The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Story of John Paul Jones, by Chelsea Curtis Fraser

FAMOUS AMERICANS

For Young Readers

THE STORY OF
JOHN PAUL JONES

BY CHELSEA C. FRASER

BARSE & HOPKINS
NEW YORK NEWARK
N.Y. N.J.

Copyright, 1922
BY BARSE & HOPKINS

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

PREFACE

For a corking tale of the sea it would be hard to find in all fiction a story to equal that of John Paul Jones, a figure of sober history. Yet history was not so "sober" after all, in those days when piracy was an actual fact, and even nations at times winked at privateering on the high seas. Jones was born with a love of the salt spray in his nostrils. He came to this country as a mere lad, but already a skilled sailor. When the Revolution broke out, he obtained command of a ship, and was the first to fly the Stars-and-Stripes in foreign waters. Then came his deeds of daring against the British Navy, and his repeated victories over tremendous odds. The fight between the Bon Homme Richard and the Serapis is a classic. "Surrender?" he cried with most of his rigging shot away, and his vessel sinking, "Why, I have just begun to fight!"

Belated honors were done to his memory, a few years ago, when his body was brought home from a neglected grave in France, and reinterred at Annapolis with all the honors in the gift of the nation. When the readers young and old lay aside this thrilling story, they also will understand why America honors his memory. He may be regarded as the founder of the United States Navy. His flag, whether flying at the masthead of some saucy little sloop-of-war or on a more formidable ship of the line, never knew what it was to be hauled down in defeat. His name has become a tradition among all sea fighters.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE STORY OF JOHN PAUL JONES

I

THE STORM

In the summer of 1759, James Younger, a prosperous shipowning merchant of Whitehaven, England, found himself short of sailors to man a new vessel he had just secured. Said he to himself, "I know just where I shall be likely to pick up such fellows as I need. To-morrow I shall go to Arbigland."

Arbigland was a small fishing-village directly across the Solway Firth, a sort of big bay which cuts a wedge into the borderline of Scotland and England and reaches out into the blueness of the Irish Sea. From this port fishing-boats in great numbers were wont to go forth in the early morning of the day and return at sunset with their catch. Practically every home was the hearth of a fisherman and his family—sturdy, weather-beaten men who knew the whims of a boat and the tricks of the sea better than they knew how to read and write; sturdy, hard-working mothers who knew more about baking bread and rearing good children than they did about social functions and social etiquette; sturdy lads and lassies who lived in the open and knew more about entertaining themselves with the rugged and wholesome interests of nature than they did about ball-rooms, wine suppers, and "movies." From Arbigland Mr. Younger had more than once before obtained excellent sailors, as had indeed many another ship-merchant and short-handed captain.

Mr. Younger's hopes of securing good seamen in Arbigland were soon fulfilled. He found no trouble in signing up nearly enough that very evening, among them several officers. The following morning he completed his list, but did not attempt an immediate return to Whitehaven on account of bad weather. That day the winds increased and the sea became constantly more and more violent. By mid-afternoon the waves were running so high that the fishermen who had gone out came scurrying in, glad to find a safe anchorage in the harbor.

Seeing a knot of idlers gathered on the waterfront, he joined them to find out what they were looking at. Not until one of them had painstakingly pointed out to him a small object, now in view on the crest of a mountainous wave, now vanished from sight in the trough of another, did he suspect that it could be a boat that had failed to get in.

"It's Johnnie Paul and his little dory, I be sure," observed one of the fishermen, who held a glass to his eyes. "It looks fair bad f'r the lad this time, an' na mistake. It's gude his ain faither don't ken the boy's peril."

"On'y twelve—a mere baby—an' him a-fightin' this nor'easter!" put in another fisherman, with a sorrowful shake of his grizzled head. "T'bad Johnnie's recklessness should 'a' got him in this fix. I'm afraid the lad's love for the sea will spell his doom this blow. He's a muckle bright lad, too."

"An' a born seaman. If a lad are ever born to the sea Johnnie Paul are that chap," said another Scotsman in tarpaulin. "Mind ye, boys, we seen him make port afore in stoorms a'most this bad. Mayhap he'll do it noo. He's got the luck o' the devil in his small frame, that he has!"

Whether it was "the luck of the devil" or just plain unvarnished skill which brought Johnnie Paul safely into port again that day will probably never be known. But the chances are, if luck entered into the matter at all, that good seamanship and intrepid daring performed the largest share of the performance, for, as the minutes went on and the small boat came bobbing nearer and nearer, it was evident to every one of those assembled seafaring men that the youngster was handling his steed with unusual cleverness. Virtually flying in the very face of disaster and death, the lad clung coolly to the tiller, his eyes snapping with excitement, his dark-brown hair tossing, while the vicious nor'easter almost tore his reefed sail from its fastenings, drenched him to the skin with its wild spray, and drove his cockleshell of a craft swiftly forward.

Held spellbound by the struggle between boy and wave, thrilled at the magnificence of the lad's courage and the adroitness of his movements as his tiller-hand avoided yawning danger after yawning danger, Mr. Younger found himself praying for the safety of the daring young boatman, as he might have prayed for the deliverance of one of his own children from such a threatened fate. And it was with a vast sense of relief and thankfulness that, a little later, he saw Johnnie Paul guide his frail vessel into the protected waters of the harbor and up to the wharf, where she was securely made fast.

Indeed, Mr. Younger was one of the very first to shake the hand of the dripping boy and congratulate him on his splendid performance. "If I mistake not, one of these days you will be a great sailor, my lad," said he, little knowing that he was predicting a truth.

Johnnie Paul blushed painfully. But quickly the snap and sparkle returned to his hazel eyes. "Sir, it is what I should like to be—a great sailor," he said.

Other words followed. "I shall see your father. Perhaps we can induce him to let you join one of my vessels," observed the ship-owner from Whitehaven. "You are very young, but old enough to become an apprentice or ship's-boy."

Young John Paul ran home as fast as his legs could carry him, his heart beating with joy. Oh, such luck! It seemed to him he had always wanted to be a sailor—a real sailor, one who could tread a big vessel's deck, climb her rigging, and go far out to sea past that misty blue line that separated home waters from the mystery and adventure of the domain lying leagues beyond.

Since he was a mere baby he recalled that he had always had a passion to sail something, even so simple a thing as a leaf, the half of a walnut shell, a bit of wood supporting a paper sail. And, in the beginning, the duck-pond, a horse-trough, or a puddle of rainwater, had been his sea. But he outgrew these limitations as he outgrew his kilts: more room must be provided for his bounding spirits and expanding ambition. Then had come first thoughts of the seashore; father's and mother's warnings that the strong tides of the Solway were too dangerous to play with, had only increased his desire to tussle with them. So he had run away, been sternly chastised, had run away again—until at length, despairing of restraining his son from the natural craving of his heart, John Paul senior threw away his switch and left the youngster to the care of Providence whenever his footsteps prompted him waterward.

As time went on, young John had grown into a sturdy lad whose chief delight was to sail off in the fishermen's boats for a day's catch. What he dreamed, what he planned, as he watched the far horizon, no one knows, for he was not the kind of a boy to tell others of his inner thoughts at that age. But that he did have frequent golden dreams we may rest assured, since, between the times he was making himself useful in casting and hauling in the nets, his older comrades often caught him in abstracted study of distant spaces.

In those days Scottish schools were not what they are now. There were very few of them then, and the instruction had not begun to reach the thoroughness it has since attained. Less than a dozen children attended the little school in Arbigland to which Johnnie Paul had been consigned at the age of eight. It was so difficult to get a teacher that sometimes for weeks at a time there was no one to hold forth in that office. These occasions were very satisfying to our Johnnie Paul, for the truth is, he much preferred paddling around the water to fingering over the pages of his books. But he was not lazy, and during the short time he did spend under the roof of a schoolhouse, he must have applied himself, for the records show that at twelve years of age he could figure and read and write very well indeed for that period.

The lad's mother had been Jean Macduff, the daughter of an Argyll Highlander who had moved into the Lowlands, there to abandon his trade of armorer and become a farmer near New Abbey. Jean Macduff later left her home and came to Arbigland to accept a position as lady's-maid to a Mrs. Craik whose husband was a prosperous land-owner possessing an extensive estate and splendid buildings on top of the promontory hanging above the shores of the Solway.

When quite a young man, John's father, a Lowlander, had also found employment on the Craik estate as gardener, and later by reason of his faithful work and popularity in the community, he had been made game-warden. The young gardener and the young lady's-maid soon fell in love with each other, were married, and in due course of time were blessed with five children, of whom Johnnie was the youngest. He was born in the year 1747. William, the brother, had gone to live with a cousin, William Jones, a childless planter in Virginia, before John was born. Willie had never been back since that day. He had been adopted by the distant cousin, and might never return, John's parents said, but it was hoped and expressed in letters that he would some of these days make the long voyage back to old Scotland for a brief visit. How Johnnie did yearn to see this big brother whose letters he loved to read but whom he had never seen! Of late he had even dared to think of making a voyage himself to American shores, there to seek out the long-absent one.

The Paul cottage, overgrown with creepers, and sheltered from the fierce northeast winds by thick trees and shrubbery, stood so close to the seashore that it was never free from the sound of lapping waters and the boom of breakers. It was the boy's delight, before he went to sleep of a night, and before he arose of a morning, to lie for some time and listen to the music of the waves, his vivid fancy investing these voices with the power of telling him strange tales of strange peoples and strange places, far, far away.

