With John Paul Jones

It was fortunate for Ethan that he was a powerful swimmer, and at no great distance from the shore. He took the matter very coolly until he got his bearings; then he struck out for the beach. The pull of the undertow made landing rather difficult, but after a long struggle he finally accomplished it. He had no fear of detection, and boldly presented himself at a fisherman’s cabin and asked permission to dry his clothes.

The fisherman and his wife gladly took him in; and they insisted upon providing him with supper and a bed.

“I know what it is to fall into the sea in the night,” said the man with a shake of his head. “And I’ll not refuse an English lad like yourself any help I can give.”

Ethan, of course, did not undeceive him; to have told that he was an American would have meant imprisonment; so he merely thanked the good people, and accepted their many little kindnesses without revealing his nationality.

Next morning he discovered that he was but a half dozen miles from Plymouth; so, after insisting that the fisher folks take an English gold piece which he happened to have, he set out for the town. And as he tramped along the road his thoughts were upon the probable fate of the dispatch and of the lugger.

“Both in the hands of the British,” he murmured dispiritedly. “There can be nothing else for it. And who knows, before another sun sets I may be suspected and taken myself.”

He had no definite idea as to what he should do when he reached Plymouth; but something might be learned of the Erin, and that more than anything else induced him to enter the town. After wandering about for some time and watching the shipping and other things, his lagging steps halted before a great stone structure, grim looking and solid like a fortress.

“A prison,” he muttered as soon as his eyes traveled over it. “Mill prison, where they treat the American seamen so cruelly, I have no doubt. And perhaps Shamus and that brave fellow McHale will be behind those walls before long.”

As he looked, the huge door of the place opened and a tall, erect young man, in the scarlet coat of an English soldier, emerged, paused a moment, his eyes on Ethan, then came directly across toward him. For a moment the lad’s impulse was to run; but second thought showed him how useless this would be, and he stood his ground.

“You are a sailor, I see,” said the soldier, his eyes running over the dress that Ethan had worn since his first day in the Ranger. The speaker was a handsome young fellow, with clear honest eyes, and a resolute face; in spite of himself Ethan liked his looks.

“I am,” he answered, promptly.

“Out of a man-of-war, I take it?”

“Yes, and looking for another of the same sort,” said Ethan.

The other regarded him with a peculiar expression, then asked:

“What part of England are you from?”

Ethan laughed lightly, and put the question aside.

“I’ll not answer that for certain reasons,” said he.

“No harm done, I hope, comrade,” spoke the young soldier.

“None at all,” said Ethan, easily.

The other turned and was about to walk away down the street; but he paused and said slowly and distinctly:

“London, I think, is the place for you.”

Then he wheeled about on his heel and walked, with military erectness, down along the prison wall, which he turned and so disappeared from view.

“What could he have meant by that?” thought Ethan, astonished. “‘London, I think, is the place for you.’” He remained silent a moment, and then resumed, “And I think he is right. London is the place for me. There I can lose myself in the throngs; and perhaps I can somehow get a ship for France.”

He gave up all hope of Longsword and McHale; bitter as was the thought he made up his mind that it would be useless to linger about Plymouth in the hope of helping them; he began to think, also, that it was dangerous for him, in his sailor’s dress, to be seen upon the streets; at any time a press-gang might happen along, for the king’s ships were badly in need of men for the American war. So before the city was well astir he had laid it behind him. On the road he met many wagons in from the farms with loads of fresh butter and eggs and other things for the town.

“Oh, lad,” cried one old man pointing at the young tar with his whip, and speaking in a broad dialect, “hast left thy ship? It’s main queer, so it is, that first I should meet with a soldier, and now with a sailor, upon the road to town.”

“A soldier,” thought Ethan, as he trudged along. “I wonder if it could be the same one?”

Many times during the day he inquired his way of simple country folk along the way. They stared when they heard that he was going up to London; it was a very large place and very far away. That night he stopped at a small wayside inn; he saw the young soldier whom he had noticed coming out of the prison at Plymouth, and who had spoken to him. But the youth studiously avoided him, and as Ethan was not at all anxious to form the acquaintance of king’s men, he did not force himself upon him.

When he arose next morning the soldier was not to be seen. The boy breakfasted at his leisure; the landlord and his wife, who took the young American to be a seaman of a British ship, off, perhaps, upon a visit to his old home in some inland town, began to question him about the progress of the war.

“And have you seen any of these American privateers that we hear so much about?” asked the landlord. Ethan nodded, and the man went on, “Ah, they must be very desperate fellows, indeed; and stubborn fighters, too, I have heard tell.”

“They are,” said Ethan.

“Englishmen will have to stand together to gain the victory over such enemies,” said the landlord, shaking his head. “And Englishmen in the service should trust one another; they shouldn’t be like the soldier who slept here over night. Do you know, he seemed afraid of you; and slipped away before you got up, without waiting for his breakfast. He said he’d take some bread and cheese to eat upon the road.”

When Ethan once more resumed his journey toward London, his mind was full of conjectures regarding this queer person in uniform. Several times during the day he felt confident that he caught a glimpse of the scarlet coat dodging behind hedges and haystacks. The lad became suspicious of this and left the highroad for a small and badly cut up wagon way which a farmer informed him would land him on the London road some ten miles farther on.

