captain paul jones goes down to l’orient to begin the overhaul and refit of the richard. the ship is twenty years old, and he finds it shaken and worn by time and weather. it is not a good ship, not a ship on which a prudent commander would care to stake his life and reputation; but it is the best he can get, and captain paul jones accepts it, shrugging his shoulders. he has been so beaten upon by disappointments, so carked and rusted by delays, since his old ship ranger spread its sails for home, and left him as it were an exile on french shores, that rather than further endure such heart-eating experiences he is ready to embrace the desperate. as the work of refitting progresses, doctor franklin comes over from passy.
“the ship is old, doctor,” says captain paul jones, as he and doctor franklin canvass the situation. “that, however, is the least of my troubles. what causes me most uneasiness is the crew. out of a whole muster of three hundred and seventy-five, no more than fifty are americans.”
“then you do not trust the french? surely you don’t mean to say they are not brave men?”
“brave enough—the french; but that is not the point. they are not good water fighters. by nature they are too hysterical, too easily excited, to both sail and fight a ship. those english whom we go to meet are born water dogs, stubborn and cool; and the only ones afloat who, man for man, may match them are americans.”
“and of americans you have but fifty?”
“only fifty.” then, with a heartfelt oath: “i would give my left hand to have back my old crew of the ranger.”
captain paul jones begins pacing to and fro, his thoughts running regretfully on the ranger, and those stout hearts with whom he fought the drake. but the ranger and those stout, tarry ones are half a world away; and in the end he returns perforce to the richard, and what poor tools in the way of crew are offered him by fate. there is, too, a matter of gravity which he desires to lay before the doctor’s older and more prudent judgment. for captain paul jones, so unmanageable by others, defers to the sagacious doctor, and accepts his opinions and follows his commands with closed eyes.
“this captain pierre landais, doctor,” he begins, “who is to sail the alliance in my company?”
“yes?” interrupts the doctor.
“you know him?—you have confidence in him?”
the doctor purses his lips, but says never a word.
“then i’ll tell you what i think!” cries captain paul jones, who reads distrust in the good doctor’s pursed but silent lips; “i’ll tell you what i think, and what i’ll do. already i’ve had some dealings with this landais. the fellow is mad—vanity-mad. jealous, insubordinate, he has twice taken open occasion to disobey my orders. this i have stomached in silence—being on french shores. i now warn you that as soon as i find myself in blue water, at a first sign of rebellion against my authority, i’ll clap the fellow in irons. by heaven! i’ll string him to his own yard arm, sir; make a tassel of him for the winds to play with, if it be required to preserve a discipline which his example has already done much to break down.”
doctor franklin meets this violent setting forth concerning the recalcitrant landais with a negative gesture of unmistakable emphasis.
“you must do nothing of the kind, paul!” he replies. “captain landais, as you say, is doubtless mad—vanity-mad. but he is also french; and we must do nothing to estrange from our cause french sympathy and french assistance. i urge you to bear with landais in silence, rather than jeopardize us with king louis.”
captain paul jones growlingly submits. “it will result disastrously, doctor,” he says. “we shall yet suffer for it, mark my word.” then, disgustedly: “i marvel that the marine committee in philadelphia should turn over to such a madman a brisk frigate like the alliance.
“your friend, the marquis de lafayette, had something to do with it, i think. you observe that on his present visit to france, it is landais with his alliance who brings him.”
captain paul jones says no more, but seems to accept landais as he accepts the richard, desperately. his final comment shows the uneasy complexion of his thought.
“we shall do the best we can, doctor,” he says.
“young as i am, i have lived long enough to know that one can’t have all things ordered as he would.”
captain paul jones, now commodore, clears for the irish coast on a bright, clear day in june. besides the richard, he has with him the alliance, thirty-two guns, captain landais; the pallas, twenty-eight guns, captain cottineau; and the vengeance, twelve guns, captain ricon. four days later he returns limping into l’orient for repairs, the richard having been fouled by the alliance through the criminal carelessness or worse of captain landais.
the breast of the young commodore is on fire with anger over the delay, and the vicious clumsiness that caused it. he burns to destroy landais, as the mean reason of his troubles, but the thought of doctor franklin restrains him. also, as events unfold, that enforced return to l’orient proves of good fortune, and he forgets his chagrin in joy over the flattering new turn in his affairs. doctor franklin has succeeded in bringing about an exchange of prisoners, and barters to the british admiralty one hundred and nineteen englishmen, captured in the drake and other prizes taken by the ranger, for one hundred and nineteen americans held by king george. while commodore paul jones is curing the damage done the richard by the evil landais, those exchanged americans are landed under a cartel in nantes. he goes down to nantes and enlists one hundred and fifteen of them for the richard.
