_After a Long Time_
"There are only two men-of-war in the whole lot."
"Right, yer Honor. That 'un near the shore there-away looks like a big
frigate. That'll be the Serapis, I'm thinkin'."
"Yes, and that one further out, the Scarborough."
"Ay, ay, sir, an' all the rest on 'em is merchantmen. There ain't a
gun on board any on 'em. Nice pickin's them'll be fer us poor
sailormen arter we dispose of them war-vessels. Dash my wig! jist
think of them fat traders, an' we a-rummagin' among 'em--"
"That will do, Price. Just moderate your transports a little," said
the officer, stepping forward to the brow of the hill and taking
another long look at the harbor.
"I ain't no transport," muttered the garrulous old man under his
breath. "I won't carry no soldiers nowhere. I'm a man-o'-war, I am;"
but he took good care that his superior should not hear these somewhat
insubordinate remarks.
"Well," said the other, finally turning about after his close
scrutiny, "I think we have ascertained about all we have come for.
They are the Baltic convoy, without doubt, and you would better make a
straight course for the ship at once and report."
"An' you, sir?" asked the old man, respectfully, "won't you come
along, sir? I hate to cut cable an' leave you here adrift, alone, yer
Honor."
"No," answered the officer, after a reflective pause, "I think I shall
go up to that castle on the bluff beyond and find out a little more
definitely as to the situation, if possible. Meanwhile, do you get on
your horse and ride back to Bridlington Bay. Go aboard the Alert and
tell Mr. Lunt, from me, to join the Richard to the southward at once,
and notify Captain Jones of what we have seen. Tell him I think it
will be perfectly safe for him to come on: there is a great fleet of
merchant ships here with only two ships-of-war; he will rejoice at the
chance of a fair fight. I will find means to join him at the
rendezvous before the rest of the ships can assemble and they can get
under way. Now bear a hand; don't let the grass grow under your keel."
"Oh, Lord, yer Honor, have I got to git on board that 'ere four-legged
craft agin?" said old Price, ruefully.
"That's what you have to do, my lad," remarked the officer,
cheerfully.
"Seems like somethin's wrong with him," said the old sailor. "A animal
wot steers by the head is contrary like to natur. Now if I could only
git him to go about on t'other tack, or wear him, by shiftin' his
tail, I'd understand him perfectly; but this yere tiller rope riggin'
over his bows is wot gits me. An', sir, I can't make out with them
'ere stirrups nuther; it's like hangin' onto the yard-arm in a tossin'
sea without no foot ropes. Howsomever, if I must, I must, I guess."
"Oh, you won't mind it," replied the officer, laughing at the old
man's rueful face. "Besides, the wind's fair, and you'll be going free
most of the way. Just give him a touch of your weather heel once in a
while, and you'll soon make the harbor."
"I never thought about the wind," said the veteran gunner,
thoughtfully, his face brightening as he turned and listened for it.
"Yer Honor's right. 'Twill be plain sailin'. Well, sir, anchor's
aweigh, an' here goes!"
The old seaman, giving great evidence of his disinclination in spite
of the favoring breeze, at last climbed upon the back of his staid old
horse, and, resisting the temptation to give him his direction by a
pull of the tail, got under way and lurched rapidly down the road.
Left to himself, the lieutenant mounted his own horse--surprising to
state, for a sailor he was an excellent horseman--and rode down toward
the sleeping town nestled around Scarborough harbor, which was filled
with a large fleet of merchant ships convoyed by two men-of-war, all
riding quietly at their anchors.
Opposite the acclivity on which the two men had stood, and to the
north of the town, rose a bold, splendid headland, or scar, almost an
island, to the height of about three hundred feet. The rugged crest
was crowned by a picturesque old castle. The headland jutted boldly
out into the sea, and the wild waters dashed upon its walls from every
side. Access to the castle from the town was by means of a causeway
and bridge springing over a rocky and otherwise impassable connection
between the cliff and the mainland, which was sometimes flooded at
high-tide.
Portions of the castle were in bad repair, or had been dismantled in
the several wars in which it had played a memorable part since its
erection nearly seven hundred years before by a follower of William
the Conqueror; but a large part of it was still inhabitable, and had
been provided with a sufficient garrison. A heavy water battery, which
had been placed in position during the rebellion in 1745, had been
recently strengthened and reinforced.
