  It was a fair and lovely May morning when the Ranger, still towing the Drake, appeared off the bay of Brest. The American ensign was hoisted on the Drake over the Union Jack, and this told the glorious story. Word flew from mouth to mouth among the French men-of-war in the roads to the people in the dockyards and the town. A fleet of pilot boats put off, each eager to have the honor of taking the Ranger and her prize in through the narrow and dangerous channel of Le Goulet. Paul Jones stood on his quarter-deck, as calm and easy as ever, but his soul thrilled with patriotic pride. The British had denounced him as a pirate, a traitor, and a felon, and he had had first, the justifiable revenge of showing himself alone and undaunted in the midst of his enemies, capturing a ship of equal size and force, and afterward, the nobler revenge of treating his prisoners with the utmost kindness and courtesy. As the Ranger passed the flagship she gave thirteen guns, and every ship in the French squadron in return saluted the flag flying at the Ranger’s mizzen peak. The French sailors manned the yards of the flagship without orders, and a volley of cheers mingled with the hoarse thunder of the guns as the little American vessel made her way cautiously up the narrow channel. The great clouds of white smoke rose in the clear May sunshine, and almost hid the Ranger’s hull and that of her consort: but high above the white and drifting mist the American ensign floated proudly. Paul Jones was greeted with the most intense enthusiasm among the naval men at Brest, and France rang with his exploits. Benjamin Franklin wrote him letters of affectionate praise, and the French Minister of Marine, M. de Sartine, requested the American commissioners to detain Captain Jones in Europe, as it was desired to employ him against the British, in conjunction with the French fleets. War between France and England was then imminent, and, in fact, was declared within a few weeks. Paul Jones therefore wrote to the Congress, saying he desired that no command be reserved for him, as he had been directed by the American commissioners to remain in France. And now, in place of these bright anticipations came a long and torturing period of suspense for Paul Jones, mingled, it is true, with many compliments on his prowess, and sustained by the friendship of Franklin, of the King of France, of the Duke de Chartres, and the admiration of all the naval and military men of France. More than that was the gratitude and respect of the men who had fought under him, and of the two hundred prisoners from the Drake—for Paul Jones’s conduct at this time gained him the lasting good will of these men. The affairs of the American Government had then reached their most desperate state, and the French Government was a government by intrigue and corruption, which, not many years after, produced the bloodiest revolution the world ever saw. No money was forthcoming as the prize justly earned by the Ranger’s officers and crew, nor were they even paid their wages while waiting at Brest for a promised ship for Paul Jones. Worse still was the condition of the English prisoners, who would actually have starved but for Paul Jones himself paying out of his own pocket for food to keep them alive. It was his earnest desire to secure an exchange of prisoners, so that he could get a crew made up wholly of Americans, but with the general trickery, inefficiency, and jealousy of the French administration he could do nothing. One fine ship after another was promised him, through Benjamin Franklin, who looked to Paul Jones as the hope of the new nation upon the seas, but disappointment followed disappointment. Paul Jones’s restless spirit was the last one to submit to this enforced idleness, and he complained in his letters that “this shameful inactivity is worse to me than a thousand deaths.” Every moment lost to the service of his country was, in Paul Jones’s esteem, “shameful.” So months passed, Paul Jones in his small lodging at Brest vainly endeavoring, with Franklin’s earnest help, to get afloat once more in any sort of a ship. The King of France requested him to write a full account of the Ranger’s daring cruise, which Paul Jones did. But fighting, not writing, was his choice when his country needed every arm that could be raised in her defense. Bill Green, the quartermaster, whose time was up, had elected to stay with Paul Jones until he had another ship, and little Danny Dixon followed him about like a dog. The two humble friends gave Paul Jones more real comfort than all the compliments showered upon him by people of rank and consequence. Danny was still “the captain’s boy,” and Bill Green had a humble sleeping place close by the captain’s lodgings. When successive disappointments had preyed upon Paul Jones’s bold spirit, and he would return home in the evening sad and dispirited, the sight of Danny’s affectionate eyes and anxiety to serve him would sometimes console him a little. Bill Green was always at hand to carry a letter or a message, and Paul Jones, in his