With John Paul Jones

Ethan Carlyle and his friend Richard Dale, after their experience with the press-gang, made it a point to keep themselves as much in the background as possible during the remainder of their stay in London. This latter was very much longer than they had expected; days grew into weeks and weeks into months, but still they found no means of crossing the narrow seas to France.

Dale had little or no money, and Ethan’s supply had all but given out when, at length, they found a Scotch skipper who agreed to give them passage in his vessel. On the way across the two young men talked much about the future and of what they still hoped to do in the cause of liberty.

“If it is my good fortune to fall in with Captain Paul Jones once more,” said Ethan, “I shall bless my lucky stars.”

“That is a gallant sailor and an excellent commander,” spoke Richard Dale, admiringly. “I should like to serve under him.”

Ethan had told Dale many times of the captain’s bravery, skill and splendid love of freedom; his tales had fired the young Virginian’s imagination to such an extent that he desired nothing better than to sail under such an able officer.

“It’s a disappointment to him, I suppose,” continued Dale, “not to have recovered the dispatch.”

“A very bitter one, indeed. And the fact that it was stolen while in his care makes it all the more so.”

“There is a slim chance of its ever being recovered now,” said Dale.

“I have thought a good deal about it since the impressment of that man, Dirk Hatfield,” answered Ethan. “And I fancy that the paper may not come under the eye of the British ministry in such a hurry, after all.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, in the first place, Hatfield would be forced to acknowledge himself a highwayman and tell how he came to have the dispatch in his possession.”

“You forget that Danvers said that no questions would be asked the person handing it over to Lord North.”

“I hold that saying in mind very well. But Hatfield would not trust to it; a hunted wolf has no confidence in the hunter, even though he have no weapon in his hands.”

“What do you suppose, then, would be the man’s plan of action?”

“Like Fochard, he will hold the dispatch until he can secure the service of an intermediary. A man of his desperate and enterprising nature will not remain in a king’s ship very long; he’ll escape at the first opportunity. Then he will seek to dispose of the paper, and it may be my luck to once more stumble upon some trace of it.”

“Fate does, indeed, seem to lead you by the hand in the matter,” smiled Richard Dale. “But she has, up to the present, held you back when upon the very threshold of success.”

“It will not be always so, perhaps,” said Ethan earnestly. “Let us hope so, at least.”

The vessel landed them at Brest secretly; the Scotch skipper seemed to have some sort of an understanding with the authorities, and though they gave him no trouble when he ran in, still he did the thing with all speed, and immediately made sail once more.

After securing lodgings they began making inquiries regarding American warships in French waters.

“There was a fleet of four ships sailed out of L’Orient not long since,” replied the person asked. “The French government provided the vessels, I think, but the commander was an American.”

“And who was he?”

“Why, none other than your great Captain John Paul Jones.”

Ethan and Dale uttered exclamations of bitter disappointment.

“You are positive of this, I suppose,” said the former.

“Quite so, monsieur. The sailing of the squadron was upon every one’s tongue a short time ago.”

“There is no use in crying over spilled milk,” said Dale, with a sigh as they walked away. “As Captain Jones is gone, I’ll have a try for some other American skipper.”

But there was none in Brest at that time; and after a two days’ stay Dale said to Ethan,

“I think I’ll go to L’Orient. There at least must be an American privateer there that I can get a berth in.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Ethan; “then I shall go on to Paris, report my further failure to Dr. Franklin, and after that sail for home.”

They traveled by diligence to L’Orient, which was no great distance from Brest. Dale at once sought out a shipping office which he knew to be much frequented by American shipmen in search of hands to man their crafts.

A trim looking midshipman stood near the door, and he looked at them with attention as they entered. Directly behind him loomed a tall, spare, large boned man of singular erectness. He had an ugly sabre stroke across his face.

“Longsword!” cried Ethan as his delighted eyes fell upon him.

“Master Ethan,” came a deep chested shout from the Irish dragoon. Then with a wild Irish “hurro!” he leaped forward and clasped the boy in a bear-like hug.

“I thought you had been taken prisoner,” gasped the young American, breathless from the pressure which the powerful trooper had put upon his ribs.