When young John was not on the water, in school, or at home, he could usually be found somewhere about Mr. Craik's estate. He was kindly treated, and the playmate of the sons of the good laird's family. With the democracy of boyhood he and the Craik lads enjoyed climbing everything in the neighborhood, from the highest trees to the most rugged cliffs, where lurked unexplored treasures in the shape of sea-birds' eggs. They penetrated caves and caverns under the cliffs with that sublime disregard of tides which is boyhood's happy prerogative. They lingered at the hearths of Old Elspeth and Meg Merrilies, in the valley below, drinking in tales of elf and goblin—too frightened to go home in the dusk, until the servants of the big house finally hunted up and retrieved them.

And now all this commonplace existence was to be traded off for the more alluring one of a sailor's life—if only the stranger from Whitehaven did not forget to keep his word and ask Johnnie Paul's father and mother to permit him to go off to sea—and if that father and mother could be prevailed upon to give their consent!

Young John had never covered the distance from the waterfront to his humble home as quickly as he had that stormy afternoon following his meeting with Mr. James Younger. There he shouted the news to his shocked mother, and then, still in his wet garments, ran over to the Craik estate and told his father and Mr. Craik himself.

Had not the latter interceded in his behalf at the last moment it is doubtful if John Paul senior and his good wife would ever have allowed Johnnie to go, when Mr. Younger called that evening and presented the case to them. As it was, they finally agreed that their youngest son should become an apprentice to the Whitehaven ship-owner.

Then John Paul was indeed a happy boy. He did not sleep a wink that night. All through the long hours he lay listening to the lashing waves. They had never sounded so sweet before.

II

THE LAND ACROSS THE SEA

"Gude-by, mither! Gude-by, faither! Gude-by, dear sisters!"

The big ship which had brought Mr. James Younger to Arbigland in quest of sailors tugged restlessly at her anchor-chains in the river. Her sails were being unfurled to the fresh breeze by her crew. The storm of the day before had subsided during the night, and all was ready for the departure.

Already a yawl-load of newly-engaged seamen had reached the vessel's deck. And now, with a little bundle under his arm and the kisses of his kinsfolk still warm on his cheek, young Johnnie Paul courageously tried to keep back the lump that seemed bound to rise in his throat, and stepped into the last ship's-boat with Mr. Younger himself. As the oarsmen bent to their task and the boat left the dock farther and farther behind, John waved his hand to the group on the shore. Beside his own household Mr. Craik's family were gathered there to see him off, also every man, woman, and child in the village. He knew them all. Every one was sorry to see him go, and all wished the lad they loved God-speed.

John had not fancied his eyes would blur this way when the final parting should come. He had never been away from home before in all his twelve years of life. It is no wonder that for a short time he had an impulse to ask Mr. Younger to turn about and leave him behind.

But fortunately for the country in which American children live, this Scotch lad steeled himself into seeing his bargain through, be it for better or for worse. So he maintained a steadfast silence, gazed straight ahead at the scurrying sailors aboard the big ship, which was now quite close, and, quickly absorbed in their movements, soon recovered his enthusiasm for the project upon which he had entered. Landlubber though they might call him, he determined to show these tars that he was no stranger to the ways, whims and tricks of water even if he were unused to handling a big vessel.

Two hours later the high cliffs marking the site of Arbigland were all that young John could see of the little fishing-village. They were well out in the Solway, plowing their way toward Whitehaven, on the adjoining English coast. The sea was still quite rough—rough enough to have made any lad unused to the rolling motion of a boat prodigiously seasick. Not so Johnnie Paul. To the disappointment of a number of the old salts who expected to have sport with him in this way, John went about his new duties as serenely as if he had been on land. Therefore they found no opportunity to offer him the remedy they were wont to hand out to the usual run of shipmaster's apprentices—

"Just a wee drap o' saut water,
And if a piece o' fat pork, after,
Tied in a string ye tak' an' swallow,
Ye'll find that muckle change will follow."

Nor did he have to listen to the suggestion, always gravely given, that the sufferer should make his will, which did not seem amiss, so awful are the pangs of that first hour when the novice is afraid he will die—and the second, when he is afraid he will not!

All in all, the Scotch lad stood that first short voyage to Whitehaven in fine shape. So bravely had he faced the jibes and rough play of the sailors coming across the Solway, so well had he performed his duties, that Mr. Younger's interest in him expanded. When they reached port he had the boy take quarters with him at his own splendid home, where Mrs. Younger treated him with as much consideration as if he were her own son. Here John stayed for almost two weeks, while the new vessel on which he was to sail was taking on her finishing touches and being fully provisioned. In the meantime he was not idle, running errands for his host and hostess, working in their garden, and making himself generally useful.

Spare moments he put in thumbing his way through various volumes in the splendid library of Mr. Younger. Indeed, so assiduously did he apply himself to reading several books on naval history that, the day he left, the ship-owner presented him with two such works, much to John's gratification. With his own meager savings he purchased an oilcloth wrapper for these treasures and stored them carefully away aboard the Friendship, the new vessel.

Mr. Younger's line of ships were engaged largely in the American trade; so when John learned that the Friendship was going to make her maiden voyage to Virginia, the very State in which his brother Willie was located, his joy knew no bounds. Just before he stepped aboard for the last time he mailed a letter to his mother, telling her of the happy tidings, and as the big ship worked out into the Irish Sea, with her bow pointed for the New Country across the Atlantic, he looked forward to the trip with a rare eagerness.

His ship was commanded by Captain Benson. This skipper was a stern disciplinarian, none too well liked by the crew. Yet he was kind to the young apprentice, who found him just in every particular, and admired his high-spirited nature, so much like his own.

The lad learned fast. With the sailors he was always a favorite. Before the vessel reached American waters he could climb a mast or yardarm with the most nimble of them, and was as fearless as the captain himself when the waves were running high.

At last the green shores of America were sighted one morning by the lookout at the masthead. Near sunset the Friendship dropped anchor in the quiet waters of the Rappahannock River, not far from the plantation where Willie Paul lived with William Jones, the cousin who had adopted him years ago.

Johnnie's heart beat like a trip-hammer as he made his way, after some inquiries, up the winding drive which led toward a big white house. All around stretched acres of fertile fields, now heavy with ripening grain and tobacco. At the rear of the great house were numbers of smaller buildings, about some of which he could see negro children playing. Surely all of this could not belong to the Jones estate! Why it was bigger than the wonderful premises of the Craiks!—even bigger than all of the fishing-village of Arbigland itself! The Scotch boy faltered. He stopped. He must have made a mistake. Once more he swept his eyes around at the huge fields, from one quarter of which came faintly rolling toward him the sounds of a rollicking negro chorus.

Just then a tall figure—that of a young man—appeared on the portico of the great house. This person gazed intently toward the lad, then proceeded in his direction.

As the young man came closer, John saw that he was a splendid-looking fellow. While slender he had a broad chest and square shoulders, and a heavy mass of wavy auburn hair crowned his bare head, behind which it was gathered in the manner of the period. Finer breeches, waistcoat, stockings, gaiters, and shoes, the boy had never seen.

The young man's blue eyes looked down into John's pleasantly and inquiringly. "Well, my lad," said he in perfect English, "can I serve you in any manner?"

"Sir," replied John awkwardly, "I fear I ha' been trespassing a wee bit. I ha' just come this day in a gude vessel, the Friendship, all the way from Whitehaven, England, and I am bent on seeing my brither who has lived some'r' in these parts this many a year."

"Your speech shows you to be Scotch. What is this brother's name?" asked the planter quickly.

"Willie Paul it was, but now it be Willie Jones because——"

"Willie Jones! And you are...?"

"Johnnie Paul, sir."

"Johnnie," said the young man, seizing him by the shoulders and squaring him around, as he peered earnestly down at the boy, "look fairly into my face. Tell me—is there anything you see there which reminds you of anybody you know?"

"On'y two things, sir. Ye ha'—asking pardon—the big ears o' my faither an' the twinklin' blue eyes o' my mither."

The young man smiled. Those blue eyes twinkled more than ever. "Johnnie Paul," cried he, "you are very observing; but apparently not enough so to recognize me as your brother!"

The next moment his big arms had swept around the little sailor, and Johnnie had never known such a happy moment. He was overjoyed to meet finally this brother he had never seen before. Together the happy pair went up the path and into the great house where the lad from far-away shores was made the welcome guest of the plantation owner and foster-father of Willie, William Jones himself.

Just two weeks the Friendship lay in the river discharging her consignment of farm implements, so much needed by the new settlers, for a cargo of tobacco and cotton to be taken back to England. Young John's services were not required aboard ship during this time, and it gave him a fine chance to visit with his brother and gain some knowledge of plantation life. He found that William Paul Jones had married since the family in Scotland had heard from him last, and that he was now overseer of his foster-father's estate, with a splendid future apparently awaiting him.

The premises boasted of some of the finest horses in the country. It was John's delight to mount one of these mettlesome animals and with his brother or Mr. Jones go cantering down the shady Virginia roads in the neighborhood, or, at slower pace, cover the grounds of the big plantation. Of an evening they would call on neighbors, else neighbors would partake of the hospitality of the Jones's. The boy took an immediate liking to the generous, outspoken class of people he met. The American boys especially pleased him. In their active, fearless play, and love for adventure, they seemed a part of his own bold and hardy Scotch spirit. Many a wrestling bout did he indulge in with the best of them, and while he was sometimes thrown he had the satisfaction of knowing that it never was by a chap younger than himself.