temporary distress, did not lack for two devoted friends. Bill had quite adopted Danny by this time, but was always growling and grumbling about “ships’ boys as is more trouble than they’re wuth,” and “boys as oughter have the cat reg’lar along with their ’lowance.” He did not sing much, though; and when Danny would tease him to sing “Come, all ye tars that brave the sea,” or “I’m here and there a jolly dog,” Bill would shake his head and say dolefully: “No, boy. I can’t sing them songs without I can hear the water runnin’ against the ship’s side and the wind makin’ music through the riggin’, and the bo’s’n’s pipe once in a while. Them is sea songs, and the only land song I knows is ‘Land lubbers lie down below,’ and that ain’t no song to speak of. Landsmen ain’t got no music of no account; and as for their songs—Lord! they’re all about love and the moon, and that sort o’ loblolly that sailormen ain’t got no appetite for.” Danny, perforce, had to put up with this explanation, and do without Bill’s music. Meanwhile, so great had been the alarm upon the coast of the United Kingdoms that the British Admiralty had issued a circular letter warning the people living on the coasts that a descent by Paul Jones might be expected. This further stung the daring sailor, who beheld the days go by fruitlessly while he lingered at Brest, unable to get a vessel. At one time it was thought a ship had been secured for him, and the young Lafayette, then on a visit from America, desired to sail with him in command of some troops that he was to carry. Afterward this design failed, and Lafayette wrote to Paul Jones: “I can not tell you, my good friend, how sorry I am not to be a witness of your success, abilities, and glory.” At last, nearly a year after his glorious cruise in the Ranger, Paul Jones, in despair of doing better, accepted the command of the Duc de Duras—the ship that, under the new name of the Bon Homme Richard, was to immortalize herself and the great man who became her captain. She was reported to be new and fast, but turned out, though, to be old and much decayed. She was a long ship, and carried twenty-four guns in broadside and eighteen smaller guns. She had a crew of three hundred and eighty men, of all nationalities under the sun. Not more than thirty of them were Americans, but among these Americans, besides Bill Green and two or three other men who had sailed with him in the Ranger, Paul Jones had Stacy, his old sailing master. He had the name of the ship changed from the Duc de Duras to the Bon Homme Richard, in compliment to Dr. Franklin, whose Poor Richard’s Almanac was then making a great stir in the world. The Bon Homme Richard was to be the first ship in a motley squadron made up of the Alliance, a fine American frigate of thirty-six guns, with an American crew, but commanded by a French captain. Of this man—Captain Landais—it is proper to say in the beginning that he had a distinct tinge of madness in his composition, and it is generally agreed that he was not thoroughly sane at any time during the memorable cruise he made with Paul Jones. He had been compelled to leave the French navy upon the ground of an intolerable temper, which was the beginning of the insanity from which he undoubtedly suffered at one time during his life. He had been considered a brave and faithful officer under the old rÉgime of the French navy, and therefore his subsequent conduct to Commodore Jones, as Paul Jones had now become, is entitled to the doubt that he was not responsible for what he did. Franklin, however, did not think this, and in a letter written afterward to the officers and men of the Bon Homme Richard, expressed the difference between Paul Jones and Landais thus: “For Captain Paul Jones ever loved close fighting, but Landais was skillful in keeping out of harm’s way.” The third ship of the squadron, the Pallas, was frigate built, and carried thirty-two guns. Then there was the Vengeance, a brig carrying twelve guns, and a small but beautiful cutter of eighteen guns, the Cerf. Paul Jones was the commodore of this little squadron, but there seems to have been great uncertainty about his powers. Not more than thirty Americans were available for the Bon Homme Richard at first, but Commodore Jones managed so that most of the petty officers were Americans. The rest of the crew were a motley set, of every nation under the sun. But along with his good luck in having Mr. Stacy and Bill Green, of his old company, he was to have a young lieutenant who was worthy to carry out the orders of such a man as Paul Jones. The Bon Homme Richard was fitting out at L’Orient, when one day, as Paul Jones was standing on the dock looking at the ship, that resounded with the clamor of preparation, a handsome young fellow of twenty-three, wearing an American naval uniform, stepped up to him and spoke, saluting at the same time. “This is Commodore Jones, I presume, and I am Lieutenant Dale,” he said. Paul Jones grasped his hand cordially. “I have heard of you, Mr. Dale. And how did you get the British uniform with which