before commodore paul jones weighs anchor for a second start, he goes over to passy for a final word with doctor franklin. the pair walk in the doctor’s favorite garden, now a wilderness of foliage and flowers, the doctor serene, the boy commodore cloudy, taciturn and grim. his resolution has set iron-hard to do or die; the cruise shall be a glorious one or be his last. doctor franklin asks about his plans.
“i shall make for the west coast of ireland,” says he, “and go north about the british islands. wind and weather favoring, i may sack a town or two by way of retaliation for what the foe has done to us. they will find that i have not forgotten lord dunmore, and my ruined plantation by the rappahannock.”
“the waters you will sail in are alive with british ships of war. with your poor force it seems a desperate cruise.”
“desperate, yes; but, doctor, we are in no shape to play cautious. we are weak; therefore we must be reckless.”
“it is a strange doctrine,” muses the doctor. “and yet i will not say but what it smells of judgment. i have faith in you, paul; it teaches me to hope that, when next i greet you, i shall greet a victor.”
“doctor,” returns commodore paul jones, and his tones are grave with meaning, “i shall not disappoint you. nor do i care to conceal from you my resolution. when i sail, i sail looking for battle; and i shall not hesitate to engage an enemy superior to my force. the condition of our cause is such that, to sustain it, we need a striking, ay! a startling naval success, and i shall do all i know, fight all i know, to bring it to pass. more; my mind is made up: if i fail, i fall; i shall return victorious or i shall not return.”
it is daybreak on a day in middle august when commodore paul jones, with the richard as flagship of the little squadron of four, puts the isle of groaix astern, and points for the open ocean. his course is west by north, so as to weather cape clear, and fetch the irish coast close aboard. with winds light and baffling, the squadron’s pace is slow; it is nine days out of france before cape clear is sighted. then it creeps northward along the irish coast, commodore paul jones vigilant and alert. he takes a prize or two, and one after the other sends into french ports the british ships mayflower and fortune. the young commodore’s brow begins to clear; those prizes comfort him vastly. at least the cruise shall not be registered as altogether fruitless.
it is the last day of august; the hebrides lie off the richard’s starboard beam. a stiff gale from the northwest sets in, and the squadron is driven east by north under storm staysails. this dovetails with the desires of commodore paul jones; wherefore he welcomes the gale as friendly weather. also, it gives him a chance to try out the richard, which shows lively with the wind abaft the beam, but dull to the confines of despair when sailing on a wind. close-hauled, the richard makes more lee than headway.
“which means, dick,” says commodore paul jones judgmatically, to lieutenant richard dale—“which means, dick, that we must have the weather-gage before we lock horns with an enemy.”
off cape wraith, commodore paul jones is so fortunate as to take two further prizes. he turns them over to captain landais, with orders to send them into brest. the frenchman, who only receives an order for the purpose of breaking it, sends them into the port of bergen, where the norwegians promptly turn them over to the english, on an argument that they do not officially know of any government called the united states.
commodore paul jones works slowly and cautiously southward along the east coast of scotland. off the firth of forth he decides to attack the port of leith, and stands in for that fell purpose. an adverse gale, seconded by off-shore currents, comes to the rescue of the threatened scotchmen; in the teeth of his best seamanship commodore paul jones and his squadron are driven out to sea. thus the chance passes, and the sack of leith is abandoned. it is a sore setback to the hopes of commodore paul jones; but it lifts a load from the scottish heart, to whom the stars and stripes have brought visions of pillage and torch and desolation. the news flies over england; beacons burn on each headland; while every semaphore is telling that the dreaded paul jones is hawking at the english coasts. the word causes a tremendous loss of british sleep.
off spurn head our industrious young commodore sinks one collier and chases another ashore. being full of curiosity, he takes a peep into the mouth of the humber, and discovers a frightened fleet of british merchant vessels. the merchantmen are in a flutter at the sight of the richard’s dread topsails; the frigate that it conveying them has its work cut out, to nurse them into anything like calmness.