Mr. Jones took a strong fancy to the little Scotchman. Since Willie had been adopted he had come to regard the elder brother with the strongest of paternal affection, but now that he had grown up and married, the foster-father found himself yearning once more for young companionship. Just before Johnnie left, this kind-hearted planter offered to adopt him also. But the lad's real love was for the sea. Much as he liked this interesting, free life in Virginia, he did not feel that he could give up his precious ships for it.

So off he sailed for Whitehaven.

III

THE YOUNG SAILOR

Life before the mast in 1759 was a hard routine, not calculated to make a "sissy" or a mollycoddle out of any boy. Colleges and training-schools for turning out ship's officers there were none; every single man who attained such executive positions did so at the long and laborious expense of time and actual service in positions lower down the ladder.

Johnnie Paul knew all the hard work that lay before him, before he had been aboard the Friendship a fortnight, for there were many old veterans of the crew—failures themselves in the way of promotion—who were only too glad to try to discourage the lad because they felt irritated at their own lack of progress. One of the most persistent of these was a black-browed, bewhiskered fellow named Tom Whiddon. Whiddon was a jealous-minded sailor, given to sulky spells, and he seemed to take pleasure in telling John at every opportunity that the life of a sailor was a dog's life at the best, and that only men of money having a "pull" with the owners could ever hope to get an officer's berth.

The Scotch lad listened to Tom Whiddon's growling complaints with growing impatience, although politely enough at first. As the seaman continued to harass him he asked him to desist, but this only caused a coarse laugh from Whiddon and some of his associates who were disgruntled at Captain Benson's apparent liking for the young apprentice.

Finally came a day when the good ship lay becalmed. At such times a crew usually has difficulty to while away the hours. Between the times when they are "whistling for a wind" there is little to do except to talk, tell yarns, do stunts, and play practical jokes on one another.

John had already found out to his sorrow, by reason of several other becalmings on the trip from Whitehaven to America, that when there is a boy aboard, that boy is likely to be the chief butt of such practical jokes. As then it was so now. But as then he also now good-naturedly laughed with them at the pranks they played at his expense. It was only when Tom Whiddon, with a malicious grin on his face, publicly called him the "cap'n's baby" that Johnnie's quick Scotch temper got the best of him.

Like a flash he stood before the black-browed Whiddon, a belaying-pin in one hand, his hazel eyes snapping fire, his cheeks burning at the injustice of the remark.

"Say that again, Tom Whiddon, an' I'll knock ye flat on this deck!" cried Johnnie.

There was a tenseness in his tones, an earnestness in his demeanor that should have warned Whiddon. But the big bully saw only his own gigantic proportions as compared with the small bundle of quivering flesh confronting him. Stung by the lad's threat and the amused looks his comrades cast in his direction, Whiddon blurted out:

"Hi say it ag'in—'cap'n's baby'! an' hif you don't——"

The sailor was about to say, "Hif you don't drop that belayin'-pin Hi'll trounce you good an' proper, ye little snapper," when the boy's arm whipped forward, the belaying-pin landed on Whiddon's thick skull and he measured his length on the deck.

The crew had not looked for such summary action on the part of the master's-boy no more than had the burly Whiddon himself. It had seemed ridiculous to think such a small boy would go to such extremes in upholding his honor and dignity. Now, as they gazed down aghast at their fallen comrade, who moved not a muscle, they were almost as stunned as he.

When they awoke, one or two of them sprang forward and seized the boy, but a half-dozen others, including the first and second mates, pulled them away.

"Leave the lad alone!" they demanded. "Whiddon got no more than he deserved."

This seemed to be the consensus of opinion. The fellow was deservedly unpopular. Not a hand was lifted for his relief until young John Paul himself got some water, sprinkled it in his face, and brought him to. This tenderness of heart was characteristic of the lad in later years. It is said that when he became skipper of his own vessel, on more than one occasion his hot temper caused him to cuff or kick one of his officers for a breach of discipline, while his sympathetic nature immediately afterward prompted him to invite the culprit to mess with him in his cabin.

Merchant ships then plying for trade were not fitted out with the refinements of a modern hotel, as might be said of many of them nowadays; after a few days out even the captain's table could not boast fresh provisions, and long voyages almost inevitably ended with scurvy among the crew, due to lack of green vegetables and an overdose of brine. Though the menu lacked variety, the same could not be said of the names of the dishes which were not only picturesque but in some cases actually descriptive. For instance, there was "Salt Junk and Pork," "Lobscouse," "Plum-duff," "Dog's Body," "Sea Pies," "Rice Tail," "Hurryhush," "Pea Coffee," and "Bellywash."

With our steam and wireless to-day it is hard to realize the complete isolation which was formerly the seaman's lot. Empires might rise and fall, and Jack be none the wiser until he touched at port, or spoke some swifter craft within hail of the skipper's brazen-throated speaking-trumpet. Often becalmed for days at a time, in the manner previously referred to, with nothing to break the sameness of glassy water and nebulous horizon, the most trifling incident furnished food for conversation and attention.

Even when the ship was under headway, the incessant moaning and whistling of wind through the rigging, the dull flapping of canvas at every shift of the breeze, itself bore a sense of monotony which made the crew long for the sight of a friendly sail or a bit of land. Once in port, the captain, relieved of responsibility, had his own affairs to occupy him ashore, as did most of his officers. His crew, divided between land and craft alternately, were entertained aboard by scores of natives with baskets of gewgaws to sell, and very often guzzled rum ashore until they could scarcely zig-zag their way back to the yawl.

Despite its temptations, life at sea had a broadening influence for the average young man of the time. He returned very much more the man of the world, with harder muscles, and was far better able to take care of himself than his stay-at-home brother. On his voyages he gathered a store of extensive and varied information relating to the races and the geography of the world, that he could never get out of books. True, his associations and experiences made him a rough, blunt-spoken fellow as a rule; but on the whole they made his heart more sympathetic for those in trouble, more understanding of the big things in life.

Johnnie Paul was now an attractive lad, high-spirited, quick to anger at injustice, open and honorable,—traits he seemed to have taken from the Highland blood of his mother. To his father, the Lowlander, he probably owed his restraining sense of strategy and caution. But for the latter inheritance of character it is likely his bold spirit would often have gotten him into trouble, and he could never have won the fights which he did later on. While John's rough life, in association with common seamen from the time that he was twelve years old, and his lack of previous education, made difficult his becoming what he ardently wished to be—a cultivated gentleman—he applied himself diligently to that end. During the long years on the deep which followed, by hard study the boy educated himself to a considerable degree, not only in seamanship and navigation, but also in naval history and in the French and Spanish languages. On a voyage his habit was to seek out a quiet spot, with his books, at every lull in his tasks. On shore, instead of carousing with his associates, he was given to hunting out the most distinguished or best-informed person he could find; by chatting with him, he added to his rapidly increasing fund of knowledge. His handwriting was always the painful scrawl of a schoolboy, probably because being far more adept with his tongue than with his spelling, he preferred to dictate most of his letters, that their recipients should not suspect his limited schooling, a matter about which he was always very sensitive.

For four years following his maiden voyage, John Paul was a member of the crew of the Friendship. His voyages were mainly to and from the West Indies. During this time he managed to call twice upon his brother Willie in Virginia, and each time the people there grew to like him better, and he to appreciate the attractions of the New Country. He also had been to see his folks at Arbigland once or twice, on occasions when his ship was laying-over at Whitehaven, and these were happy occasions for all concerned, as we may suppose.

John's rise in the merchant service was rapid. When he was sixteen, a sturdy youth with the nimbleness of a cat and almost the strength of a man, Mr. Younger retired from business, and as a reward to the capability and faithfulness of his charge, the ship-owner returned him the indentures which made him his own master. In addition to this he presented him to the captain of the King George of Whitehaven, a slaver, with recommendation that the lad be given an appointment as first-mate.

It must be remembered that at this time the slave-trade was not regarded as anything dishonorable. Numerous vessels were attracted to it as a money-making venture, and openly plied back and forth between the home of the black man and the island of Jamaica. Few sailors, few officers, few of the people at large, thought it wrong to steal lusty young negroes and negresses away from their parents and kinsmen and offer them for sale to the Jamaican slave-dealers and plantation owners.

So young John Paul first engaged in the trade without any compunctions of conscience. But it was not for long. At the end of two years he had seen so many broken hearts among the blacks as a result of the forced partings, had been an observer of so much unnecessary suffering because of the cruelty of the rough fellows who handled the human freight, that his heart sickened. In fact, so disgusted was he that he even sold out the sixth interest which he had obtained in the ship, quitted it, and boarded the John O'Gaunt, at Kingston, Jamaica, bound as a passenger for Whitehaven.

On the trip home the captain, mate, and all but five of the crew of the John O'Gaunt died of yellow fever. Not a man was left, except John Paul, who knew enough about navigation to bring the afflicted ship into port. So the lad took charge. With neatness and dispatch he guided the brig across the dangerous waters of the Atlantic and into her haven. Her pleased owners rewarded him with a share of her cargo, and gratified him even more by making him captain and supercargo of a new ship—the John—which was engaged in the West Indian merchant trade.