you escaped from Mill Prison?” he asked. Dale shook his head and smiled. “That secret must remain with me until the end of time,” he said. “But I have had enough of British prisons. After my first escape and recapture every amusement was forbidden me; and so, as I had nothing else to do, I was forced to sing patriotic songs to keep up my spirits; and for that I spent forty days in the Black Hole.” Something like a smile shone in Paul Jones’s dark and somber eyes. He had heard of the young lieutenant captured on the Lexington, confined in Mill Prison, and who had once escaped only to be recaptured, but this time had succeeded in getting out of harm’s way while the British police scoured the city of London for him. “Were you ordered to report to me, Mr. Dale?” asked Paul Jones. “No, sir,” answered Dale; “but I desire to see service, and those who serve under you will stand an excellent chance of immortality, for, as Dr. Franklin says, ‘Captain Paul Jones ever loves close fighting.’” Paul Jones took off his cap at the mention of Dr. Franklin’s name. “The praise of that great man is ever dear to me; and for yourself, Mr. Dale, your skill and intrepidity are well known, and your escape from Mill Prison shows that you are no ordinary man, and I shall be happy to have you as my first lieutenant on the Bon Homme Richard,” said he. At this Dale’s fine face turned crimson with pleasure. He expressed his thanks with a confusion that was more eloquent than the most finished periods. There were two other American lieutenants attached to the Bon Homme Richard—Henry Lunt and Cutting Lunt—but Bill Green, after inspecting them all, reported as follows to little Danny Dixon, who religiously believed everything Bill Green told him: “They all do tollerbul well; but Mr. Dale, he’s a seaman, he is. I knowed it. And I tell you, boy, he ain’t never goin’ to surrender. He’s been took prisoner now three times, and he’s a-goin’ to die ruther ’n go back to the Black Hole. And you mind your eye, young ’un, when you’re round Mr. Dale.” “Lord knows I does,” earnestly responded Danny. Early in June the squadron started on a cruise that was destined to be only the prelude of the immortal cruise that made Paul Jones’s name known all over the civilized world. On the very night they left the roads of Groix Paul Jones discovered the manner of man he had to deal with in Captain Landais. The tide was running in powerfully strong from the Bay of Biscay, and the Bon Homme Richard and the Alliance were coming dangerously near each other. Dale, who had the deck, had the helm put up, expecting the Alliance to put her helm up also to avoid a collision. Instead of that, the Alliance, under Captain Landais’s direction, deliberately kept her luff and crashed into the Bon Homme Richard, carrying away some of the lighter spars of both ships. Paul Jones, who was in the cabin, ran on deck, and in a few minutes the ships were free. The damage was not great, but Dale’s account of the way the Alliance was manoeuvred was very disquieting. “The captain was on deck, sir, and with a pistol at the helmsman’s head forced him to keep his luff, and swore at him most frightfully all the time.” “Dale,” said Paul Jones in a troubled voice, “we have undoubtedly a madman to deal with. What terrible thing may he not yet do!” Landais’s conduct during the whole cruise was of the same character, but there was so much malice in his cunning, and his seamanship, when he chose, was so good, that no man in the squadron really knew whether Landais was insane or not. The spirits of the crew were excellent, and Bill Green and the other members of it who had been on the expedition with the Drake did not let them forget that they were with a “lucky cap’n.” On the very first night out, when those that were off duty were sitting around the foks’l, Bill announced that he had composed a song, words and music, descriptive of the capture of the Drake. “Let’s have it, quartermaster,” said the boatswain. “It ain’t hardly fittin’ to sing,” answered Bill deprecatingly. “It begins sumpin’ about you: ‘“A sail! all hands!” the boatswain cries.’” “Seems to me,” said the boatswain, with a wink to the men, “I heard that ’ere song, or one monstrous like it, while we was at L’Orient, and somebody said as it were composed by a officer—” “You ain’t heard no sich a thing,” tartly answered Bill. “I thought it out in the dog-watch last night, and I wrote it out at nigh eight bells this mornin’. I ain’t got no need to sing other folks’s songs. I got the savey to make ’em up and sing ’em too.” “Then shake out your reefs and go ahead,” said the boatswain; and after the regulation amount of urging from his mates Bill began: “‘A sail! all hands!’ the boatswain pipes, And instant at the signal sound, Beneath the waving Stars and Stripes, Each sailor at his post is found. “Due south, close hauled, in trim array, A gallant frigate’s on our lee; She hoists her flag.