“I’ll be out of sight of him now,” said the young seaman, as he plodded along. “It can’t be that he suspects me for what I am; if that were so he’d have summoned help and taken me long ago. But I don’t like his actions for all that, and it’s best that I see no more of him.”

But his ruse to avoid any further meeting with the redcoat was not a success. Night brought him to another roadside hostelry, and the first person whom he saw, sitting upon a bench before the door, was that identical person. As they stood staring at each other in wondering surprise, Ethan noticed a sudden spasm of laughter sweep across the young man’s face; the thing seemed infectious for, unable to control himself, the young American threw back his head and burst into a peal that made the old inn ring and caused the white-capped landlady to come rushing out to see what was the matter.

The soldier regarded Ethan with somewhat puzzled eyes; it seemed that there was something about the boy that he did not quite understand, nor altogether trust.

“I see that you have followed my advice,” said he.

“Yes,” replied Ethan. “I am going to London.”

“You have chosen a rather out-of-the-way route,” said the soldier.

“Perhaps,” answered the other, “but the highroad is not always desirable.”

The young man regarded Ethan intently; then he said:

“Somehow, I can’t quite make up my mind about you.”

Ethan thought of the odd conduct of the speaker and replied,

“The feeling is mutual, then; for you have puzzled me some.”

The landlady had gone in once more, seeing that there was nothing wrong, and Ethan had taken a seat upon a bench facing the man in the scarlet coat. There was a short silence between them, then the latter asked:

“Will you lend me your knife; I want to trim my cane a bit.”

He held a light cane in his hand; through constant contact with the ground this had become worn and splintered at one end. Ethan noticed that the man carried a knife in his own belt, but thinking it in bad condition, he handed over his own without a word. The soldier began to chip at his cane with great deliberation.

“It’s a good blade,” said he. “Where did you get it?”

“Aboard ship,” said Ethan.

“Ah,” the man darted a quick look at him and then went on chipping. “You got it from some other sailor, I suppose.”

“No,” answered the lad, all unsuspecting, “the knife was supplied all hands by——”

He stopped suddenly and bit his lip. The soldier looked at him, a laugh in his frank eyes.

“You were going to say—Congress,” spoke he, with great calmness. Ethan stared at him in astonished silence, and then the man continued, “I recall the knife well; I had one myself. It was given me while on board the Lexington.”

“The Lexington,” said Ethan, his breath coming hard. “Were you on board her?” He continued to stare; then added, “As a prisoner, I suppose.”

“Prisoners are not supplied with knives on board American vessels of war,” said the other. “I was master’s mate in the Lexington.”

“Then,” breathed Ethan excitedly, “you are an American.”

“I am,” laughed the other. “I am of Norfolk, in Virginia, and my name is Richard Dale.”

“But,” and Ethan’s eyes ran over the British uniform, “you are now——”

He hesitated; and the other leaned over and tapped him upon the knee with one finger.

“I am still an American. I wear a British uniform, but it is a disguise.”

Then looking all about so as to assure himself that he was not overheard, Richard Dale told Ethan Carlyle his story. He told how the Lexington on that September day, when short of powder and ball, encountered the British cutter Alert. A desperate cannonading of two hours’ duration ensued; then the Lexington, running out of ball, clapped on sail and stood away. But the Alert was the swifter craft and overhauled her, renewing the engagement. The Lexington’s crew broke up all the iron on board and rammed it into her guns, but when this was exhausted she was forced to strike her colors.

The officers and crew were landed at Plymouth and confined in Mill prison, where they suffered greatly.

“The men were actually starved,” said Richard Dale, his eyes shining with anger. “You will better understand their dreadful condition when I tell you that one day they caught a stray dog and killed and cooked it for food. But Captain Johnson and some of the officers dug a hole beneath the wall of the prison, and one night about a dozen of us escaped. We held together for a week or more, wandering by night about the countryside; then we separated and I made my way to London with one companion. We had taken a ship for France when a press-gang boarded her and we were seized, recognized and sent back to Mill prison in chains. I have been there ever since,” said the young man in conclusion. “My first breath of freedom in a year was taken when I stepped through the door of the prison yesterday morning and saw you standing across the way.”

“I don’t exactly understand,” said Ethan bewilderedly. “No one attempted to stop you.”

“Of course not,” answered Dale with a smile. “A kind hearted person of rank who pitied me provided me with this uniform; and I passed, unsuspected, through the keepers to freedom.”

“Who was the person?” asked Ethan. But Richard Dale smiled and shook his head. He lived a long life and died at the head of the American navy, but he ever refused to tell who had assisted him that day to escape from the Mill prison at Plymouth.

“When I saw you standing across the way,” said Dale, “your intent expression unnerved me for a moment. I thought you had penetrated my disguise. But when I heard your voice I fancied that you might be an American.”

“And that is why you warned me to go to London,” said Ethan.

“Yes. But when I saw you at the inn last night I began to suspect you again. I fancied you were following me on the road to-day, and changed my route and came this way.”

“And I,” laughed Ethan, “thought the same of you, and left the highroad for the same reason.”

They talked together while the landlady prepared some bacon and eggs for them. A light carriage drawn by a pair of swift gray horses drew up at the inn door; a man and a well grown boy leaped out; and at sight of them Ethan Carlyle shrank back out of sight.

“What is it?” asked Dale in astonishment as the newcomers entered the inn.

But Ethan did not reply; his eyes were following the forms of Stephen Wheelock and the spy, Danvers, as they disappeared through the doorway.