Life on a merchantman is rough enough to-day; it was far rougher at that time. To maintain discipline at sea required a strong hand and a tongue none too gentle. Kind-hearted enough by nature, John had learned his lessons by this time; he knew that indecision and softness had no place in an efficient skipper's makeup before his men, and while good enough to his crew at all times he insisted that they obey his commands with respect and promptness.

During the third voyage of the John, when fever had greatly reduced the crew and every man on board was more or less fretful and irritable, Mungo Maxwell, a mulatto carpenter, became mutinous to such an extent that the young commander deemed it advisable to have him flogged, not only as fitting punishment, but as a salutary example for the observation of the remainder of the crew. The chastisement duly took place. It was not unusually severe, but it happened that, unknown to the youth, the man was just coming down himself with the scourge. He took to his bed, the fever gripped him, and he never arose again.

A few envious enemies of John immediately circulated reports that the mulatto had been struck down and murdered by the young captain. He was arrested by the governor of Tobago, in the vicinity of which the vessel happened to be at the time, and taken before the tribunal of that place. Since the body of the stricken carpenter had been immediately consigned to the deep, following the custom in such deaths, it could not be produced to substantiate John's claims of innocence, but witnesses in his favor were plentiful enough to aid in his acquittal.

This incident, in spite of its outcome, worried the lad a great deal. His pride was hurt. In a letter to his mother and sisters, he referred frequently to it with remorse, and in those parts where he told of people still throwing it up to him in a condemning manner, his language was even bitter. Can we blame him?

A year later, in 1870, when he was twenty, John learned that William Jones, foster-father of his brother, had died, bequeathing to Willie his entire property of three thousand acres, the buildings, animals, slaves, and a sloop. A clause of the will particularly personal was to the effect that, should the adopted son die without children, the estate, excepting an adequate provision for Willie's wife, was to go to his youngest brother, our John Paul.

The next two years the young captain continued to guide the Two Friends, of Kingston, Jamaica, of which he had taken command some four years earlier. Numerous voyages were made to the Indian Ocean, and cargoes of woolen and thread goods brought back. Twice trips were made to Baltic ports.

Finally, in 1771, John obtained command of the Betsy, of London, a ship trading with the West Indies. This venture made it possible for the young man to save a considerable amount of money, a goodly share of which he fondly anticipated sending home to his mother and sisters.

Just a year later, in 1772, business having called him in that vicinity, he ran the Betsy into the Rappahannock. He had not seen or heard from Willie for over a year. This would be a splendid opportunity. How surprised his brother would be!

At the door he was met by a servant who knew him at first sight. The negro's eyes danced with delight, his mouth spread into a broad grin, showing two rows of glistening white teeth. But the next moment he grew very sober.

"Hush, Marse John," he said in the lowest of whispers. "Ah's suah sorry t' tell yo', but Marse Willyum am berry, berry sick."

Going in quickly, the young sailor was grief-stricken to find his brother lying at the point of death.

IV

THE YOUNG PLANTER

William Jones was, indeed, too ill to recognize his brother, and died in that condition. John felt the blow keenly, the more so because he could not have a last word with the kinsman he had seen so little of, and had come to regard with such strong affection.

In accordance with the provisions of the will, the bulk of the estate was now due to go to Johnnie Paul, provided the latter would accept Jones as a surname. Our young sailor, after some deliberation, decided to make the change, settle down, and become a Virginia planter. But he could not satisfy himself with dropping the name of Paul. This was a family heirloom which he felt he must preserve, especially now since he was the only male member of his immediate family possessing it, his good father having gone some months before. Therefore, he forthwith discarded his Christian name of John—whose commonplaceness he had never liked—and became known as Paul Jones. Under this half-assumed appellation he did the really big things of his career which brought him fame. Under it he shouldered responsibilities of which any true-hearted, loyal American citizen might well be proud, although he was only the son of a poor Scotch gardener, a young man without education, without a country he could really claim as his own.

Paul Jones—as we shall now have to call him—found that he had inherited "3000 acres of prime land, bordering for twelve furlongs on the right bank of the Rappahannock, running back southward three miles, 1000 acres of which are cleared and under plough or grass, 2000 acres of which are strong first-growth timber; a grist-mill with flour-cloth and fans turned by water power; mansion, overseer's house, negro quarters, stables, tobacco houses, threshing-floor, river-wharf, one sloop of twenty tons, thirty negroes of all ages (eighteen adults), twenty horses and colts, eighty neat cattle and calves, sundry sheep and swine; and all necessary means of tilling the soil."

With the property came also old Duncan Macbean. This canny, tough old Scotsman Willie Jones had saved from the tomahawks of the Indians at the time of Braddock's rout. He had brought him home, nursed him until well of his wounds, and then made him overseer of the plantation. In this capacity Duncan had amply proved his efficiency. He had become greatly attached to the place, and in his will the master had requested that he be continued as overseer as long as he was physically and mentally capable.

Paul Jones sent the Betsy back to London under the command of his first-mate, with word to her owners that, for the present at least, he was relinquishing the attractions of the sea. He then settled down in earnest to the new life that had opened up before him.

As in everything he undertook, he waded into the duties confronting him with an interest keen and thorough. He was not afraid to ask questions of those whose experience warranted them knowing more than he about his new task, no matter how humble or high their stations. In this way he learned the tricks of the planter with surprising rapidity. It was not long before he saw the advisability of rotating his tobacco crops with sowings of maize, that the fertility of his fields might not be exhausted, and a number of neighboring planters who had never thought of such a thing before, followed suit.

There was not a horse on the plantation, nor in the county which could unseat him. So much was he liked by his slaves that they anticipated his every wish, it seemed. In the early day, before the sun had become intolerable, he rode over his broad acres at a leisurely pace, noting the crops, the black workers, the pickaninnies at play,—everything. Apparently nothing tending toward a betterment of the condition of his help and the acres they tilled seemed to escape him. A gentle bit of censure here, a pat on a woolly head there, a trinket in a child's outstretched dusky hand, and he would turn his horse's head in another direction.

The surrounding forests contained game in profusion; and the low sandy marshes around Urbana abounded in great flocks of snipe and other water-fowl. With old Duncan Macbean the young master often shouldered the fine Lancaster rifle left by his brother, stuck a brace of pistols in his belt, and spent a day in the wilds. No better shot than the old Scotsman could be found in the whole country. Although an old Indian wound had left him lame, this in no wise interfered with his wonderful skill with either pistol or rifle. He could shoot from either hand or either shoulder, from almost any position, and put a ball through a wild turkey's head at a hundred yards.

Paul Jones could scarcely credit the evidence of his eyes when he first saw old Duncan shoot, for he had never seen such accuracy before. An intense desire came over him to master firearms with equal skill. He imparted this wish to his overseer, and the consequence was that in the course of the next two years the old veteran taught him to handle the pistol and rifle with a deadliness which became the talk of the countryside.

However, the ability to shoot was really more a matter of necessity than an accomplishment in those days. Scattering bands of the Rappahannock Indians often stole down stream to the holdings of the Scotch-Irish planters along the tidewater shores, and when opportunity offered, ran off portions of their live stock, or even sent a wicked arrow through an unwary white man. In her scrolled coach, creaking and swaying on its great hinges and leather straps, milady never took her airings down the rough sandy roads without a guarding retinue of armed slaves and whites. Nor did men themselves venture forth in the fastnesses without their fingers playing about hammer and trigger, ever ready to throw up the former at the slightest suspicious sight or sound, ready to pull the latter when they became convinced that such a procedure was warranted.

Young Paul Jones enjoyed his new life to the utmost. The constant peril from the redskins, the exciting brushes which he and old Duncan Macbean had with some of them on different occasions, the thrilling hunts in the forest, all went to satisfy his active, adventure-loving nature. On the other hand, he had plenty of spare time in which to gratify his ambitions for study, for becoming a man of power in his own section as well as in the affairs of the new nation. He continued to study from books, perfected his knowledge of the French and Spanish languages, and even traveled over the Colonies quite extensively. He entertained lavishly at home. His gallantry and courtesy made him very popular.

In his trips away from home he met many prominent statesmen of the time, and renewed friendships with others whom he had previously met. Among the latter was Joseph Hewes, with whom he was unusually intimate. Other noted men of his acquaintance were Thomas Jefferson, Philip Livingston, George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, the Lees, and Robert and Gouverneur Morris.

For some time the Colonists had been growing more and more restless under the burdensome taxes and conditions imposed upon them by England, the mother-country. The governors she appointed seemed to deal with the people unjustly, even cruelly at times. Protests did no good. If one official was removed a worse one was put in his place. So life in the new land, instead of flourishing, became a burden.

Bitterness began to creep into the voices of the Colonists when they talked of Great Britain. The man who thought conditions all right was frowned upon by the majority and called a "Tory." He was told either to keep his silence, or go back across the seas. The majority—the "Whigs"—did not want such men howling for the king on the virgin ground which they had come hundreds of miles to settle and keep free from the fetters of aristocratic rulers and their smothering taxes.

In 1774, Paul Jones, then twenty-seven years of age, returning from Edmonton, stopped over in Norfolk to visit some friends. Several British ships lay at anchor in the harbor. The Colonists forgot their grievances under the impulse of their natural hospitality. Wishing to show kindness to the king's sailors rather than loyalty to his empire, the Americans entertained the officers at an elaborate ball.