—My hearts, huzza! Huzza! the English ensign see. “O’er all the crew, with heart elate, Our captain glanced his eagle eye, And saw each tar impatient wait To meet the veteran enemy. “And see! with topsail to the mast, The foe destructive fires prepare As ship to ship, approaching fast, All calm and silent, down we bear. “But, when yardarm and yardarm met, Our cannon swept his decks amain. In vain that boasted flag he set Which long had awed the subject main. “In vain unto the mast he nails That flag; for, carried by the deck, Like shattered oaks in wintry gales, Each, crashing, falls—a lumbering wreck. “No Frenchman now the conflict wage— The Briton finds another foe, And learns, amid the battle’s rage, Columbia’s hearts and hands to know. “What shall the desperate captain do? Around his bravest men expire! No hope is left! He speaks—his crew A leeward gun, reluctant, fire. “Columbia! from your youthful sleep Arise, your tars, your rights to save! Thus guard their freedom on the deep, Thus claim your empire on the wave!” This song was greeted with great applause, and Bill stoutly claimed the honor of its composition. The cruise was uneventful except for the capture of a few prizes, and, battered by the storms in the Bay of Biscay, the squadron returned to L’Orient to refit. Here Paul Jones had the good luck to find a considerable number of Americans who were anxious to enlist with him. Every quarter-deck officer was an American except one midshipman. Paul Jones distributed the Americans among his crew, so that nearly all the petty officers were of the sort described by Washington when he said, “Put none but Americans on guard.” Many of the ordinary seamen, though, were of other nationalities. At last the necessary repairs were made, and at daybreak on the morning of the 14th of August Paul Jones set sail, with a premonition that, even with an inferior ship and a squadron unworthy to serve under him, he would yet do great things. This feeling was shared by Dale, and by every officer and man on the Bon Homme Richard. Several prizes were taken, but within a week the extraordinary temper of Captain Landais manifested itself. On the 21st of August it fell calm; the squadron was then off Cape Clear, and was motionless on the still and glassy sea. The sun was sinking redly. In full view lay a fine brigantine, her sails hanging limp in the perfectly still August air. Paul Jones at once gave orders to hoist out the boats, and, putting Lieutenant Dale in charge of the expedition, they pulled off to capture the brigantine. In the clear atmosphere everything could be plainly seen on the surface of the water, and Paul Jones could almost hear, in the perfect silence of the fast waning afternoon, the orders of his favorite lieutenant, who hailed the brigantine and demanded her surrender. There was, of course, no resistance to be made to armed boats, and in a very short time a hawser was passed aboard, and the men started to tow the captured vessel to where the Bon Homme Richard lay. The twilight had come on fast, and the flood tide was rising. The Bon Homme Richard begun to drift dangerously near the Skelligs, that are among the most dangerous rocks on the wild Irish coast. It became necessary to tow the ship, so as to keep her head to the tide, and the commodore’s barge, being the only large boat on board, was hoisted out, with a tow line to keep the ship off the rocks. Danny Dixon, being a strong boy, and many of the crew being absent, was in the barge. It grew dark rapidly, and in the dusk the barge looked like a black shadow ahead of the ship, as the men bent slowly to their oars, just enough to hold the ship against the tide. Suddenly Lieutenant Dale, who had the deck, noticed that the ship’s head was wearing round. At the same moment he heard a splash in the water. The boat, however, was still pulling ahead, but much faster than it had been. For a moment he was puzzled at this, but he called out in a moment, “Avast, there! the line has parted!” The boat, however, paid no attention to his cry, but continued to pull away faster and faster. It dawned upon him then that the line had been cut purposely, and he shouted the louder, “Return to the ship at once!” He had seen a shadow upon the water, and a continual splash after the first one, and in a moment or two he saw Danny Dixon’s tow head just under the ship’s quarter. “Give me a line, please, sir,” called Danny, and the next moment he was landed on deck dripping wet. “They’ve stole the barge, sir,” he gasped out, sputtering, “and run away, some o’ the Portygees and Malays—there warn’t no ’Mericans among ’em. They wanted me to go along, but I jest slipped overboard and swam for the ship, and here I is.” Angry and indignant as Dale felt at the conduct of the barge’s crew, Danny’s matter-of-fact way of telling of his loyalty both pleased and amused him. He said hastily to Danny, “Go below and report to the captain,” and without waiting for orders, the only boat left on the ship was manned, and, with Mr. Lunt in command, put briskly after the deserters. Lieutenant Dale also brought one of the ship’s long twelves to bear on the retreating boat and fired several shots, but both the barge and her pursuers