Read Ebook: Pike & Cutlass: Hero Tales of Our Navy by Gibbs George

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Ebook has 771 lines and 64002 words, and 16 pages

"Dave Freeman, sir, he's gone!"

Freeman was the traitor, then.

But there was no time for parley or revenge. The mob was collecting in the street they had left and soon would be down on the dock. Though Wallingford failed, Paul Jones would not. He dashed into a house on the dock, and seizing a burning brand went aboard one of the largest vessels of the fleet. He hastily pulled together some straw and hatchway gratings and soon had a roaring blaze. Then one of his men spilled a barrel of tar in the midst of it to make the destruction more sure.

When the black smoke rolled up from half a dozen vessels of the fleet, Paul Jones's crew retreated in an orderly manner to the cutter. Jones walked down the steps into the boat, covering the crowd the while. Then his men leisurely rowed away, not a shot having been fired. It was not until the cutter was well out into the bay that some of the bewildered soldiers recovered sufficiently to load two cannon that Paul Jones had overlooked. These they brought to bear upon the cutter dancing down in the sunrise towards the "Ranger" and fired. The shot whistled wide of the mark, and Jones, to show his contempt of such long-range courage, fired only his pistol in return.

But that was not the end of this remarkable cruise. Having failed to find the Earl of Selkirk on St. Mary's Isle, Paul Jones squared away to the southward, hoping to pick up another full-rigged ship off Dublin or to meet with the "Drake" again. He knew that by this time the Admiralty was well informed as to his whereabouts, and that before many hours had passed he would be obliged to run the gauntlet of a whole line of British fire. But he hated to be beaten at anything, and since the night when he failed to grapple her had been burning to try conclusions yard-arm to yard-arm with the "Drake."

On the twenty-fourth of April, just two weeks after sailing from the harbor of Brest, he hove to off the Lough of Belfast, where within the harbor he could plainly see the tall spars of the Englishman swinging at his anchorage. Paul Jones was puzzled at first to know how he was to lure the "Drake" out to sea, for a battle under the lee of the land in the harbor was not to be thought of. So he went about from one tack to another, wearing ship and backing and filling, until the curiosity of the English captain, Burdon, was thoroughly aroused, and he sent one of his junior officers out in a cutter to find out who the stranger was. Jones ran his guns in and manoeuvred so cleverly that the stern of the "Ranger" was kept towards the boat until he was well aboard. The young officer was rather suspicious, but, nothing daunted, pulled up to the gangway in true man-o'-war style and went on deck. There he was met by an officer, who courteously informed him that he was on board the Continental sloop of war "Ranger," Captain Paul Jones, and that he and his boat's crew were prisoners of war.

In the meanwhile Captain Burdon, finding that his boat's crew did not return, got up his anchor, shook out his sails, and cleared ship for action. He was already suspicious, and too good a seaman to let unpreparedness play any part in his actions. There was not very much wind, and slowly the "Drake" bore down on the silent vessel which lay, sails flapping idly as she rolled, on the swell of the Irish Sea. As the afternoon drew on the wind almost failed, so that it was an hour before sunset before the "Drake" could get within speaking range. Hardly a ripple stirred the surface of the glassy swells, and the stillness was ominous and oppressive.

When within a cable's length of the "Ranger" Captain Burdon sent up his colors. Captain Jones followed his lead in a moment by running up the Stars and Stripes.

Suddenly a voice, looming big and hoarse in the silence, came from the "Drake,"--

"What ship is that?"

Paul Jones mounted the hammock nettings and, putting his speaking-trumpet to his lips, coolly replied,--

"The American Continental ship 'Ranger.' We have been waiting for you. The sun is but little more than an hour from setting, and it is time to begin."

Then he turned and gave a low order to the man at the wheel, and the "Ranger" wore around so that her broadside would bear. Paul Jones always believed in striking the first blow. When they came before the wind the word was passed, and a mass of flame seemed to leap clear across the intervening water to the "Drake." The "Ranger" shuddered with the shock and felt in a moment the crashing of the other's broadside through her hull and rigging. The battle was on in earnest. Yard-arm to yard-arm they went, drifting down the wind, and the deep thundering of the cannonade was carried over to the Irish hills, where masses of people were watching the smoke-enveloped duel. The sun sank low, touching the purple hilltops, a golden ball that shed a ruddy glow over the scene and made the spectacle seem a dream rather than reality. Still they fought on.

