Chapter 18

THE EXPEDITION THAT SAILED FROM GROIX.

Three months after anchoring at Brest, through Dr. Franklin's

negotiations with the French king, backed by the bestirring ardor of

Paul, a squadron of nine vessels, of various force, were ready in the

road of Groix for another descent on the British coasts. These craft

were miscellaneously picked up, their crews a mongrel pack, the officers

mostly French, unacquainted with each other, and secretly jealous of

Paul. The expedition was full of the elements of insubordination and

failure. Much bitterness and agony resulted to a spirit like Paul's. But

he bore up, and though in many particulars the sequel more than

warranted his misgivings, his soul still refused to surrender.

The career of this stubborn adventurer signally illustrates the idea

that since all human affairs are subject to organic disorder, since they

are created in and sustained by a sort of half-disciplined chaos, hence

he who in great things seeks success must never wait for smooth water,

which never was and never will be, but, with what straggling method he

can, dash with all his derangements at his object, leaving the rest to

Fortune.

Though nominally commander of the squadron, Paul was not so in effect.

Most of his captains conceitedly claimed independent commands. One of

them in the end proved a traitor outright; few of the rest were

reliable.

As for the ships, that commanded by Paul in person will be a good

example of the fleet. She was an old Indiaman, clumsy and crank,

smelling strongly of the savor of tea, cloves, and arrack, the cargoes

of former voyages. Even at that day she was, from her venerable

grotesqueness, what a c****d hat is, at the present age, among ordinary

beavers. Her elephantine bulk was houdahed with a castellated poop like

the leaning tower of Pisa. Poor Israel, standing on the top of this

poop, spy-glass at his eye, looked more an astronomer than a mariner,

having to do, not with the mountains of the billows, but the mountains

in the moon. Galileo on Fiesole. She was originally a single-decked

ship, that is, carried her armament on one gun-deck; but cutting ports

below, in her after part, Paul rammed out there six old

eighteen-pounders, whose rusty muzzles peered just above the water-line,

like a parcel of dirty mulattoes from a cellar-way. Her name was the

Duras, but, ere sailing, it was changed to that other appellation,

whereby this sad old hulk became afterwards immortal. Though it is not

unknown, that a compliment to Doctor Franklin was involved in this

change of titles, yet the secret history of the affair will now for the

first time be disclosed.

It was evening in the road of Groix. After a fagging day's work, trying

to conciliate the hostile jealousy of his officers, and provide, in the

face of endless obstacles (for he had to dance attendance on scores of

intriguing factors and brokers ashore), the requisite stores for the

fleet, Paul sat in his cabin in a half-despondent reverie, while Israel,

cross-legged at his commander's feet, was patching up some old signals.

"Captain Paul, I don't like our ship's name.--Duras? What's that

mean?--Duras? Being cribbed up in a ship named Duras! a sort of makes

one feel as if he were in durance vile."

"Gad, I never thought of that before, my lion. Duras--Durance vile. I

suppose it's superstition, but I'll change Come, Yellow-mane, what shall

we call her?"

"Well, Captain Paul, don't you like Doctor Franklin? Hasn't he been the

prime man to get this fleet together? Let's call her the Doctor

Franklin."

"Oh, no, that will too publicly declare him just at present; and Poor

Richard wants to be a little shady in this business."

"Poor Richard!--call her Poor Richard, then," cried Israel, suddenly

struck by the idea.

"'Gad, you have it," answered Paul, springing to his feet, as all trace

of his former despondency left him;--"Poor Richard shall be the name, in

honor to the saying, that 'God helps them that help themselves,' as Poor

Richard says."

Now this was the way the craft came to be called the _Bon Homme

Richard_; for it being deemed advisable to have a French rendering of

the new title, it assumed the above form.

A few days after, the force sailed. Ere long, they captured several

vessels; but the captains of the squadron proving refractory, events

took so deplorable a turn, that Paul, for the present, was obliged to

return to Groix. Luckily, however, at this junction a cartel arrived

from England with upwards of a hundred exchanged American seamen, who

almost to a man enlisted under the flag of Paul.

Upon the resailing of the force, the old troubles broke out afresh. Most

of her consorts insubordinately separated from the Bon Homme Richard. At

length Paul found himself in violent storms beating off the rugged

southeastern coast of Scotland, with only two accompanying ships. But

neither the mutiny of his fleet, nor the chaos of the elements, made him

falter in his purpose. Nay, at this crisis, he projected the most daring

of all his descents.

The Cheviot Hills were in sight. Sundry vessels had been described bound

in for the Firth of Forth, on whose south shore, well up the Firth,

stands Leith, the port of Edinburgh, distant but a mile or two from that

capital. He resolved to dash at Leith, and lay it under contribution or

in ashes. He called the captains of his two remaining consorts on board

his own ship to arrange details. Those worthies had much of fastidious

remark to make against the plan. After losing much time in trying to

bring to a conclusion their sage deliberations, Paul, by addressing

their cupidity, achieved that which all appeals to their gallantry

could not accomplish. He proclaimed the grand prize of the Leith lottery

at no less a figure than 200,000, that being named as the ransom.

Enough: the three ships enter the Firth, boldly and freely, as if

carrying Quakers to a Peace-Congress.