“And so I would have been had it not been for that broth of a gossoon Rory McHale. I never saw such seamanship as he put out of him. When the mast went he had it cleared away in a few minutes; then he sailed so close in shore that me heart was in me mouth for fear of the rocks. But he slipped the Englishman, and by daylight we were far away. But, lad,” and his voice sank lower and a note of feeling crept into it that sounded strange in so grim a veteran, “I thought ye gone, indeed, when ye went over the stern. I thought to follow ye, but McHale held me back.”

Ethan gripped the warm hearted fellow’s hand, with the tears standing in his eyes.

“Good old Longsword!” he said, quietly. “There was never a time in my life that you were not willing and anxious to stand by me.”

While they were speaking the middy had accosted Dale.

“Looking for a ship?” asked he.

“I am,” said Dale.

“I’m shipping men for the Bon Homme Richard.”

“Is she a privateer?”

The middy laughed.

“I should say not,” he replied. “Her commander is John Paul Jones.”

Ethan heard these words, and both he and Dale uttered cries of surprise.

“Captain Jones,” said the former. “Why, we heard that he had just put to sea.”

“Right,” said the middy. “And he returned when one of his frigates ran into the flagship and stove a hole in her. We are laid up for repairs.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Ethan, exultantly. Then turning to Dale he said: “You’ll ship with him after all, you see.”

The trim young midshipman was all attention in a moment; good seamen were very scarce, and he liked Dale’s looks.

“The captain will be here in a few moments,” he said, “and you can sign if you like. We need able seamen and warrant officers of a likely sort.”

As he spoke the door opened and the slight, smartly uniformed figure of John Paul Jones entered the shipping office. His eyes lighted up at sight of Ethan, and in a moment they had clasped hands.

When Ethan had sketched his experiences briefly, the captain said:

“I am delighted that you have come through it all safely. After Longsword returned and told me how you were carried over the stern of the lugger by the falling mast, I gave you up for lost. And this is Mr. Dale, is it?”

“Yes,” said Ethan; “and he wants to sail with you.”

The American commander’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as they took in all the fine qualities of the young sailor.

“You are a seaman, then?” he said to Dale.

“Yes, sir. My last berth was master’s mate aboard the Lexington.” Dale stood stiffly erect and saluted as he spoke.

“I’ll ship you at the same rating,” said Jones. “I wish I could get more Americans to man my vessel.”

“That should be very easy now, captain, dear,” said Longsword, eagerly. “That is if what I’ve just heard is true.”

“And what is that?”

“A lot of more than a hundred exchanged prisoners have just arrived at Nantes.”

“Mr. Lunt,” and the captain turned to an officer who had accompanied him, “we want those men for the Richard, and must have them.”

“We will have them, sir, if it is possible,” said Lunt, promptly. “I’ll send messengers to Nantes at once.”

During the conversation that followed Lunt’s departure, Ethan had an opportunity to examine Paul Jones carefully. Deep lines of care were in his face—lines that had not been there before, and a sprinkling of silver also showed in his hair. And little wonder. Since returning from his voyage upon the Ranger, he had encountered nothing but heart-breaking delays, rebuffs and disappointments.

Since France had also gone to war with England he had expected to receive command of a French ship to sail under the stars and stripes. But nothing had come of it. Hopes of one kind or another were held out to him from time to time, but all resulted in bitter disappointments.

At length a rich banker of Paris, Le Ray de Chaumont, who admired the Americans and earnestly desired victory for the cause of liberty, took an active part in Jones’ affairs; and at last the king was moved to do something for the American officer.

“We will place him in command of a squadron, make a descent upon Liverpool, and land a military force. Lafayette has just arrived from America in good time; we shall have him in command of the troops.”

But there were no warships at hand for this venture; so, by request, Jones had gone from port seeking vessels that could be converted. At L’Orient he came upon a huge old-fashioned merchantman that had sailed for some fifteen years in the India trade and had been finally condemned, dismantled and allowed to gradually fall into a state of ruin. This old vessel was called the Due de Duras, and was the most likely one that the hard pressed officer could find.

“She was eventually purchased for me,” John Paul Jones said, in telling Ethan the story, “and so were two other and smaller merchant ships—the Pallas and the Vengeance. A fine American frigate was also placed under my command; she is called the Alliance; then there is also the Cerf, a king’s cutter.