It was a glorious fight--and as fair a one as history records. The "Drake" pounded away at the "Ranger's" hull alone, while Jones was doing all he could with his smaller pieces to cripple his enemy's rigging. First the "Drake's" fore-tops'l yard was cut in two. The main dropped next, and the mizzen gaff was shot away. For purposes of manoeuvring, the "Drake" was useless and drifted down, her jib trailing in the water and her shrouds and rigging dragging astern. She was almost a wreck. As she heeled over on the swell, the gunners on the "Ranger" could see human blood mingling with the water of the division tubs that came from her scuppers. The first flag was shot away, but another was quickly run up to its place. In a moment that too was shot away from the hoisting halyard and fell into the water astern, where it trailed among the wreckage. But still she fought on.

On the "Ranger" the loss had been comparatively slight. Lieutenant Wallingford and one other man had been killed and there were five or six wounded men in the cockpit. Jones seemed to be everywhere, but still remained uninjured and directed the firing until the end. He saw that the sharpshooters in his tops were doing terrific execution on the decks of his adversary, and at last he saw the imposing figure of Captain Burdon twist around for a second and then sink down to the deck. Another officer fell, and in a moment above the crash of division firing and the rattle of the musketry overhead he heard a cry for quarter.

The battle was at an end in a little over an hour. It was almost as great a victory as that of the "Bonhomme Richard" over the "Serapis." Paul Jones's ship carried eighteen guns; the Englishman carried twenty. The "Ranger" had one hundred and twenty-three men; the "Drake" had one hundred and fifty-one and carried many volunteers besides. The "Ranger" lost two killed and had six wounded; the "Drake" lost forty-two killed and wounded. Against great odds John Paul Jones still remained victorious.

The people on shore heard the cannonading cease and saw the great clouds of gold-tinted smoke roll away to the south. There they saw the two vessels locked as if in an embrace of death and a great cheer went up. They thought the "Drake" invincible. The gray of twilight turned to black, and the ships vanished like spectres in the darkness. But late that night some fishermen in a boat came ashore with a sail from the store-room of the "Drake." They said it had been given them by John Paul Jones. The people knew then that the "Drake" had been captured.

When the "Ranger" returned with her prizes to Brest, and his people told the tale of Paul Jones's victory, France was electrified. Neither in France nor in England would they at first believe it. France made him her hero. England offered ten thousand guineas for his head.

A STRUGGLE TO THE DEATH

Never, since the beginning of time, has there been a fiercer sea-fight than that between the "Bonhomme Richard" and the "Serapis." No struggle has been more dogged--no victory greater.

Three--four times during the night-long battle any other man than Paul Jones would have struck his colors. His main-deck battery and crews blown to pieces--his water-line gaping with wounds--his sides battered into one great chasm--still he fought on. His prisoners released--his masts tottering--his rudder gone--his ship afire below and aloft, his resistance was the more desperate. The thought of surrender never occurred to him.

After taking the "Drake" in a gallant fight, burning Whitehaven, and terrorizing the whole British coast, Paul Jones went to Paris, where a commission to the converted East Indiaman, the "Bonhomme Richard," awaited him. Putting her in the best shape possible, he boldly steered across for English waters. Paul Jones thirsted for larger game.

When Captain Pearson, with the new frigate "Serapis," on a fine September afternoon in 1779, sighted Paul Jones, he signalled his merchant convoy to scatter, and piped all hands, who rushed jubilantly to quarters. The opportunity of his life had come, for the capture of the rebel frigate meant glory and a baronetcy. But he reckoned without his host.

Across the oily waters came the cheery pipes of the boatswain's mate of the "Richard" as Jones swung her up to meet her adversary, and Pearson knew his task would not be an easy one. The wind fell so light that the sun had sunk behind the light on Flamborough Head before the ships drifted up to fighting distance, and it was dark before they were ready to come to close quarters. On the "Bonhomme Richard," Jones's motley crew, stripped to the waist, were drawn up at the guns, peering out through the ports at the dark shadow on the starboard bow they were slowly overhauling.

The decks were sanded, the hammocks piled around the wheel, and there at the break of the poop stood the captain, trumpet in hand, turning now and then to give an order to Richard Dale or his midshipmen, quiet and composed, with the smile on his face men saw before the fight with the "Drake." The clumsy hulk rolled to the ground-swell, and the creaking of the masts and clamping of the sheet-blocks were all that broke the silence of the night. No excitement was apparent, and the stillness seemed the greater for an occasional laugh from the gunners, or the rattle of a cutlass newly settled in its sheath.

Then close aboard from out the blackness came a voice,--

"What ship is that?"

Paul Jones moved to the lee mizzen-shrouds and slowly replied,--

"I can't hear what you say."

He wanted all of his broadside to bear on the Englishman.

"What ship is that? Answer, or I shall fire."