Along both startled shores the panic of their approach spread like the

cholera. The three suspicious crafts had so long lain off and on, that

none doubted they were led by the audacious viking, Paul Jones. At five

o'clock, on the following morning, they were distinctly seen from the

capital of Scotland, quietly sailing up the bay. Batteries were hastily

thrown up at Leith, arms were obtained from the castle at Edinburgh,

alarm fires were kindled in all directions. Yet with such tranquillity

of effrontery did Paul conduct his ships, concealing as much as possible

their warlike character, that more than once his vessels were mistaken

for merchantmen, and hailed by passing ships as such.

In the afternoon, Israel, at his station on the tower of Pisa, reported

a boat with five men coming off to the Richard from the coast of Fife.

"They have hot oat-cakes for us," said Paul; "let 'em come. To encourage

them, show them the English ensign, Israel, my lad."

Soon the boat was alongside.

"Well, my good fellows, what can I do for you this afternoon?" said

Paul, leaning over the side with a patronizing air.

"Why, captain, we come from the Laird of Crokarky, who wants some powder

and ball for his money."

"What would you with powder and ball, pray?"

"Oh! haven't you heard that that bloody pirate, Paul Jones, is somewhere

hanging round the coasts?"

"Aye, indeed, but he won't hurt you. He's only going round among the

nations, with his old hat, taking up contributions. So, away with ye; ye

don't want any powder and ball to give him. He wants contributions of

silver, not lead. Prepare yourselves with silver, I say."

"Nay, captain, the Laird ordered us not to return without powder and

ball. See, here is the price. It may be the taking of the bloody pirate,

if you let us have what we want."

"Well, pass 'em over a keg," said Paul, laughing, but modifying his

order by a sly whisper to Israel: "Oh, put up your price, it's a gift to

ye."

"But ball, captain; what's the use of powder without ball?" roared one

of the fellows from the boat's bow, as the keg was lowered in. "We want

ball."

"Bless my soul, you bawl loud enough as it is. Away with ye, with what

you have. Look to your keg, and hark ye, if ye catch that villain, Paul

Jones, give him no quarter."

"But, captain, here," shouted one of the boatmen, "there's a mistake.

This is a keg of pickles, not powder. Look," and poking into the

bung-hole, he dragged out a green cucumber dripping with brine. "Take

this back, and give us the powder."

"Pooh," said Paul, "the powder is at the bottom, pickled powder, best

way to keep it. Away with ye, now, and after that bloody embezzler, Paul

Jones."

This was Sunday. The ships held on. During the afternoon, a long tack

of the Richard brought her close towards the shores of Fife, near the

thriving little port of Kirkaldy.

"There's a great crowd on the beach. Captain Paul," said Israel, looking

through his glass. "There seems to be an old woman standing on a

fish-barrel there, a sort of selling things at auction to the people,

but I can't be certain yet."

"Let me see," said Paul, taking the glass as they came nigher. "Sure

enough, it's an old lady--an old quack-doctress, seems to me, in a black

gown, too. I must hail her."

Ordering the ship to be kept on towards the port, he shortened sail

within easy distance, so as to glide slowly by, and seizing the trumpet,

thus spoke:

"Old lady, ahoy! What are you talking about? What's your text?"

"The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance. He shall wash

his feet in the blood of the wicked."

"Ah, what a lack of charity. Now hear mine:--God helpeth them that help

themselves, as Poor Richard says."

"Reprobate pirate, a gale shall yet come to drive thee in wrecks from

our waters."

"The strong wind of your hate fills my sails well. Adieu," waving his

bonnet--"tell us the rest at Leith."

Next morning the ships were almost within cannon-shot of the town. The

men to be landed were in the boats. Israel had the tiller of the

foremost one, waiting for his commander to enter, when just as Paul's

foot was on the gangway, a sudden squall struck all three ships, dashing

the boats against them, and causing indescribable confusion. The squall

ended in a violent gale. Getting his men on board with all dispatch,

Paul essayed his best to withstand the fury of the wind, but it blew

adversely, and with redoubled power. A ship at a distance went down

beneath it. The disappointed invader was obliged to turn before the

gale, and renounce his project.

To this hour, on the shores of the Firth of Forth, it is the popular

persuasion, that the Rev. Mr. Shirrer's (of Kirkaldy) powerful

intercession was the direct cause of the elemental repulse experienced

off the endangered harbor of Leith.

Through the ill qualities of Paul's associate captains: their timidity,

incapable of keeping pace with his daring; their jealousy, blind to his

superiority to rivalship; together with the general reduction of his

force, now reduced by desertion, from nine to three ships; and last of

all, the enmity of seas and winds; the invader, driven, not by a fleet,

but a gale, out of the Scottish water's, had the mortification in

prospect of terminating a cruise, so formidable in appearance at the

onset, without one added deed to sustain the reputation gained by former

exploits. Nevertheless, he was not disheartened. He sought to conciliate

fortune, not by despondency, but by resolution. And, as if won by his

confident bearing, that fickle power suddenly went over to him from the

ranks of the enemy--suddenly as plumed Marshal Ney to the stubborn

standard of Napoleon from Elba, marching regenerated on Paris. In a

word, luck--that's the word--shortly threw in Paul's way the great

action of his life: the most extraordinary of all naval engagements; the

unparalleled death-lock with the Serapis.