“I at once set about getting these vessels into condition for the cruise. The name of the Due de Duras I changed to that of Bon Homme Richard. That, as I suppose you know, is the title of the French translation of Dr. Franklin’s ‘Poor Richard’s Almanac,’ of which I am a great admirer.”

As Ethan learned, the Richard was a ship of obsolete type; her towering poop and top-gallant forecastle gave her a strange and ancient look. Neglect had rotted her timbers and weakened her frame; and she was scarcely sound enough to stand the necessary repairs.

Nevertheless, her captain went bravely ahead and did all he could to strengthen her. He pierced her for twenty-eight guns on her main deck, and six on the tall forecastle and poop.

“It was my intention to arm her with eighteen pounders,” the captain continued; “but could get nothing heavier than nine pounders for the quarter-deck and forecastle; but I got six eighteens for the deck below; they are poorly-made guns, however, and to speak the plain truth, I’m rather afraid of them.”

“A poor ship,” commented Ethan, soberly. “It’s a great pity that something better could not be done for you.”

“A vessel ill-adapted to warfare is not the worst that I have had to contend with,” returned Captain Jones, rather bitterly. “The crew that I was forced to ship is a most curious mixture of races, and the fiercest and most unruly body of men that I ever saw gathered upon a ship’s deck. There are a very few Americans; England, Ireland, Scotland, France and Norway have all contributed to my ship’s company, as have Africa, India and the Malayan Peninsula.

“When my squadron sailed and I had brought my crew into some sort of discipline I fancied that my troubles were about over for a time. But then my captains, under the leadership of Pierre Landais, commander of the Alliance, began to show their teeth; and one night the Alliance ran afoul of the Richard, and we were compelled to put back for overhauling.”

“It may not prove a bad thing either,” said Ethan at this point. “If you secure this cartel of exchanges at Nantes you’ll have a crew that you can rely upon.”

As it afterward appeared, Ethan guessed the truth. The American prisoners about whom Longsword had spoken had just arrived in France, burning with the desire to fight against the country which had treated them so cruelly in its prisons. They were a fine body of men, stalwart and skilled in the handling of sea-going ships, and they leavened the mass of the Richard’s crew wonderfully when they came on board; from a semi-rabble of mutinous ruffians it came, in the end, to be as effective and steady a ship’s company as an officer could desire.

The repairs upon the Bon Homme Richard were carried on rapidly. Dale took his place on board and his practical judgment and sound sense soon attracted the attention of all. He had a knack of handling men, and could get more labor out of them by a cheerful, encouraging manner than most of the others could by their hectoring and loud impatience. Captain Jones noticed this; the quiet, thorough manner of the young Virginian pleased him, for it spoke of an alert and ready mind.

Ethan was aware of all this, and when, one day, Dale came to him with sparkling eyes and face flushed with pleasure, he was not at all surprised at his bursting out,

“Old fellow, great news! Captain Jones has secured me a commission.”

“I knew he would,” cried Ethan, delightedly. “He approved of your work from the first.”

“But in my wildest flights, I’ve never hoped for so long a step,” said Dale. “I’m to be first lieutenant of the Richard.”

Ethan whistled; Longsword, who stood at his side, raised his brows.

“Well, I call that going up the ladder at a pretty stiff speed,” the Irishman remarked. “But, sure, it’s nothing more than your due, Mr. Dale; ye can handle men and things better nor any one I ever saw before.”

It was one of the qualities of John Paul Jones that he recognized exceptional ability at a glance; and that he possessed this knack was a most fortunate thing for him at this most critical period in his career, for the time was fast approaching when the sterling metal of Richard Dale turned the scale in his favor and snatched victory from the very jaws of defeat.

The little squadron left the roads of Groix on the morning of August 14th, 1779, and ventured once more into the narrow seas. The expedition against Liverpool had been abandoned long before, and the further crippling of the commerce of England was now the object of the cruise.

After some days out, and the capturing of a number of prizes, the Cerf, because of the insubordination of her crew, returned to France; the Alliance, whose captain, Landais, continued to give Jones trouble whenever he could, parted from the little fleet, and when the Firth of Forth was entered the Bon Homme Richard was accompanied only by the Vengeance and the Pallas.