The moment had arrived. For answer Jones leaned far over the rail of the poop and passed the word. A sheet of flame flashed from one of the "Richard's" after eighteen-pounders, followed by a terrific broadside which quaked the rotten timbers of the "Richard" from stem to stern. At the same time the guns of the "Serapis" were brought to bear, and her side seemed a mass of flame.

On the "Richard," two of the eighteen-pounders burst at this first broadside, killing their crews, heaving up the deck above, and driving the men from the upper tier. The others cracked and were useless. In this terrible situation Paul Jones knew the chances for victory were against him, for he had thought his lower battery his mainstay in a broadside fight.

But if he felt daunted his men did not know it, for, amid the hurricane of fire and roar of the guns, his ringing voice, forward, aft, everywhere, told them that victory was still theirs for the gaining. He ordered all of the men from the useless battery to the main deck; and it was well he did so,--for so terrific was the fire that the six ports of the "Bonhomme Richard" were blown into one, and the shot passed clear through the ship, cutting away all but the supports of the deck above. No one but the marines guarding the powder-monkeys were left there, but they stood firm at their posts while the balls came whistling through and dropped into the sea beyond. But the fire of Paul Jones's battery did not slacken for a moment. There seemed to be two men to take the place of every man who was killed, and he swept the crowded deck of the "Serapis" from cathead to gallery.

In the meanwhile, the "Serapis," having the wind of the "Richard," drew ahead, and Pearson hauled his sheets to run across and rake Jones's bows. But he miscalculated, and the American ran her boom over the stern of the Englishman. For a moment neither ship could fire at the other, and they hung together in silence, fast locked in a deadly embrace. Jones's crew, eager to renew the battle, glared forward at the shimmering battle-lanterns of the Englishman, cursing because their guns would not bear. The smoke lifted, and Paul Jones, who was deftly training one of his guns at the main-mast of the "Serapis," saw Pearson slowly climb up on the rail. The silence had deceived the Englishman, and his voice came clearly across the deck,--

"Have you struck?"

A harsh laugh broke from the "Richard."

"Struck!" Paul Jones's answer came in a roar that was heard from truck to keelson. "I haven't begun to fight yet!"

A cheer went up that drowned the rattle of the musketry from the tops, and the fight went on. Swinging around again the jib-boom of the "Serapis" came over the poop so that Paul Jones could touch it. Rushing to the mast, he seized a hawser, and quickly taking several turns with it, lashed the bowsprit of his enemy to his mizzen-rigging. Grappling-irons were dropped over on the enemy--and the battle became a battle to the death.

"Well done, lads; we've got her now." And Jones turned to his nine-pounders, which renewed their fire. Both crews fought with the fury of desperation. The men at the guns, stripped to the buff, grimed and blackened with powder, worked with extraordinary quickness. Every shot told. But the fire of the "Serapis" was deadly, and she soon silenced every gun but Jones's two nine-pounders, which he still worked with dogged perseverance. He sent Dale below to hurry up the powder charges. To his horror Dale found that the master-at-arms, knowing the ship to be sinking, had released a hundred English prisoners. The situation was terrifying. With foes within and without, there seemed no hope. But Dale, with ready wit, ordered the prisoners to the pumps and to fight the fire near the magazine, telling them that their only hope of life lay in that. And at it they went, until they dropped of sheer exhaustion.

The doctor passed Dale as he rushed upon deck. "Sir," said he to Jones, "the water is up to the lower deck, and we will sink with all hands in a few minutes."

Jones turned calmly to the doctor, as though surprised. "What, doctor," said he, "would you have me strike to a drop of water? Here, help me get this gun over."

The surgeon ran below, but Jones got the gun over, and served it, too.

To add to the horror of the situation, just at this moment a ball from a new enemy came screaming just over the head of Paul Jones, and the wind of it knocked off his hat. The carpenter, Stacy, ran up breathlessly.

"My God, she's firing on us--the 'Alliance,' sir!" And the captain glanced astern where the flashes marked the position of the crazy Landais, firing on his own consort.

If ever Paul Jones had an idea of hauling his colors, it must have been at this moment.

He had been struck on the head by a splinter, and the blood surged down over his shoulder--but he didn't know it.

Just then a fear-crazed wretch rushed past him, trying to find the signal-halyards, crying wildly as he ran,--

"Quarter! For God's sake, quarter! Our ship is sinking!"

Jones heard the words, and, turning quickly, he hurled an empty pistol at the man, which struck him squarely between the eyes, knocking him headlong down the hatch.

Pearson heard the cry. "Do you call for quarter?" he shouted.

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