Captain Jones, in the Bon Homme Richard, had been cruising around the
coasts of the British Islands for some time. He had heard of the
expected arrival of the Baltic fleet in these waters, and had presumed
that they would make Scarborough harbor. Word had been received from a
small trader he had overhauled, that a large number of ships had
assembled in that harbor; and in order to ascertain whether he might
safely attack them with his small nondescript squadron, he had
accepted the voluntary services of Lieutenant O'Neill, seconded by
gunner Price of the Bon Homme Richard.
They had gone on ahead of the squadron in the cutter Alert, and had
landed below Scarborough headland, and ridden on to Scarborough to
ascertain the facts. The Alert was to carry the news back to Jones, on
the Richard, farther down the coast, and the vessels of his squadron
were all to assemble a day or two later at Bridlington Bay, a small
and unimportant town with a good harbor within easy reaching distance
of the expected prey. Should the report of the scouts be favorable,
they would proceed at once to attack the convoy.
On their journey to Scarborough, O'Neill had ascertained from a
passing countryman that Lord Westbrooke was still governor of the
castle, and he at once surmised that Lady Elizabeth Howard would
probably be there with her guardian. Six months more than the year he
had asked for from her had elapsed, and many untoward circumstances
had prevented him from carrying out his plan of seeking her, but she
had ever been in his heart, and time and separation had but
intensified his passion. The mercurial Irishman had been deeply
smitten by the proud English beauty, and the constancy of his devotion
evidenced the depth of the impression she had made upon him.
When Jones had returned with the Ranger from his first successful
cruise, he and his officers had been fêted and made much of by the
French court. The gallant adventures in which he had participated lent
a new charm to the fascinating personality of the son of the old
marshal, whose entrée was already everything that could be desired;
and his heart, accordingly, had been a target for repeated attacks
upon the part of the bright-eyed and fascinating dames of France--but
to no avail had they attempted its capture.
Something of the story of his devotion had been allowed to leak out,
however, to account for his obduracy, and they finally understood why
he was so unusually insensible to their charms. This romance naturally
only added a piquancy to the feminine pursuit of which he was the
object, although the ladies' sportive love chase proved, in the end,
unavailing. He had resolved, O'Neill said, to show the world that
unusual spectacle, a constant Irishman! This was to attempt the
impossible, had been the quick reply, but, nevertheless, he had
accomplished it.
Our Celtic mariner did not resign from the American service, however,
not because he cared particularly for America, for democratic
doctrines could never be acceptable to a follower of the young Stuart,
the intimate associate of the young nobles of France; but, primarily,
because he saw in it renewed opportunities to annoy and humiliate the
stout Hanoverian whom he and his people hated, and from whom they had
received much harm, and, secondly, because he was so much attracted by
the strong personality of Paul Jones. So great had become his regard
for this wonderful man that he had even waived considerations of rank
in favor of an American, the gallant Richard Dale, and had consented
to serve as second lieutenant instead of first, on the Richard, when
that famous ship and her ill-assorted consorts started forth upon the
memorable cruise.
The tacticians of the French Navy unfortunately were not given to
consider downright hard fighting as the end and aim of naval
enterprise. Their man[oe]uvres were calculated to annoy and harass the
enemy, but their first thought was not to destroy his ships, but to
protect their own,--a fatal mistake in policy from which they have
ever suffered.
This was not John Paul Jones' way. Whatever else he was, he was a
fighter from the beginning to the end, and O'Neill found in him a
congenial spirit. The love-lorn Irishman had tried several times to
communicate with Lady Elizabeth by letter and messenger, but without
success, for he received no reply to his letters, and his messengers
had never returned. Therefore, when he found himself in such close
proximity to her as on this, the evening of Tuesday, the 21st of
September, 1779, he was utterly unable to resist the temptation at
least to attempt to see her again.
Jones and the ships were not due at the rendezvous until the day after
the next day, that would be Thursday morning. There would be ample
time to rejoin them on the next day, Wednesday. O'Neill imagined
himself perfectly safe; he had used no disguise except to wear the
uniform of a French naval officer, and as France and England were
nominally at peace, he persuaded himself that he was in no danger. It
was a breach of military propriety, he admitted, of course, but
nothing more,--this failure to return promptly to his ship,--and for
that he was willing to suffer.
With the delightful casuistry of lovers he persuaded himself against
his better judgment and failed to see his action in its true military
significance. Trusting to audacity, mother wit, and Dan Cupid for
protection, he went bravely on. In fact, he was taking his life in his
hand. His love blinded him,--it is the chief function of the cherubic
god; without that power most matches he attempts would fail.
Meanwhile, with a beating heart--beating not from fear, but with
anticipation--he rode slowly down the hill and into the town, where he
left his horse at an inn, and made his way on foot, and supperless,
such his eagerness, toward the castle.
