that villain, Paul
Jones, give him no quarter.”
“But, captain, here,” shouted one of the boatmen, “there’s a mistake.
This is a keg of pickles, not powder. Look,” and poking into the
bung-hole, he dragged out a green cucumber dripping with brine. “Take
this back, and give us the powder.”
“Pooh,” said Paul, “the powder is at the bottom, pickled powder, best
way to keep it. Away with ye, now, and after that bloody embezzler,
Paul Jones.”
This was Sunday. The ships held on. During the afternoon, a long tack
of the Richard brought her close towards the shores of Fife, near the
thriving little port of Kirkaldy.
“There’s a great crowd on the beach. Captain Paul,” said Israel,
looking through his glass. “There seems to be an old woman standing on
a fish-barrel there, a sort of selling things at auction to the people,
but I can’t be certain yet.”
“Let me see,” said Paul, taking the glass as they came nigher. “Sure
enough, it’s an old lady—an old quack-doctress, seems to me, in a black
gown, too. I must hail her.”
Ordering the ship to be kept on towards the port, he shortened sail
within easy distance, so as to glide slowly by, and seizing the
trumpet, thus spoke:
“Old lady, ahoy! What are you talking about? What’s your text?”
“The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance. He shall wash
his feet in the blood of the wicked.”
“Ah, what a lack of charity. Now hear mine:—God helpeth them that help
themselves, as Poor Richard says.”
“Reprobate pirate, a gale shall yet come to drive thee in wrecks from
our waters.”
“The strong wind of your hate fills my sails well. Adieu,” waving his
bonnet—“tell us the rest at Leith.”
Next morning the ships were almost within cannon-shot of the town. The
men to be landed were in the boats. Israel had the tiller of the
foremost one, waiting for his commander to enter, when just as Paul’s
foot was on the gangway, a sudden squall struck all three ships,
dashing the boats against them, and causing indescribable confusion.
The squall ended in a violent gale. Getting his men on board with all
dispatch, Paul essayed his best to withstand the fury of the wind, but
it blew adversely, and with redoubled power. A ship at a distance went
down beneath it. The disappointed invader was obliged to turn before
the gale, and renounce his project.
To this hour, on the shores of the Firth of Forth, it is the popular
persuasion, that the Rev. Mr. Shirrer’s (of Kirkaldy) powerful
intercession was the direct cause of the elemental repulse experienced
off the endangered harbor of Leith.
Through the ill qualities of Paul’s associate captains: their timidity,
incapable of keeping pace with his daring; their jealousy, blind to his
superiority to rivalship; together with the general reduction of his
force, now reduced by desertion, from nine to three ships; and last of
all, the enmity of seas and winds; the invader, driven, not by a fleet,
but a gale, out of the Scottish water’s, had the mortification in
prospect of terminating a cruise, so formidable in appearance at the
onset, without one added deed to sustain the reputation gained by
former exploits. Nevertheless, he was not disheartened. He sought to
conciliate fortune, not by despondency, but by resolution. And, as if
won by his confident bearing, that fickle power suddenly went over to
him from the ranks of the enemy—suddenly as plumed Marshal Ney to the
stubborn standard of Napoleon from Elba, marching regenerated on Paris.
In a word, luck—that’s the word—shortly threw in Paul’s way the great
action of his life: the most extraordinary of all naval engagements;
the unparalleled death-lock with the Serapis.