  On the 14th of September Commodore Jones sent for the captains of the Pallas and Vengeance, and confided to them a plan he had for laying the city of Edinburgh under a contribution of two hundred thousand pounds, besides capturing an armed ship of twenty guns and three fine cutters that lay in Leith roads. “The ships lie in a state of perfect indolence and security,” he said, “which will prove their ruin.” The French captains were not at first equal to this bold project. During one whole night, while the squadron lay off the Frith of Forth, did Paul Jones argue with them, and at last their consent was won. When it was submitted to the younger officers, all received it with ardor. “If these captains had but the dash and enterprise of their juniors anything could be attempted,” remarked Paul Jones to Lieutenant Dale. Dale shrugged his shoulders. “The French have lost more ships through prudence than the British through rashness,” was his significant answer. Paul Jones then made every preparation for the descent. De Chamillard, who had proved himself a brave and resolute man, was to take the terms of capitulation and ransom to the magistrates of Edinburgh. One half hour exactly was to be given them to provide two hundred thousand pounds or its equivalent. The gallant young Dale was to command the landing party. The Frith of Forth was then entered, and on the 15th of September the ships were seen distinctly beating up the Frith. The alarm was general among the inhabitants, who knew the mighty name of Paul Jones, and who prepared as well as they could to meet him. Batteries were erected, and the citizens were served with arms from Edinburgh Castle. A little boy, ten years old, who was in Edinburgh then, well remembered the alarm and commotion, and often spoke of it afterward. This was Walter Scott. One man, however—a member of Parliament—took it into his head that the Bon Homme Richard was a British cruiser, whose mission was to destroy the daring American. He therefore sent a boat with a messenger, asking that some powder and shot be sent him so that he might defend himself against the notorious Paul Jones. The commodore received the messenger politely on the quarter-deck, with several officers around him. “Tell your master,” he said, “that I send the powder very cheerfully—Mr. Dale, will you have a barrel hoisted out?—and regret that I have no shot suitable for this powder.” As the powder was of no use without the shot the member of Parliament was no better off with it than without it. Nevertheless, the messenger did not have wit enough to see that he was being gulled, and accepted the barrel very thankfully. The men on deck, who saw through the ruse, grinned broadly while they were very zealous in getting the powder over the side. Bill Green, however, who had been talking with the men in the boat, touched his cap and spoke aside to Paul Jones: “If you please, sir, that ’ere duck-legged chap, he’s a pilot, sir.” “I am glad you told me,” answered Paul Jones: and, approaching the man, he said carelessly: “My fine fellow, I shall be on and off this coast looking for Paul Jones for some days, and I shall want a pilot, so I think I shall have to keep you.” “All right, sir,” answered the man, touching his cap; and, calling out to his mates in the boat, he cried: “Tell Ailsa I have got a job of piloting, and she need not expect me till she sees me.” This man proved to be of great service in piloting the vessel; for, even after her character was discovered, he was forced to direct her, as his own life, as much as that of anybody’s on the ship, depended upon her safety. The Bon Homme Richard, with her two consorts, the Pallas and the Vengeance, continued working to windward up the Frith until Sunday, the 17th of September, a gusty autumn morning. Then they were almost within cannon shot of the town. The boats were hoisted out, De Chamillard with his soldiers were ready, and Dale, the youngest lieutenant on board, but the one most after Paul Jones’s own heart, was just about to step over the side. The wind had been fresh since the dawn of day, but suddenly a black and furious squall was seen upon the water ahead of them. The men were ordered in from the boats to assist in shortening sail, which was barely done before the squall struck them. The gale increasing fearfully, the boats were hoisted in, and the vessels were obliged to bear up before the wind in order to save their spars. The gale continuing, they were driven out of the Frith, and had to seek the open sea for safety. Toward night the wind moderated. The North Sea was full of merchant ships, and the Bon Homme Richard, as well as the Pallas, cruised back and forth, taking and sinking a number of colliers. This, however, was not the sort of enterprise that suited Paul Jones’s daring spirit. He proposed several adventurous plans to the French captains, but could not win their co-operation. They were brave men, but more prudent than enterprising, and they had not the personal knowledge of Paul Jones’s powers and resource to take the risks he proposed. There was a large fleet of merchant ships lying in the Humber, which Paul Jones wished to entice into the open roads. The Bon Homme Richard went off before the wind, and returned wearing British colors, hoping that