He had no definite plan. There did not seem to be room for any. He had
one consuming desire: to see, to speak to, to come in touch again with
the beautiful girl who had been the object of his every thought, the
end of his every desire, the spirit of every dream in which he had
indulged since they had met. He had a thought--a hope--that she was
still Elizabeth Howard. There was that in her promise, in her look, in
her word, when she had said, "Come and see" on the strand, which gave
him the hope that she would wait until he did come, be it one year or
two; and with the sanguine spirit of his race he could not prepare
himself for a disappointment.
The moon had risen as he walked quietly through the town and began to
mount the hill. He did not know how to gain admittance to the castle
when he approached it; and as ill luck would have it, as he was
standing on the causeway looking toward the gate, he was approached by
a squad of soldiers under the command of a sergeant, who were
returning from an errand in the town. His meditations, as he stood
gazing at the lights shining from the different windows, wondering
behind which wall was ensconced the idol of his heart, were rudely
interrupted by the grasp of a rough hand upon his shoulder and a harsh
voice in his ear saying,--
"Well, sir, wot are you a-doin' 'ere at this hour o' the night?
Entrance to the castle is forbid to every one except members of the
garrison, or them wich has passes. No one is allowed on the causeway
after sunset even. There's so many tales of raidin's an' hell's own
doin's on the coast by that bloody ravagin' pirate Jones an' his
bleedin' gang, that we're a'most in a state of siege. Give an account
of yourself."
"My friend," said O'Neill, calmly, glancing rapidly about him, and
giving up at once any idea of resistance, for he was surrounded by at
least a dozen men, one or two of whom had laid violent hands upon
him,--"my friend," he said, speaking in broken English, with a
well-simulated French accent, "I am an officer of the King of
France, travelling for pleasure through your great country. I hear of
the old castle--I wish to see it--hence I come here. I have done
nothing--you will let me go free?"
"A Frenchman?"
"Yes, monsieur, I have that honor."
"Well, that settles it. You've got to come along with us now. A
frog-eatin' Frenchman's our natural-born enemy."
"But, monsieur, there is no war between my master and your king?"
"Don't monshur me. I don't take no palaverin', an' I don't know
nothin' about whether there is war or not," said the sergeant,
brusquely; "but we always did hate the bloody Frenchies, an' we always
will, an' whenever we ketch one of 'em around here, he's got to give
an account of hisself. Now if you come along peaceable like, all
right--we won't hurt you. If you don't, we'll just pick you up and
carry you. You can take your choice," he added indifferently.
A horseman galloping in from the town at this moment drew rein in
front of the little group.
"Ah, sergeant, what is it? Whom have you there?" he queried sharply.
"'Tis a Frenchman, sir. We found him a-prowlin' round here. He's a
spy, I takes it," answered the sergeant, saluting but still retaining
his grasp.
"Pardon me, monsieur," said O'Neill; "I am no spy. I am a gentleman of
France, as I explain to this man. I travel--come here to see the
castle--"
"Well, sir, I can assist you to attain your end," interrupted the
lieutenant on the horse; "and since you desire to see the castle,
perhaps you would not object to taking a look at it from the inside."
"As a prisoner, monsieur?"
"Well, I am sorry you put it that way, but I shall be compelled to
turn you over to the governor."
"But I protest, monsieur!"
"You can protest to the admiral if you wish, the governor, I mean, for
you will have to come along now, under the circumstances. We hear that
d----d Scots buccaneer Paul Jones is on the coast, and we don't know
when he might strike or whom he might send on shore. We can't be too
careful, you know."
"Very well, monsieur, I come," said O'Neill, shrugging his shoulders
and resigning himself gracefully to the inevitable.
"That's good," answered the young officer. "Bring him along,
sergeant."
"Yes, leftenant. Now, you Johnnie, right about face, march!"
It was in this unexpected and undignified manner that O'Neill gained
entrance to the castle. As they walked beneath the great gates of the
gloomy fortress, his heart, in spite of the serious nature of his
position, gave a bound of elation. This reckless young man had as yet
no other thought than that by every step he had been brought a little
nearer to his divinity; if other thoughts had come, it is doubtful if
he would have allowed them to stop him now. As the party halted in the
courtyard, while the lieutenant dismounted and hastened to apprise the
governor of the capture, he even ventured most imprudently to ask the
sergeant if Lady Elizabeth Howard was in the castle.
"She is," replied the astonished functionary. "Wot's that to you, I'd
like to know?"