With John Paul Jones

Within a few hours the schooner was well out in the channel and bowling along at a spanking pace; the two seamen, now that there was no immediate hope of rescue, as the boat had promised, were quiet and willing enough to work the vessel under her new masters. But Longsword kept his eye upon them for all that; he had no confidence in the faith of captured men; long experience in warfare had taught him that they were only to be depended upon when they could not help themselves.

“Is it for Ireland you’ll be making?” asked the trooper of Ethan, who still held the wheel.

“I don’t see the need of that, now,” said the lad, thoughtfully. “It was a good idea enough when we had only an open boat; but now that we have a vessel like this what is the matter with taking her up through the channel and running her into some French port?”

“Nothing in the world,” answered Longsword with great promptness. He seemed vastly taken by the notion, but for all that, added: “But there will be many British ships of war in these waters now, Master Ethan, looking for the Ranger.”

“This little craft is a clean, free sailor,” said the boy. “If we come upon an enemy we can run for it.”

“And we can make a bit of a fight, too,” said the Irishman. “There are two six-pounders in the bow, and the four carronades, beyant there, look as though they would give good service, faith.”

Ethan laughed.

“But we have no gun crews, Longsword,” protested he.

The Celt scratched his head.

“That’s so, sure,” he admitted. “I never once thought of that.”

They held a course up the channel all night; the moon rode grandly in the starlit heavens, and bathed the chopping waters with radiance. But toward morning her glory waned, and the darkness that ensued was of that complete pall-like sort that usually precedes dawn.

Then a fog settled slowly down—the wet, clinging mist that is common in those waters, and they sailed on through it, chilled and silent. Deeper and thicker it grew as the moments went by; they had sighted no vessel since they had run out; but now, with the suddenness of magic, the gleaming bow lights of a large ship appeared ahead like the angry eyes of some sea monster glaring upon them.

Ethan threw the wheel down hard; the nose of the schooner swung about in answer and she plunged across the bow of the ship like a ghost. A startled cry came from the larger vessel’s deck, then followed a hubbub of sounds; and at last a voice hailed them.

“Ahoy! What vessel is that?”

The creaking of the yards of the ship showed that she was about to investigate the schooner; but at the hail, Ethan and Shamus O’Moore looked at one another blankly.

“I never thought to ask the name of this craft,” said the boy.

“Nor I,” answered the Irishman, “but we’ll know in a minute, faith.”

“Ahoy,” came from the ship, which had run off some little distance before her yards could be dressed to meet the change of course. She was now looming up huge and grim through the mists of the early morning. “What ship is that?”

“Answer,” Longsword said to one of the British seamen.

The man hesitated sullenly: but the fierce, crushing grip that the dragoon suddenly put upon his shoulder caused him to call out at the top of his voice:

“His Majesty’s schooner, Condor.”

The ship was now very close at hand, indeed the two vessels were within easy pistol shot of each other.

“This is the frigate, Drake,” came the voice from the ship deck. “Who’s your commander?”

“Captain Spencer.”

“Have you run across any other vessel since dark?”

“No,” answered the sailor at Longsword’s prompting.

“We are looking for the pirate, Paul Jones; he’s reported to be in these waters. Look out for him.”

There was then a sharp altercation between the speaker and another person who appeared to have just come upon deck. After a moment the new voice cried harshly: “Condor, ahoy!”

“Ahoy!” answered Ethan.

“Heave to; I’m coming aboard of you.”

“We can’t have him do that,” said the boy to Longsword.

“The moment he set foot on this deck, the men would tell him everything,” agreed the Irish soldier.

“Clap on more sail,” said Ethan; “we’ll run for it.”

The men, at Longsword’s stern command, set the foresail and a couple of topsails; under the increased pressure, the Condor drew away, and the Drake faded to a blur and at last the mist swallowed her up all altogether.

“Put out all the lights,” called Ethan. “We can give her the slip in this fog.”

Longsword promptly extinguished all the lanterns; shouts from the Drake came ever more dimly through the night; a drum throbbed dully.

“They are beating to quarters,” said Ethan.

“Let them,” laughed Longsword. “Sure if they begin firing in a fog like this it’s only waste good powder they’ll be doing.”

Ethan had changed the course of the Condor until she stood as before the meeting; the wind blew briskly once more and the fog began to lift before it. The schooner had made some little distance before this died away, and the mist settled once more. Nothing was seen of the British ship.

“We have eluded them very nicely,” laughed Ethan, as he gazed into the gray wall behind them, vainly endeavoring to catch a glimpse of the Englishman.

He had no sooner uttered these words than a shout rang out from Longsword in the bow. Whirling about, his hand upon the butt of a pistol, he was dumbfounded to see the red and green bow lights glaring at the schooner for the second time that night.

“The Drake once more,” cried Longsword in amazement.

“It can’t be,” answered Ethan, easing the schooner a trifle. “We left the Drake behind us.”

“You’ve been sailing in a circle,” shouted one of the English seamen, exultantly. “The Drake is a smart craft, and she’s got you now.”

“Ahoy!” came through the gloom of the misty morning. “What craft is that?”

“British schooner Condor,” cried the sailor before he could be prevented. “What ship is that?”

Ethan heard the man chuckle as he waited for the expected answer. But the chuckle died in the British tar’s throat when the voice from the newcomer shouted,

“The American sloop-of-war Ranger; heave to, or I’ll blow you out of the water!”