following the look into the humber, that sets so many timid merchantmen to shivering, commodore paul jones puts out to sea under doublereefs. he plans to stand off and on throughout the night, and swoop on those tremblers, like a hawk on a covey of quail, with the first gray streaks of dawn. the frigate will doubtless fight, but the optimistic young commodore reckons on making short work of that man-of-war. in the middle watch the little brig vengeance runs under the richard’s lee, bringing word of a nobler quarry. the baltic timber fleet, fifty sail in all, convoyed by the serapis and the countess of scarboro has just put into bridlington bay.
at this good news, commodore paul jones gives up his designs touching the frightened covey of merchantmen in the humber. he prefers the baltic timber ships with the serapis, the difference between the one and the other being the difference between deer and hare. he orders the vengeance to stand out to sea, find the alliance, and tell captain landais to join him off scarboro’ head.
“but do not,” says he to captain ricon, “give captain landais this notice in the guise of an order. he would make a point of disobeying, and seize on its reception as a pat occasion for insulting you.”
while the vengeance stands eastward in search of the alliance, commodore paul jones signals the __pallas__ to follow, and turns his bows for scarboro’ head, then forty miles away.
the richard, the little pallas close to its heels, cracks on canvas throughout the night. the winds are mere puffs and catspaws; still, slow as is their speed, daylight finds them within throwing distance of their destination. they are the wrong-side of the weather, however, and the whole day is wasted in beating inshore against the wind. our young commodore must do all the work; for the english merchantmen, as though faint with fear at the sight of him, refuse to come out; while the serapis and its consort stick close to them in their role of guardships. the sun goes down, night descends, and as yet our young commodore has not been able to get within reach of the foe; for at beating to windward the richard is as dull as a dutchman.
when darkness comes, it unlooses a land breeze. with that the merchantmen take heart of grace, and resolve to dare all and run for it. they rush out of bridlington bay, wind free, like a flock of seagulls. what is a fair wind for them is a headwind for the richard and pallas; with no one to molest them, the fifty timber ships show a clean pair of heels. commodore paul jones makes no effort to chase; it would be seamanship thrown away. besides, the serapis has laid its sails aback, and is waiting to hear from him; while the countess of scarboro guarding the flanks of the fugitive timber ships, seems eagerly willing to try conclusions with the pallas.
the temptation is too great; commodore paul jones makes no least effort to resist it. signaling the pallas to close with and pull down the smaller ship, with his own eye on the serapis, he begins manoeuvring for the upper hand. the sea is as smooth as glass; a great harvest moon shoots up in the cloudless sky. as when the ranger fought the drake, it is to be a fight by the light of the moon.
the richard tacks starboard and port, the serapis lying in wait. decks cleared, guns shotted and run out, magazines open, men stripped and at their quarters, both ships are as ferociously ready as bulldogs. commodore paul jones scans the serapis through his glass.
“how heavy is he, commodore?”
it is dr. brooke, surgeon of the richard, who puts the question. he has been laying out his instruments and bandages in the cockpit, in readiness for a hard night’s work, and now pokes his nose on deck for a last breath of fresh air.
“is that you, doctor?” returns commodore paul jones. the amiable tones bespeak that bland urbanity which is his dominant characteristic on the threshold of battle. “it’s the serapis; a forty-four-gun ship of the rainbow class, six months off the stocks.”
it should be observed that commodore paul jones’ pet study is the british navy, and he knows more about it—ships, guns, and men—than does the king’s admiralty itself.
“forty-four guns! rainbow class!” repeats the worthy doctor, who himself is not without a working knowledge of ships and their comparative strengths. “then she’s a stronger ship, with heavier metal, than the richard?”
“as three is to two, doctor,” replies commodore paul jones, shutting up his glass and preparing for action. “none the less, we shall fight them and beat them just the same.”
aboard the serapis, captain pearson is holding his glass on the richard, not a cable’s length away. suddenly the richard wears and backs its topsail, thereby bringing its broadside to bear upon the serapis.
“that was a clever manoeuvre!” remarks captain pearson, admiringly, to lieutenant wright, who stands by his side. “it holds for him the weather-gage, and makes it impossible for me to luff across his hawse, without exposing my ship to be raked.”
“who is he?” asks lieutenant wright; for the serapis is just home from norway, and the word that set all england to lighting beacons and doubling coast-guards has not reached it.
“who is he?” repeats captain pearson, soberly. “he is paul jones; and, my word for it, lieutenant, there is work ahead.”