As customary at such functions wine was furnished. Instead of partaking of this sparingly, most of the young English officers drank freely, and became very insolent and abusive. Stepping up to one of the most talkative of them—Lieutenant Parker, by name—Paul Jones demanded:

"Did I not overhear you say, sir, that in the case of a revolt in this country England will easily suppress it?"

"Thash jus' what I said," replied Lieutenant Parker thickly. "Mean it too, m'lad. But I might add that if the courage of your men ish no finer'n the virtue of your women, you'll be licked before the fight's one day old."

In an instant the fist of the young planter, as hard as an oak knot beneath its laced cuff, swung out from his broad shoulder. The British officer went down like a log.

At once there was an aggressive movement on the part of his comrades; but the Americans, now thoroughly aroused to the defense of their ideals, flocked around Paul Jones in such numbers that the king's men fell back, picked up their helpless companion, and hurried aboard their ships.

Expecting that, after the custom of the day, Lieutenant Parker might challenge him to a duel, Paul Jones at once proceeded to make arrangements with a friend, Mr. Granville Hurst, to represent him in the event of any negotiations.

"Propose pistols at ten paces," said the young planter. "Advise the gentleman I will meet him at Craney Island, at such time as he may desire."

But this meeting never took place, for the very good reason that Lieutenant Parker heard about Paul Jones's unerring use of a pistol; his sloop departed at ebb tide for Charlestown, and, so far as he was concerned personally, the incident seemed closed.

The Colonists, however, did not forget it in a hurry. Like wildfire the news of the encounter spread. Colonial newspapers all gave considerable space to it. Suddenly Paul Jones found himself the most-talked-of man in Virginia. He was the hero of men, women, and children. Unofficially he had struck the first blow of the threatening conflict with England.

V

THE BIRTH OF THE UNITED STATES NAVY

The following spring—that of 1775—Paul Jones decided to board his sloop and make a little pleasure trip by sea to Boston. With his crew and two favorite slaves, Cato and Scipio, he sailed down the river, worked out into the Atlantic, and keeping close to the New Jersey headlands, pointed north.

When he reached New York he dropped anchor, intending to meet some of his friends in that city. One of the very first of these he encountered was William Livingston. This patriot's face showed plenty of excitement. "Paul, have you heard the news?" he asked.

"I have not been favored," replied Paul Jones. "I trust it is nothing serious concerning your own family."

"I fear it is serious; but it concerns my family no more than it concerns any other family in the Colonies," was William Livingston's answer. "Paul, my friend, the British have beaten us at Lexington!"

Paul Jones was gravely concerned. He plied his friend with many questions. After a long discussion they parted. The young planter immediately gave up his plans for visiting Boston; he wished to go home and in the seclusion of the plantation calmly think over the matter and decide what to do.

Within twenty-four hours after his arrival he sent to Thomas Jefferson the following letter:

"It is, I think, to be taken for granted that there can be no more temporizing. I am too recently from the mother country, and my knowledge of the temper of the king, his ministers, and their majority in the House of Commons, is too fresh to allow me to believe that anything is, or possibly can be in store except either war to the knife or total submission to complete slavery.

"... I cannot conceive of submission to complete slavery; therefore only war is in sight. The Congress, therefore, must soon meet again, and when it meets it must face the necessity of taking those measures which it did not take last fall in its first session, namely, provision for armament by land and sea.

"Such being clearly the position of affairs, I beg you to keep my name in your memory when the Congress shall assemble again, and in any provision that may be taken for a naval force, to call upon me in any capacity which your knowledge of my seafaring experience and your opinions of my qualifications may dictate."

One morning, a short time after this, Paul Jones received word that two French frigates had come to anchor in Hampton Roads. With the hospitality of the true sailor and true Virginia planter he loaded his sloop with the best green vegetables the plantation afforded, and started down the Rappahannock to welcome the newcomers.

The two frigates were in command of Captain De Kersaint, one of the ablest officers in the French navy, who afterwards became an admiral. The second in command was no less than the Duc De Chartres, eldest son of the Duc D'Orléans, who had sent De Chartres to America on a "cruise of instruction," to fit him for the hereditary post of Lord High Admiral of France. He was Paul Jones's own age exactly, and with his charming wife, the Duchesse De Chartres, he received the young planter with a great cordiality. Their liking for Paul Jones increased as they chatted. In fact, the Duke himself took such a violent fancy to their guest that when the latter asked if he might be shown plans of the construction of their splendid frigate. La Terpischore, with a view to offering suggestions to the Colonists in building war craft, the French nobleman readily assented. With royal prerogative he ordered his ship's carpenter to make deck and sail drawings, hull details,—everything that could in any way aid the young Scotchman in understanding the essential constructive features of the vessel.

It was of inestimable advantage to Paul Jones to have had the opportunity of inspecting at such close range, much less get drawings of, one of the best and most modern ships of the French navy. It is not strange that the American frigate Alliance, built some time later, followed closely the same general lines as La Terpischore; that she mounted the same battery—twenty-eight long 12-pounders on the gun deck, and ten long 9-pounders above. Was this merely a coincidence? Or, on the other hand, did the young Scotchman have a hand in the matter?

At a meeting of the Continental Congress on May 10, 1775, the Naval Committee invited Paul Jones to lay before it such information and advice as might seem to him useful in assisting the committee in discharging its labors. Paul Jones felt strongly on the subject of establishing a navy, and thought that the only way to start was to offer prizes to the crews of privateersmen. In a letter to Joseph Hewes he observed:

"If our enemies, with the best established and most formidable navy in the universe, have found it expedient to assign all prizes to the captors, how much more is such policy essential to our infant fleet? But I need no argument to convince you of the necessity of making the emoluments of our navy equal, if not superior, to theirs."

In this appeal to Congress there was good common-sense. Paul Jones was not actuated by a love of gain; he was in the struggle because he thought it a righteous cause. Yet he knew that while he had the profits of his plantation for the past two or three seasons—some 4000 pounds—to fall back upon when his Government allowances should fail to meet expenses, the average Colonist did not. The wives and children of the latter must be fed and clothed while he was away fighting. Unless he could be promised ample revenue from prizes, Paul Jones knew that Jack would fight half-heartedly and in the dumps, even though he loved his country in every fiber of his being. His pitifully inadequate Government allowance of eight dollars a month was surely no attraction.

On November 15, 1776, Congress improved this situation somewhat, but did not meet Paul Jones's wishes in the matter, by resolving "that a bounty of twenty dollars be paid to the commanders, officers, and men, of such Continental ships or vessels of war as shall make a prize of any British ships or vessels of war, for every cannon on board such a prize at the time of such capture; and eight dollars per head for every man then on board and belonging to such prize."

In addition to this General Washington approved the following distribution of the prize: "That the captain or commander should receive six shares; the first-lieutenant, five, the second-lieutenant and the surgeon, four; the master, three; steward, two; mate, gunner, gunner's-mate, boatswain, and sergeant, one and one-half shares; the private, one share." Nothing was said about the poor cook. Undoubtedly he ranked with the ordinary seaman when the time of distribution came.

To all intents and purposes an American, the truth remains that Paul Jones was a Scotchman. His enthusiastic soul was wholly for the cause of liberty in his new country, but the men who envied him and wanted the offices for which his high capabilities fitted him so signally never let him and others forget that he was an alien. This was, of course, quite absurd; for what were they themselves? What had they been until a few months ago? The fact is, Paul Jones had served under three masters, until he was a far more competent officer than many of those in the established navies of Europe, where influence and patronage often made officers of men of long lineage and short experience.

Thus in the Journal of Congress, dated December 22, 1775, the name of Paul Jones heads the list of first-lieutenants, instead of the list of captains as it should. His friend Joseph Hewes, who championed the candidates from the southern colonies, had done his best to make the young planter a captain, but had failed at the antagonism of John Adams, who represented the candidates from the northern colonies, which demanded full control of naval affairs.

When affairs had at last been worked down to a point of action by sea, the nucleus of the first navy of the new country consisted of the Alfred, the Columbus, the Andrew Doria, the Providence, and the Cabot. Five little ships to face the finely-appointed scores of frigates and sloops-of-war in the service of the king!

VI

RAISING THE FIRST AMERICAN FLAG

That winter of 1776 was a cold one. Snow had lain heavy in the streets of Philadelphia since frigid blasts had brought the first downfall in December. In January, the Delaware River, like every other stream in the country, was locked in the grip of ice, ice a foot or more in thickness. It was only by the constant plying up and down stream of a couple of sturdy whaling-ships, equipped with steel-jacketed bows, that an open channel could be maintained in the Delaware for the passage of ordinary wooden-hulled craft.

Along the waterfront of the city innumerable masts and spars made a somber network against the dull blue of the winter sky. On board some of the larger of the vessels, despite the cold, men were at work repairing and overhauling. Well down the glittering sea of ice a group of five ships swung at anchor in the channel. Their decks, too, were a scene of action.

All of this was taken in with a few swift glances by a quick-stepping, stalwart young man who came down to the wharf and paused to look about him. He was a comely-looking fellow, with broad shoulders, and a face as bronzed as a South Sea Islander's.

It was the young Scotchman and planter, Paul Jones. But his immaculate linen had been discarded. In its place he appeared in the trim uniform of a Continental marine lieutenant—blue coat with red-bound button-holes, round-cuffed blue breeches, and black gaiters.