a certain ship which carried a pendant at her masthead was a ship of war, and would fight. This ship, though, kept to the windward and near dangerous shoals, so that the Bon Homme Richard could not approach with safety. In order to learn some news of what was being done in the way of preparations to meet him, Paul Jones boldly hoisted a signal for a pilot. Two pilot boats, supposing the Bon Homme Richard to be a British cruiser, responded. There was great eagerness between the pilot boats as to which should be taken on board. Lieutenant Dale, under Paul Jones’s orders, took them both on board, in order to learn everything possible about the state of affairs along the coast. Presently Paul Jones, in his undress uniform, which greatly resembled the British uniform, except that he wore a Scotch bonnet of blue cloth bound with gold, strolled along the deck, and, seeing young Dale in conversation with the pilots, joined him. “Have you heard anything of Paul Jones and his ship, my good man?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” responded both pilots in a breath, and one of them continued: “That ’ere ship yonder,” pointing to the vessel wearing a pendant, and which was still near the entrance to the Humber River, “she is a armed merchantman—” “And,” broke in the other, anxious to contribute his quota, “there’s a king’s frigate layin’ at anchor up the river, a-waitin’ for news o’ that impudent rebel ship o’ Paul Jones’s to take her and sink her. I piloted the frigate in, and they’ve give us a private signal for all ships while the rebel ship is in these waters.” “That signal would be useful to us,” remarked Paul Jones, smiling in spite of himself. “We have not been in port since early in August, and we might get in trouble through not knowing the signal.” The pilots, still supposing the Bon Homme Richard to be a British ship, gave the signal. Having got all he wanted out of them, Paul Jones dismissed them with money, saying that as there was already a frigate in the river he would continue to cruise outside. As the pilots went over the side, Bill Green bawled at them: “Thankee for that ’ere private signal!” And a roar of laughter from the foks’l showed the sailors’ appreciation of the joke. But the pilots went off well satisfied with their fee and perfectly unsuspicious. As soon as the pilot boat was out of sight, Bill Green, under Dale’s orders, hoisted the private signal, and lay near the mouth of the river. The armed vessel came a little way down the stream, but something aroused her suspicions, and she put back hastily. The entrance to the Humber being very difficult and dangerous, Paul Jones concluded not to attempt it, but to cruise around Flamborough Head, in the hope of rejoining his consorts, the Pallas and the Vengeance, and also with the hope of intercepting the Baltic fleet, which was due about that time. This was the night of the 22d of September, the turning point in the career of Paul Jones, and it was one of the most miserable nights he had ever spent in all his adventurous life. The time of his cruise was now up, and upon joining the other two ships it would be his duty to proceed to the Texel, after a fruitless and inglorious expedition. After having endured all the agony of hope deferred, of suspense and almost of despair for fifteen months, he had at last got to sea in a miserable old hulk that was only a travesty on the fair frigate that he had hoped to command. He had lost one of his best officers and twenty-three of his men. More than half his squadron had deserted him, and he had been humiliated by the insubordination of a French captain that he could not properly punish without incurring the displeasure of the only ally that his distressed and struggling country could claim. He had taken a few prizes, most of which had been lost by caprice or folly, and he was now about to return to bear all the shame of failure, for to Paul Jones’s lofty and comprehensive mind the lack of brilliant success was failure. A spirit of fierce unrest seemed to possess him as he walked the quarter-deck of the Bon Homme Richard while the twilight fell on that September evening. The darkness came on fast, and with it a fresh but fickle wind. The moon was near its full, and as it rose from the water it cast a pale and spectral glare over the vast expanse of the North Sea. Clouds were scudding wildly across the sky, and occasionally the moon was obscured for long periods. It was one of those ghastly nights when misfortune and sorrow and disappointment seem to brood over the universe. The Bon Homme Richard was under easy canvas, and the crew were sitting around the foks’l after their day’s work was done, listening to yarns and songs. Presently, in the stillness of the September night, Paul Jones heard Bill Green’s rich voice singing. Scarcely knowing why he did it, so heavy was the weight upon his heart, Paul Jones walked quietly along the deck, and, leaning over the rail, unobserved by the men, he listened to the song. It was sad enough, and the air had a melancholy beauty in it that went to his very soul. It struck him with the deadly chill of a presentiment. The men, too, listened with a subdued and silent attention. This was the song: Call the watch! Call the watch! Ho! the starboard watch, ahoy! Have