Many prizes were taken and many adventures were met with. Near Flamborough Head one evening the Richard sunk a collier; the Vengeance was near at hand, but the Pallas had borne off to the northeast in chase of a sloop. A pilot taken from the collier gave information regarding a fleet of forty-one sail from the Baltic and under convoy of two British ships of war. This immediately fired the ambition of John Paul Jones; if he could get into the midst of this huge, helpless fleet he could, perhaps, cut out a score of them.

Toward daylight next morning he chased two ships for several hours; dawn revealed these to be the Alliance and the Pallas. Captain Jones at once communicated to their commanders the news of the nearness of the fleet of merchantmen.

Ethan Carlyle had borne the news to the Alliance, and when the boat was once more hoisted into the Bon Homme Richard he said to Captain Jones:

“Captain Landais does not seem at all delighted at the prospect. He seemed to fear that some of the vessels might be armed.”

Paul Jones’ eyes flashed scornfully.

“He’s of the same kidney as Simpson, then. I fancied as much.”

They were still in the latitude of Flamborough Head, about two leagues off the English coast, when the Baltic fleet hove in sight. The great mass of merchantmen came stretching out from behind the Head, bearing northeast from the Richard.

“Lay the ship as close to them as you can, Mr. Dale,” directed the commander.

Dale put a press of sail upon the flagship and made for the convoy as the Richard passed the Alliance and Pallas, which hung close together. Paul Jones heard Landais call to the commander of the other vessel,

“If they have above fifty guns there will be nothing left to do but run for it!”

This was said, of course, in the presence of the crews of both ships, and had a most demoralizing effect upon them. In a very little while both vessels began beating to and fro in a hesitating, alarmed way, showing no disposition to advance.

“We’ll have to attack alone, I think,” said Ethan to the commander.

“It looks very much like it,” replied Jones, bitterly. “But we will do it, for there is no halting or turning back now.”

And so the Bon Homme Richard bore down upon the fleet alone.

As the pilot of the collier had said, the Baltic merchantmen were convoyed by two vessels of war. One of these was the Serapis, a new and splendid ship, mounting forty-four guns on two decks and carrying a crew of three hundred and twenty men. The other was the Countess of Scarborough, armed with twenty-four guns on her main deck and with a ship’s company of one hundred and fifty men.

As the Richard came down upon them some of the frightened merchantmen began firing with their light guns. An alarm spread through the fleet at the sound of the guns; the two men-of-war were astern of them all, keeping them in place; but now at the signals of danger they both came to the front with great promptness, while the convoy scurried toward the shore once more. Captain Pearson of the Serapis knew with whom he had to deal; a little time before the bailiff of Scarborough Castle had put off in a boat and informed him that John Paul Jones was operating on the coast.

The Englishman trusted to the guns of Scarborough Castle to protect the merchantmen while they stood out to sea and prepared for action.

It was night before the Richard came up with them, as the breeze was very light; about eight bells both British ships tacked and stood in for shore; Jones at once altered his course with a view of cutting them off. At sight of this manœuvre the skipper of the Pallas thought the crew of the Richard had mutinied in the face of the foe; so he hauled his wind quickly and stood out. Landais brought the Alliance to a long distance to windward, and most coolly awaited developments, never seeming to trouble himself a moment over the fact that his duty called him to render the Richard all the aid in his power.

As the ship of John Paul Jones drew near, a deep voice from the quarter-deck of the Serapis hailed her.

“Ahoy! What ship is that?”

It was then a quarter past eight; the moon swung like a great disc of silver in the heavens; the sea was scarcely ruffled, so still was the air. It was Richard Dale who answered the hail.

“Come a little nearer,” he shouted, “and we’ll tell you!”

The tall poop and forecastle of the Richard seemed to excite derision upon the British ship; she stood hugely out of the water with an ark-like loom; and she had a dull, slow-moving air, vastly different from the smart and powerful Serapis.

“What are you laden with, old Noah’s ark?” called the voice from the Englishman, and the question was accompanied by contemptuous laughter.

“We carry round, grape and double-headed shot,” answered Richard Dale.

And no sooner had he uttered the words than a sheet of red flame burst from the side of the Serapis and she poured her range of upper and quarter-deck guns into the high hull of the Richard.