were soon lost in the increasing darkness. In a little while the other boats reached the ship towing the brigantine. The vessel proving stanch and her cargo valuable, Paul Jones threw a prize crew on her and sent her to L’Orient. As the night wore on a dense white fog descended upon the ocean, and the calm continued. There was no sign of Mr. Lunt’s boat. The Bon Homme Richard fired signal guns all night, and all the next day, as the fog showed no sign of lifting. The Cerf was sent in the morning to reconnoiter the coast for the missing boat. The same degree of cowardice or insanity appeared to possess the cutter as the Alliance. She was seen by the boat and would have been rejoined, but, the Cerf hoisting British colors, and firing at the unfortunate boat, Mr. Lunt was forced to run ashore, when he and all his boat’s crew were captured. Thus did the commodore lose the services of one of his best officers and two boats full of men, amounting to twenty-four in all. The morning after the boat was lost the captain’s gig of the Alliance was seen at the side of the Bon Homme Richard. In a few minutes the tall and imposing figure of Captain Landais appeared upon the ship. Paul Jones was on deck at the time, and, advancing to greet Captain Landais courteously, he was struck by the savage scowl upon the Frenchman’s countenance. The general repute of Captain Landais’s ungovernable temper and Paul Jones’s previous experience made him prefer to see the captain in the cabin. He invited a French marine officer on board, M. de Chamillard, and an American army officer, Colonel Weibert, who had volunteered to serve on the Bon Homme Richard, to accompany him and hear what passed. As soon as they reached the cabin, Landais, throwing his glove violently on the table, exclaimed in English, “So you have lost your boats!” This he immediately repeated in French for De Chamillard’s benefit, who did not understand English. “What do you mean?” asked Paul Jones calmly. “That you have lost your boats—and this comes of attacking a brigantine with boats.” “But my boats were not lost while attacking the brigantine,” replied Paul Jones, thinking that Landais was under a mistake. “My barge was cut adrift while towing the ship, and the deserters absconded. The brigantine was captured.” “And yet I was not allowed to cruise on my own responsibility upon this coast!” shouted the captain. Something in the wild gleam of his eye gave Paul Jones the calmness to reason with him. “Do you know the Irish coast?” he asked. “No,” shouted Landais, excitedly, “but I was willing—I and my brave officers—to risk it.” “But I was not willing to risk a ship under my command, with a captain who is entirely ignorant of this coast, the most dangerous one I know,” replied Paul Jones. All this time De Chamillard and Weibert sat amazed spectators of the scene. Paul Jones’s swarthy skin had turned a shade darker. A kind of lambent flame shone in his dark, inscrutable eyes. He strongly suspected a taint of madness in the infuriated man before him, and was careful not to exasperate him unnecessarily. Landais continued translating his insubordinate language into French, and looking at De Chamillard. But the French marine officer looked steadily away, blushing for the language of his superior. Again Landais burst out violently: “But you lost your boats through the folly of attacking with them.” “It is an untruth,” answered Paul Jones, rising. His manner was still composed, but his eyes were blazing. “Do you hear that, gentlemen?” shouted Landais furiously, in French; and turning to De Chamillard, “He has given me the lie direct.” Paul Jones then said coolly, “M. de Landais, your boat is ready.” The words were calm, but even the half-mad Landais was recalled to his senses by them. Paul Jones fixed his dark eyes on him. Slowly, yet inevitably, the expression of Landais’s face changed, he sank into a sullen silence, and then abruptly walked out of the cabin. Paul Jones turned to De Chamillard and Weibert in deep agitation. “You see, gentlemen,” he said in French, “what I have patiently endured for the sake of the great cause in which we are all engaged. M. de Landais was in my power, and you see how merciful I have been to him.” “And we will remember it,” answered De Chamillard, also much moved. The Bon Homme Richard remained on and off the coast until the 26th of August, hoping to find the missing boat, but at last was forced to give it up, and steered for the northward. The Cerf had never reappeared, so the squadron was reduced to the Bon Homme Richard, the Alliance, the Pallas, and the Vengeance. On the morning of the 27th of August, when Paul Jones came on deck at daybreak and swept the horizon with his glass, the Alliance was not in sight, nor did she turn up any more until the 31st, when her appearance proved most inopportune, as it always seemed to be during the memorable cruise. The Bon Homme Richard was then off Cape Wrath, and was chasing an armed vessel—the Union, of twenty-two guns. The American cruiser was flying British colors, hoping by that means