you heard How a noble ship, so trim, like our own, my hearties, here, All scudding ’fore the gale, disappeared When yon southern billows rolled o’er their bed so green and clear? Hold the reel! Keep her full! Hold the reel! How she flew athwart the spray, as, shipmates, we do now, Till her twice a hundred fearless hearts of steel Felt the whirlwind lift its waters aft and plunge her downward bow! Bear a hand! Strike to’gallants! Mind your helm! Jump aloft! ’Twas such a night as this, my lads, a rakish bark was drowned, When demons foul, that whisper seamen oft, Scooped a tomb amid the flashing surge that never shall be found. Square the yards! A double reef! Hark! the blast! Oh, fiercely has it fallen on the war-ship of the brave! When its tempest fury stretched the stately mast All along the foamy sides, as they shouted on the wave. Bear a hand! Call the watch! Call the watch! Ho! the larboard watch, ahoy! Have you heard How a vessel, gay and taut, on the mountains of the sea Went below, with all her warlike crew aboard— They who battled for the happy, boys, and perished for the free? Clew, clew up, fore and aft! Keep her away! How the vulture bird of death, in its black and viewless form, Hovered sure o’er the clamors of his prey, While through all their dripping shrouds yells the spirit of the storm. Bear a hand! Now, out reefs! Brace the yard! Lively there! Oh, no more to homeward breeze shall her swelling bosom spread; But Love’s expectant eye bids Despair Set her raven watch eternal o’er the wreck in ocean’s bed! Board your tacks! Cheerly, boys! But for them Their last evening gun is fired—their gales are over blown! O’er their smoking deck no starry flag shall stream; They’ll sail no more—they’ll fight no more—for their gallant ship’s gone down! Bear a hand! A solemn silence followed as the last musical note died away on the waters. The waves and the lightly whistling wind had made a soft accompaniment for the sweet, sad music. Paul Jones listened to every word, and at the last “Bear a hand!” something like a groan burst from him. Hope had almost gone—despair was near to him. He stepped noiselessly from his place at the rail, and with bent head and folded arms began again to walk the quarter-deck. Dale, watching Paul Jones’s slight but sinewy figure as he walked up and down like a caged tiger, noticed the new expression on his face—an expression almost of hopelessness. Well might Paul Jones be hopeless, if this was to be the barren result of a cruise in which he had promised himself and those under him so much glory. All the early hours of the night this ceaseless walk continued. It was Dale’s watch on deck, and he was relieved at midnight by Cutting Lunt, the only other sea lieutenant on the ship since Henry Lunt’s loss in the boat. Although not given to following the commodore unless invited, Dale looked after him wistfully as he went below. Once within the cabin, Paul Jones threw himself in a chair, and, resting his head on his hands, gave way to a silent paroxysm of despair. He knew not how long he sat in this agony of thought and feeling, but at last, raising his head, he saw his cabin boy, Danny Dixon, crouched in a corner, sound asleep. Although Danny’s orders were to leave the cabin and go to his hammock at ten o’clock, he was often found in the cabin at midnight, for which he always made the excuse that he had fallen asleep and did not know when it was six bells. Something in the boy’s faithful and doglike attachment appealed to Paul Jones at this moment of supreme distress. “Poor little fellow!” he thought to himself, gazing at the boy’s sleeping figure. “There is one faithful soul who loves me, poor and unlettered and simple as he may be.” He then rose, and, going forward, laid the boy’s head in a more comfortable position and threw a blanket over him. “Let him rest; he will lie there until morning. And what would not I give for his sound and careless sleep!” A few moments later a slight tap was heard at the cabin door, and Paul Jones himself opened it. There stood young Dale. His eyes dropped before the calm gaze of the commodore’s. He had come, led by an impulse of pity and veneration, but he knew not how to express it. In a moment or two Paul Jones spoke: “Dale, I know why you have come. You feel for me in my misfortunes—for surely misfortune has followed this cruise. Know you, though, that while I want no man’s insulting pity, yours, which comes from the heart, is sweet to me.” At this he laid his hand on the young lieutenant’s shoulder, and Dale, glancing up, his own eyes full of tears, saw that Paul Jones’s eyes were moist. “I know, sir, better than anybody, the trials, the disadvantages, the insults you have been subject to. But there is not a man on this ship who does not believe in you and know that, if we have no captured ship of war to bring back with us, it is fate—not want of enterprise. But, commodore, I have a strange presentiment. I feel yet that within twenty-four hours we shall have some glorious event upon our hands. Something tells me that we are at a turning point, and that Fortune, which favors the brave, has yet a glorious reward for you.” “May you be right!” answered Paul Jones, with a melancholy smile. |
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