As he looked about for a boat to take him out to the five ships riding at anchor, Paul Jones's eye fell on a tall, lithe young man who was just in the act of tying the painter of a whaler's yawl to one of the wharf timbers.

Paul Jones stepped briskly up to him. "Pardon me, my fine fellow," he said, "but a guinea is yours if you will row me out to the larger of yon vessels, the Alfred, where I am in urgent service."

The young man wheeled around, displaying features unmistakably those of an Indian, but of an unusually intelligent composition. His coal-black eyes swept over his questioner. "I, Wannashego, will take the white sea-soldier," he replied in excellent English.

Without further ado, Paul Jones sprang nimbly down into the boat. Its owner cast loose and followed.

As his companion pulled lustily away in the direction of the American ships, Paul Jones sat studying the rower. When and where had this redskin of the American forest picked up such splendid address? What marvelous trick of fate had possessed him of such skill with the white man's oars?

"You are an Indian, are you not?" inquired the lieutenant presently.

"An Indian of Narragansett tribe," was the proud reply.

"Where did you learn to handle a boat in this manner?"

"On whaling cruises, sir."

"You belong to one of these whaling-ships at the wharves, then?"

"Yes, sir; to Walrus. She lies upstream a bit, sir. Three years I have been with her."

"How is it you came to leave your people, Wannashego?" asked Paul Jones curiously.

"My father, Tassa-menna-tayka, a chief who loves the white people, he sent me from near Martha's Vineyard to learn your ways and be like you," declared the young Indian. There was a short pause; he turned his head for a moment to take his bearings, and then continued: "Sir, I ask if yonder ships are to fight the great country across the sea?"

"They are, Wannashego."

"You goin' to fight on 'em?"

"I expect to."

"I like to fight on 'em, too," was the sententious rejoinder of the young redskin.

"Do you mean that?" asked Paul Jones sharply. "If you do, Wannashego, I think I can get Captain Saltonstall, of my ship, the Alfred, to ship you, as we are short-handed."

"Mean it a heap," said the Indian. "I shoot good. Make two bangs—get two Red-coats."

Paul Jones laughed. "I hope so. Well, Wannashego, I'll see what I can do for you."

Shortly the boat's nose touched the accommodation-ladder over the Alfred's side. The young lieutenant held out the promised guinea to Wannashego, but the Indian straightened up proudly. "I don't want money," said he. "I like America country heap much. You fight for him, so I help you beat our enemies, the Red-coats."

It was a crude expression of sentiment, but Paul Jones interpreted it correctly, and was deeply affected by it. "Wannashego," he cried, "return to your captain. If he will release you, and you still want to fight the Red-coat soldiers of the sea, come to me on this ship to-morrow and I will stir heaven and earth to make you a member of our crew."

Captain Saltonstall was to command the ship, but he had not yet arrived. So, for the present at least, upon Paul Jones rested the duty of preparing her for sea. Under his leadership, arrangements went on speedily and smoothly. The Alfred bid fair to be in readiness before some of her sister ships, it seemed.

Next morning, before the sun was an hour high, a yawl containing two men was seen approaching. At first the lieutenant thought it might be Captain Saltonstall himself, but his glass soon showed him his mistake. It was the young Narragansett Indian, Wannashego, who evidently had secured one of the sailors of his old ship to row him out to the Alfred.

Paul Jones made him welcome, telling him that he was quite sure the captain would make no objection when he should appear. Thus Wannashego, the first and one of the very few full-blooded Indians to fight in the first navy of this country, became a tentative member of the Alfred's crew. He took hold of his duties happily and energetically, outdoing many of his white companions.

As for the temporary commander, from the time the foot of Paul Jones touched the deck of the vessel his active spirit pervaded everything, and the officers under him, as well as the men, felt the force of his executive power. Besides working all day, he and the other officers stood watch and watch on deck throughout the wintry nights, to prevent desertions; and although every other vessel in the squadron lost men in this manner, not a single deserter got away from the Alfred.

"An' I'll bet a herrin' ag'in a p'tater, mates," remarked Bill Putters, quartermaster, in the confidence of the forecastle, "that this Leftenant Jones is a real seaman wot could handle this yere ol' gal better'n Cap'n Saltonstall. I kin tell it by the cut o' his jib, the way he squares away to tackle any job he undertakes."

"Bet so, too, Bill," supported the bos'n, Tom Wilkerson; "an' I'll go you a cooky he's a fighter. He speaks to most of us so soft you might think his voice was a tune from a fiddle; but, by Johnny! when Pete Walker didn't do what he told him to, yes'dy, he thundered at him in a way that made poor Pete's head rattle with the jar, an' Pete perty nigh dislocated his spinal collum jumpin' to do what he wanted him to. I'd like to see the leftenant in full charge. If we ever met up with any o' them pets of the king you bet there would be some fur flyin'—an' it wouldn't be ours as much as theirs, neether!"

One day, in the midst of the bustle of fitting out the ship, Commodore Hopkins, who was to command the little squadron, came on board the Alfred. He was formally received at the gangway by Paul Jones and shown over the ship by him.

The commodore was a big, heavy-set man who had spent the best part of his life at sea. He examined the vessel carefully, but made no favorable comments, and the young lieutenant began to fear his work had displeased the senior officer.

But it turned out otherwise. A little later, standing on the quarter-deck, surrounded by the officers, Commodore Hopkins turned to Paul Jones and said:

"Your work pleases me extremely, and my confidence in you, sir, is such that if Captain Saltonstall should not appear by the time these ships are due to sail, I shall hoist my flag on this ship and give you command of her."

A flush of gratification arose in Paul Jones's dark face. He bowed with the graceful courtesy that always distinguished him. "Thank you, commodore," said he, "and may I be pardoned for expressing the hope that Captain Saltonstall may not arrive in time! And when your flag is hoisted on the Alfred, I trust there will be ready a flag of the United Colonies to fly at the peak-halyards. I aspire to be the first man to raise that flag upon the ocean!"

Commodore Hopkins smiled. "If the Congress is as slow as I expect it will be, some time will elapse before it will have adopted a flag; and there will not be time to have one made, much less, before we sail."

In this he was mistaken. The Congress had practically decided upon the flag, and quite certain of its selection, Paul Jones from his own pocket had already purchased the materials to make it. Bill Putters was an old sail-maker, therefore handy with a needle, which it was his boast he "could steer like a reg'lar tailor-man." To him the young lieutenant entrusted the making of the first official flag of America they had seen—a task which swelled old Bill up with a wonderful pride, as well it might.

One stormy February day, when the channel had been freed from ice enough for the little squadron to get out, the Alfred was ready to lend her spotless decks to the formality of the flag-raising. Captain Saltonstall had arrived some days before. This disappointed Paul Jones. But he was as ready to do his duty as first-lieutenant, as in the hoped-for higher office.

The commodore's boat was seen approaching on the chill waters of the river. The horizon was overcast. Dun clouds, driven by a strong wind, scurried across the troubled sky. The boatswain's call, "All hands to muster!" sounded through the ship. In a wonderfully short time, owing to the careful drilling of Paul Jones, the three hundred sailors and one hundred marines were drawn up on deck. The sailors, a fine-looking body of American seamen, were formed in ranks on the port side of the quarter-deck, while abaft of them stood the marine guard under arms. On the starboard side were the petty officers, and on the quarter-deck proper were the commissioned officers in full uniform, swords at their sides. Paul Jones headed this line.

When it was reported, "All hands up and aft!" Captain Saltonstall emerged out of the cabin. At this Paul Jones, having previously arranged it, called out, "Quartermaster!" and Bill Putters, perfectly groomed, stepped from the ranks of the petty officers and saluted.

In his hand, carefully rolled up, Bill carried a small bundle. Unrolling this he followed Paul Jones briskly aft to the flagstaff. He affixed the flag to the halyards, along with the broad pennant of a commodore just below, saw that the lines were free, and then stood at attention.

Meantime the commodore's boat had reached the ladder, and he came over the side. Just as his foot touched the quarter-deck the flag with the pennant, under Paul Jones's energetic hands, was hauled swiftly upward. At the top the breeze caught it in all its fullness, flung it free to the air, and the sun at that moment burst through the clouds which had enveloped it, and bathed the emblem in all its fresh glory.

Every officer from the commodore down instantly removed his cap in patriotic reverence. The drummer boys beat a double-ruffle. A tremendous cheer burst from the sailors and marines.

This was not the present well-known Stars-and-Stripes, which was evolved later, but the Pine-tree and Rattlesnake Flag with the motto, "Don't Tread On Me!" As an emblem it was not at all artistic; but the men who now saw it flung to the breeze for the first time thought only of the sentiment it expressed, a sentiment still paramount in the heart of every true-blooded American. And among those who so loudly cheered it no man was more enthusiastic than the young Narragansett Indian, Wannashego.

Commodore Hopkins advanced toward Lieutenant Paul Jones and said: "I congratulate you, sir, upon your enterprise. This flag was only adopted in Congress yesterday. You are the very first to fly it."

Within an hour the Columbus, the Andrew Doria, the Cabot, and the Providence, led by the Alfred, were making out toward the open sea under full spread of canvas, ready to meet whatsoever of the mighty foe that might appear.

VII

AN INGLORIOUS CRUISE

The first enterprise determined upon was an expedition to the island of New Providence, in the West Indies. As it had been learned that Fort Nassau was well supplied with powder and shot—munitions of war sadly wanting in the Colonies—it was thought a sudden descent might be profitable.