to get very near before her nationality was discovered, so that if the Union had any valuable dispatches (which were often carried by fast letter-of-marque vessels) there would not be time or opportunity to destroy them. But as soon as Landais got near enough to the Bon Homme Richard, although he must have known that the commodore for some purpose did not desire American colors to be shown, the Alliance set two American ensigns. That was warning enough to the Union. She, indeed, carried important dispatches from the home Government addressed to the authorities at Quebec, and upon seeing the Alliance hoist her ensign knew what to do. When the British captain was brought on board the Bon Homme Richard, his first remark to Paul Jones, as he handed out his papers, was: “I had letters containing important information, but the warning so kindly given me by the frigate yonder enabled me to destroy them.” Paul Jones ground his teeth with rage. He was tempted for the twentieth time to put Captain Landais under arrest, but a mistaken clemency induced him to forbear. On the 4th of September the commodore signaled all the captains to come on board the Bon Homme Richard. In a little while boats were seen coming from the Pallas and the Vengeance, but none from the Alliance. Seeing no motion toward Captain Landais obeying orders, although the signal had been flying for half an hour, M. Mease, the purser of the Bon Homme Richard and a Frenchman, asked for a boat without saying what he wished to do. It was granted, and the purser went on board the Alliance and implored Captain Landais to save himself and his ship the disgrace of a disobedience of orders. Captain Landais appeared inclined to yield at first, but finally refused. M. Mease returned to the Bon Homme Richard, and, thinking that some other of the captain’s countrymen might have better luck, persuaded De Chamillard and the captain of the Pallas (Cottineau) to return with him. They went and found Landais on his quarter-deck. He had worked himself into a passion, and as they approached he roared at them: “Tell your Commodore Jones that we must have a meeting on shore, and one or the other of us must die. I will not longer bear his tyranny!” The three officers looked at each other significantly. First Captain Cottineau spoke soothingly, but it had no effect upon Landais. Then De Chamillard tried to reason with him, but to no effect. M. Mease was not suffered to speak at all by the infuriated captain. As the officers passed along the deck to take their boat they noticed the sullen looks and mutinous air of the men, who firmly believed that they had either a traitor or a madman for a commander. When they returned on board the Bon Homme Richard and reported to Paul Jones, he heard them through patiently. De Chamillard then declared that he believed Landais was crazy—that his language and countenance were wild and his conduct utterly irrational. To this Captain Cottineau disagreed. He was furiously angry with Landais, and thought him treacherous. Between these opposing views Paul Jones concluded to wait and have a personal interview with Landais. Within a few hours, however, the wind rose to a terrible gale, and the Alliance again disappeared, not to be seen until she made her appearance in a manner as unlooked for as usual. Some days of alternate storm and fog followed. Paul Jones knew that he was off the Scottish coast, but not until the evening of the 13th of September was it clear enough for him to see the blue line of the Cheviot Hills in the distance. Being in want of provisions and water, Paul Jones in the middle of the night sent an armed boat to bring off some sheep and oxen that were seen near the shore. Lieutenant Dale was in charge of the boat, and had with him money to pay for the cattle and sheep. This he did, allowing the owners a generous amount. He managed to extract a good deal of information from the peasantry, who told him of the capture of Mr. Lunt’s boat, and that the nature of the expedition was well known, as well as the fact that Paul Jones was in command, and that no less than eleven men-of-war were scouring the seas for the audacious Bon Homme Richard. Upon their return to the ship Lieutenant Dale reported to the commodore. When he spoke of the eleven British captains, each one of whom was eagerly in search of the honor of capturing Paul Jones, a faint smile passed over the somewhat sad face of the commodore. England, the mistress of the seas, put forth all her strength and skill against this bold intruder into her very strongholds. But he was not to become her captive, but her continued defiance. The coasts of England, Scotland, and Ireland were in an uproar by this time. Signal fires blazed on every hill, and expresses were sent to London announcing the danger. But Paul Jones knew he was in no danger from the shore, and he trusted to himself to take care of his ship at sea. Never since the days of the sea kings had any seaman so struck terror into his enemies as Paul Jones. |
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