Quietly they pulled up towards the great stone dock, where the shipping-houses were. The tide was very low as they moved past the schooners and brigs in the harbor, many of them careened far over on their sides, waiting for a rise in the tide to pull down to more comfortable moorings. But the boats went by without challenge or notice, and Wallingford’s cutter had slipped away like a gray shadow in the darkness. The first violet streaks of dawn were just beginning to throw the shore-line to the east in hazy silhouette when they reached the landing-place.
The dawn was coming up quickly now, and Paul Jones led his fifteen men at a run to the nearest fort. With cutlass in one hand and pistol in the other, they dashed upon the first sentry. There was no time for stealth, so they bore him down by sheer weight. The next one saw them coming, but Jones locked him and the rest of them in the guard-house. Then he proceeded to spike the guns. So quick was the work that not a shot was fired. They were running towards the second fort before the soldiers were quite sure what had happened. Even then they were too terrified to follow in pursuit. As the gallant band ran towards the other fort they got a clear view of the harbor, a glimmering sheet of orange and violet, under the morning glow. But strain his eyes as he might, their captain could get no sign of Wallingford or his work. They dashed as desperately at this fort as at the other and were equally successful, intimidating the garrison and spiking every gun they could find.
But what could be the trouble with Wallingford? Still seeing no blaze or even spark among the shipping to the eastward, Paul Jones felt that the main object of his descent upon the town was to prove a failure. So he dashed down the street from the fort towards the dock, pistol in hand, followed by his crew, who rolled along grinning at the ease with which they had accomplished their work. One of them had a bad cut over the head and the blood was staining his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to mind it in the least. To their surprise as they passed the houses the people began coming out of their doors shaking their fists at and cursing them. They grinned no longer, for they knew that some one had betrayed them. Jones looked around for the fifteenth man. The fellow with the cut wiped some blood from his cheek and said, —
“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.
He had been so intent upon his work that he had not noticed the mob that had gathered on the dock. The place seemed black with people, and their number was increasing every minute. Then, leaving the work of destruction to the others, he went down alone to face fifteen hundred infuriated people with a single flint-lock pistol! Dave Freeman had done his work well, for they seemed to pour from every street and doorway. But Paul Jones was determined that the work should be finished, and took a position where he could command the boat-landing and retreat of his men. The people came down in a body to within twenty paces of Paul Jones and then – stopped. There was something in the look of the man and the menacing black barrel that moved from one to the other that made them quail and fall over each other to get out of range. Those in the background swore and pushed gallantly, but the front rank was a line of straw, and Paul Jones moved it with his old flint-lock as though a Biscay wind-squall was striking it. For fifteen minutes and longer he stood there, immovable, the master of the situation, the picture of the intimidating power of one resolute man over a mob. Such another instance is hardly to be found in history.
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 manœuvred 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