The moment the English sighted the little squadron, a warning gun was fired from the fort, and all haste made to remove and conceal as much of the powder as possible. Delayed in getting into the harbor by a sandbar at its mouth, further delayed by poor judgment on the part of Commodore Hopkins, it was some time before the smaller vessels could work their way in far enough to effect a landing of their marines.

Then it was only to find a small amount of arms and stores awaiting them. Chagrined at his ill success, the commodore carried off the governor of the island as a hostage.

Now all sail was set, and the American squadron made its way cautiously along the New England coast. Although every part of these waters was swarming with British vessels, it was determined to try to gain an entrance into Long Island Sound by way of Narragansett Bay.

Paul Jones went about his arduous duties as first-lieutenant of the Alfred with his customary energy and determination. But at heart he cherished a secret dissatisfaction. Coupled with his disappointment at his own low official station was a growing impression that the senior officer of the squadron, Commodore Hopkins himself, was incompetent. In a number of instances during the Providence Island operation, the keen eyes of the first-lieutenant had caught him in blunders. Although the commodore might prove brave enough in an encounter, Paul Jones was sure that he was not above the average in either enterprise or intelligence. At the outset of the expedition the young officer was wild to meet the enemy, regardless of numbers. Now, with a grave doubt gripping his heart, he feared that they might meet Commodore Wallace's British fleet off Newport.

But the day passed without adventure. Numerous white sails were seen in the distance, none of which drew any nearer. Commodore Hopkins, being well weighted down with the cannon and supplies captured at New Providence, made no effort to investigate these far-off ships. "It is well to let sleeping dogs lie," he said when Captain Saltonstall proposed going after them.

Paul Jones's intrepid heart was sickened at such display of indifference. With his capacity for meeting extraordinary dangers with extraordinary resources of mind and courage, he could only despise the risks that other men shunned.

The young Narragansett Indian, who had been appointed boatswain's mate by Captain Saltonstall, was also clearly disgruntled at the commodore's weak attitude. But beyond muttering impatiently under his breath when he heard Commodore Hopkins's remarks about "sleeping dogs," and nudging Paul Jones, with flashing black eyes, Wannashego was discreet enough to say nothing. Intuitively the brave redskin knew that his Scotch friend felt as he did.

Toward night they entered the blue waters of Narragansett Bay. A young moon hung trembling in the heavens. The sky was cloudless, and the stars shone brilliantly. Wannashego slipped noiselessly up to where Paul Jones stood on the after-deck. The Indian youth pointed down to the gurgling green swells as they swept aft along the Alfred's hull. "These are the waters of my people, the Narragansetts," he said softly. "They touch the land of my old home and playgrounds."

"Wannashego, do you wish to go back to your people?" asked Paul Jones curiously.

He shook his black-locked head. "No," he answered—"if I can fight Red-coat sea soldiers soon. But if I have to run away when see 'em, like this, I like to go back an' ketchum whale on whaler-ship ag'in." He ended with an expressive grunt of disgust, and took himself off as silently as he had appeared.

Shortly after this—about midnight—the lookout on the Alfred's quarter made out Block Island. It seemed that his call had hardly died away when a cry of "Sail ho!" was heard from the direction of the Cabot.

With his night-glass to his eye Commodore Hopkins saw, about a half-mile away, the shadowy form of a ship. Captain Saltonstall also took a look at her. Several conjectures were raised as to her identity, and then the glass was handed to the first-lieutenant.

"What do you think she is, Mr. Jones?" asked Commodore Hopkins. He had more confidence in Paul Jones than he dared to confess, even to himself.

"I should say she was a British frigate, sir," was the lieutenant's prompt reply. "She is too small for a ship-of-the-line, and she does not carry sail enough for a merchantman under this breeze. It would seem to me that she is merely cruising about on the lookout for somebody."

"That 'somebody' is probably ourselves," answered the commodore uneasily, "if she's a British frigate as you think. She's likely out on scout duty, and has a squadron of sister ships somewhere nearby."

Signal lanterns were raised to the foremasthead, asking the Cabot, as the ship nearest the stranger, to engage the attention of the latter. But before the captain of the Cabot could comply it was seen that the distant ship had come about and was making straight for the two American vessels.

The decks of the Alfred and Cabot were immediately cleared for action. No drums were beat, or other unnecessary noise made. The men worked swiftly, went silently to their quarters; the batteries were masked and lights placed behind, while ammunition was hurried up from the magazine-room by the powder-monkeys, the youngest members of the crew.

The stranger bore down upon them. Presently came a hail from her deck: "Who are you, and whither are you bound?"

The Cabot made answer: "This is the Betsy, from Plymouth. Who are you?"

Every ear was strained to catch the answer. It came ringing over the clear water through the still night air:

"His Majesty's ship Glasgow, of twenty-four guns!"

As the Alfred's battery consisted of the same number of long 9-pounders on the gun deck and six 6-pounders on the quarter-deck it was apparent that, if the stranger had not lied, her strength in guns must be at least a match for the Britisher. In addition to this, the American flag-ship had the support of the little Cabot, with her own fourteen guns and crew of two hundred. Commodore Hopkins felt a great relief when he noted this. The American crews thought they would make short work of the enemy. But not so Paul Jones. He had already seen too much incompetence displayed on that cruise to feel anything but serious misgivings.

It was now two-thirty in the morning. The moon had gone down. Evidently in the darkness that prevailed the Glasgow was ignorant of the fact that there were other American ships in the little squadron, else she would have approached with greater caution. As it happened they did not come up during the fray which ensued, and took practically no part at all in it.

The Cabot had now got very close to the lee bow of the enemy, and suddenly poured a broadside into her. Instantly the British ship seemed to wake up to her danger. She wore around with all haste, and ran off to clear for action. In twenty minutes she bore down again, this time with a grimness of purpose that there was no mistaking.

Paul Jones was in command of the gun deck. The Alfred was so heavily laden with war trophies that she was down in the water almost to her portsills; but the sea was calm and her lowness in no wise prevented the free use of both her batteries, which were used with the utmost ferocity.

The fighting was kept up until daybreak. The Glasgow was hulled a number of times, her mainmast was deeply scarred, her sails and rigging well riddled with shot. But she had disabled the little Cabot at the second broadside from her big guns, and had then concentrated her attention on the Alfred with such good marksmanship that the wheelblock of the American was carried away and she came helplessly up into the wind in such a position that the enemy poured in several disastrous broadsides before her head could be regained. In this maneuver such poor seamanship was displayed on the part of Commodore Hopkins and Captain Saltonstall that Paul Jones fairly boiled within himself; but he could only hold his peace at the time. Later on, in letters to his friends, he gave full vent to his disgust at the way the American ships were handled; for only one commanding officer—Captain Biddle, of the Andrew Doria, who gave futile but heroic chase to the Glasgow—did he have particular praise.

When, with the coming of morning, the British ship retired, she was suffered to get away by Commodore Hopkins. He seemed to be glad that she had not stayed to do them worse damage. The brave American seamen fumed in the privacy of the fo'c'sl' on that voyage in. Old Bill Putters cursed at every breath whenever he was out of an officer's sight.

The Government held two courts-martial following the Glasgow affair. As a result Captain Hazard, of the Providence, was dishonorably dismissed from service, and numerous other officers censured, among them Commodore Hopkins. Undoubtedly the latter would have met with dismissal except for powerful political influences brought to bear in his behalf.

VIII

THE YOUNG CAPTAIN

Although there was a subtle estrangement between Commodore Hopkins and Paul Jones, each respected the other's character. At the close of the inglorious expedition which we have dealt with, the senior officer came to the conclusion that it would be far less embarrassing to both concerned were the first-lieutenant of the Alfred placed on some ship other than that occupied by the chief of the squadron himself.

Therefore, with more adroitness than he had displayed in meeting the enemy, Commodore Hopkins managed to induce Congress to offer the energetic Scotchman a berth as commander of the Providence, in the place of the dismissed Captain Hazard. He also permitted him to take with him a few of his favorite men, among this number Wannashego, the young Indian. The latter's joy knew no bounds at this turn of events. His stoical Indian nature prevented any marked display of his satisfaction, but his demeanor could not wholly hide it from the attention of his Scotch friend.

"Now," declared Wannashego, with shining eyes, "I sure we will see some heap big fighting. If I stay on that other ship, Alfred, one day longer I sure run away to the whaler-ship or my people. That Alfred no brave-ship; just squaw-ship—'fraid to fight!"

Paul Jones smiled in sympathy. He too had felt like a different man since the announcement of the change. Now that he had full and absolute control of an American ship himself, he determined he should show his countrymen and the enemy what he could really do.

The Providence, his new ship, was a small sloop of fourteen guns and about a hundred men. She was far from a pretentious vessel to look at, but Paul Jones's sharp eyes detected in her certain lines which augured for speed, and when he once got her out into the broad reaches of the Atlantic he found that in this surmise of her sailing abilities he had not been misled. For her size she was a remarkably good sailer.

For a time the Providence was kept employed in transporting men and supplies along the shores at the eastern entrance of Long Island Sound, and as this was done in the face of numerous British ships which hovered around like so many hornets, the reputation of the new commanding officer soon began to grow.

On August 21 Paul Jones sailed on a six-weeks' cruise—a cruise which historians have termed the first cruise of an American man-of-war. At least it was the first to be noted by an enemy—the first that shed any degree of glory on the flag of the new Republic, whose Declaration of Independence had been signed less than seven weeks previously.

It was a venture worthy of the Vikings and their rude boats, for the seas swarmed with English frigates outranking the little vessel in everything except the alertness of her commander and the courage of her crew. From Bermuda to the Banks of Newfoundland he boldly sailed, defying the fastest ships of the enemy to catch him, and striking terror to British merchantmen and fishermen.

During the first week of September the Providence sighted a large ship which she mistook for an Indiaman homeward bound. This stranger proved to be the Solebay, British frigate of twenty guns. Too late the Providence discovered her error; there was no chance to withdraw in dignity.

The Solebay immediately made for the American, who took to her heels, relying upon her good sailing qualities to escape, as she had on many another such occasion. But the Britisher proved she was no mean sailer herself. In fact, she began to overhaul her foe.

The day was warm and clear. A strong breeze was blowing from the northeast. The little Providence was legging it briskly over the wind-tossed waters. But the Solebay gained on her every hour.

The chase had started about noon. By four o'clock the frigate was almost within gunshot. The heart of everybody except the commander was in the lower regions of his jacket. Paul Jones was serene enough; his confidence seemed not one whit lessened. Presently he displayed the reason for his attitude.

"Look," said he to his chief officer, as he handed him a glass; "do you not notice that his broadside guns are still unleashed? He thinks he can take us by firing his bow-chaser. What foolishness! Nothing would be easier than for us to bear away before the wind and run under his broadside."

Nearly every ounce of canvas on the Providence had been flung to the breeze. Still the Solebay drew closer.

"He should know who we are before we leave him," declared Paul Jones, with a grim smile. He uttered a quick order. The next moment the American colors fluttered out at the masthead.

To their surprise the Solebay acknowledged the courtesy by also running up the American emblem.

"He cannot deceive us by that," said Paul Jones. "His lines tell me as plain as day he is British. But wait; I shall show him something in a moment!"

He called out to the man at the wheel: "Give her a good full, Quartermaster!"

"A good full, sir!" came back the instant acknowledgment.

Paul Jones then ordered the studding-sails set. The next moment the helm was put about, and before the astonished crew on the Solebay knew what was happening, the American sloop ran directly under his broadside, and went off dead before the wind.

The British frigate came about in haste and confusion. But by the time she was under headway again, the American ship was far off, her newly-trimmed studding-sails bellying to the breeze and gaining speed at every leap and bound. Needless to say, the Solebay was now out of the running, a very crestfallen enemy. Such clever maneuvering her commander had never witnessed before.

Three weeks later the Providence was saucily threading northern waters.

One day, off Cape Sable, Wannashego and several others of the sailors asked permission to try to catch some of the splendid fish which abounded in those cold waters. As they had been on salt provisions for a long while, Paul Jones readily consented, and the ship was hoved to. The men got out their lines, and soon began to haul in some fine specimens of the finny tribe.

While they fished, a sharp lookout was kept for danger from the British. It was well this was done, apparently, for presently a sail was made out to windward of them. At once the fishing stopped, the Providence set some of her light sails, and the anchor was hauled in.

As the stranger approached, Paul Jones convinced himself that she was no such sailer as the Solebay, and making sure a little later that she was a British warship he determined to amuse himself with her. He communicated his plans to his officers, and patiently waited for the frigate, which turned out to be His Majesty's ship, the Milford.

The young captain made no move until the British craft got almost within range, whereupon he doubled on her quarter and sped away under restrained speed on the new course. Mistaking the rate she was traveling at to be her best, and cheered at the thought of over-taking her, the English captain took up the chase with gusto. For seven or eight hours the pursuit continued, all this time the Providence cunningly keeping just beyond gunshot of her enemy, yet seeming to exert herself to the limit in maintaining her position.

Finally getting discouraged at his want of success, the Britisher began firing. Turning to his chief marine officer, Paul Jones said: "Direct one of your men to load his musket, and as often as yonder enemy salutes our flag with her great guns, do you have your man reply with his musket!"

A broad grin spread over the marine officer's face. He soon had his man stationed on the quarter-deck, and the next time the frigate rounded to and sent a futile broadside in the direction of the Providence, the marine elevated his musket and banged away. Several times this performance, a perfect burlesque in the quaintness of its humor, was indulged in. And each time, as the comparatively mild report of the musket followed the roar of the enemy's big guns, the American sailors laughed uproariously and cheered.

"We have had our fun now, my men," said Paul Jones. "This fellow has swallowed our bait gloriously; the time has come for us to stop fishing and go about our business."

He thereupon ordered more sail spread, and in a short time the astonished Milford—which he would have attempted to capture had she not clearly been a more powerful vessel—was left well behind. Although he did not know it then, the Scotch captain was to meet this foe again within the year.

Before he returned, this bold tiger of the sea succeeded in capturing sixteen British vessels. He also made an attack on Canso, Nova Scotia, thereby releasing several American prisoners; burned three vessels belonging to the Cape Breton fishery; and in a descent on the Isle of Madame destroyed several large fishing-smacks.

When at last Paul Jones reached his own shores again he left behind him a terrorized enemy who since that cruise have ever called him a buccaneer and pirate. Why England should regard this valiant sea-fighter, who never needlessly shed a drop of blood, or took a penny's-worth of spoils out of the larder of war, in this insulting light, its countrymen have never satisfactorily explained. But we do know that Lord Nelson himself was never a cleaner fighter; that the very brilliancy and extreme daring of Paul Jones's exploits stunned his enemy, and left them in a species of stupefaction.

Welcomed home with unusual acclaim, Paul Jones found that during his absence two things had happened which vitally concerned him. One thing was the ravaging of his plantation by the British. His fine buildings now lay in ashes, he was told. His splendid heifers had gone to satisfy the appetites of the raiding soldiers under Lord Dunmore. His slaves, who had become to him "a species of grownup children," had been carried off to die under the pestilential lash of cruel overseers in Jamaican canefields, while the price of their poor bodies swelled the pockets of English slave-dealers. To his great pleasure, however, he learned that his own overseer, canny old Duncan Macbean, had gotten away and joined General Morgan's riflemen, presumably there to wreak vengeance on the Red-coats with John Paul's own trusty rifle.

This was indeed a hard blow to the young captain who, in commenting upon it, wrote to Mr. Hewes: "It appears that I have no fortune left but my sword, and no prospect except that of getting alongside the enemy."

The second bit of news was the belated notification that, while he was away on his cruise, Congress, on October 10, 1776, had made him a commissioned captain in the United States Navy. It might be expected that such an announcement would be very gratifying to him, but not so. Paul Jones received it with more bitterness of spirit than pleasure, for he was only number eighteen in the list of appointees. This was an injustice which he never forgot, and to which the sensitive fellow referred all through his subsequent life. He thought he ought to have been not lower than sixth in rank, because, by the law of the previous year, there were only five captains ahead of him. In the meantime, too, he had done good service, while the new captains ranking above him were untried.

If Paul Jones had a failing it was that of desire for prestige. Rank was to him a passion, not merely because it would enable him to be more effective, but for its own sake. He liked all the signs of display—titles, epaulets, medals, busts, marks of honor of all kinds. "How near to the heart of every military or naval officer is rank, which opens the door to glory!" he wrote. But, mind you, Paul Jones did not have the "swelled head." He never once over-estimated his abilities, inwardly or outwardly; and he desired fame because he knew he was entitled to it. If the reward failed to come after he had qualified for and performed the service, he felt cheated—just as the day-laborer feels cheated when he does his task and is not paid his wage.

On November 4, 1776, Paul Jones was placed in command of the Alfred, the ship on which he had made his first cruise as a first-lieutenant some nine months earlier. In company with the Providence, now under the command of Captain Hacker, he made a cruise of about a month, captured seven merchant ships, several of which carried valuable supplies to the British army, and again cleverly avoided the superior enemy frigates. While making for port they encountered armed transports, the Mellish and the Bideford, both of which had been separated from their convoy, the Milford, in a terrific gale. Although larger and heavier ships in every way, the Americans attacked and captured them. Shortly afterward the Milford, accompanied by a British letter-of-marque, put in an appearance, and gave chase. Once more Paul Jones was too clever for the British frigate. He outsailed and outmaneuvered her, getting away with all his prizes except the smaller of the transports, which had fallen astern.

After his return, in early December, from the cruise in the Alfred, Paul Jones served on the Board of Advice to the Marine Committee, and was very useful in many ways. He urged strongly the necessity of making a cruise in European waters for the sake of moral persuasion, and offered to lead such an expedition. His energy and dashing character made a strong impression on Lafayette, who was then in the country, and who heartily supported the project. He wrote a letter to General Washington, strongly recommending that Paul Jones be made head of such an expedition.

About the same time the young captain had an interview with Washington, in which he appealed against what he considered another injustice. The Trumbull—one of the fine new American frigates just completed and built in New Amsterdam in accordance with Paul Jones's own plans—had been placed under the command of Captain Saltonstall, whom the Scotchman considered incompetent.

Paul Jones did not get the Trumbull after all; but the interview was not without its effect. A little later the Marine Committee ordered him to enlist seamen for his suggested European cruise. And on June 14, 1777, Congress appointed him to the command of the sloop-of-war Ranger, of eighteen guns.