University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THEY LOOK IN AT CARRICKFERGUS, AND DESCEND ON WHITEHAVEN.

NEXT day, off Carrickfergus, on the Irish coast, a fishing
boat, allured by the Quaker-like look of the incognito
craft, came off in full confidence. Her men were
seized, their vessel sunk. From them Paul learned that
the large ship at anchor in the road, was the ship-of-war
Drake, of twenty guns. Upon this he steered away,
resolving to return secretly, and attack her that night.

“Surely, Captain Paul,” said Israel to his commander,
as about sunset they backed and stood in again for the
land, “surely, sir, you are not going right in among
them this way? Why not wait till she comes out?”

“Because, Yellow-hair, my boy, I am engaged to marry
her to-night. The bride's friends won't like the match;
and so, this very night, the bride must be carried away.
She has a nice tapering waist, hasn't she, through the
glass? Ah! I will clasp her to my heart.”

He steered straight in like a friend; under easy sail,
lounging towards the Drake, with anchor ready to drop,
and grapnels to hug. But the wind was high; the anchor

was not dropped at the ordered time. The ranger came
to a stand three biscuits' toss off the unmisgiving enemy's
quarter, like a peaceful merchantman from the Canadas,
laden with harmless lumber.

“I sha'n't marry her just yet,” whispered Paul, seeing
his plans for the time frustrated. Gazing in audacious
tranquillity upon the decks of the enemy, and amicably
answering her hail, with complete self-possession, he commanded
the cable to be slipped, and then, as if he had
accidentally parted his anchor, turned his prow on the
seaward tack, meaning to return again immediately with
the same prospect of advantage possessed at first—his
plan being to crash suddenly athwart the Drake's bow,
so as to have all her decks exposed point-blank to his
musketry. But once more the winds interposed. It
came on with a storm of snow; he was obliged to give
up his project.

Thus, without any warlike appearance, and giving no
alarm, Paul, like an invisible ghost, glided by night close
to land, actually came to anchor, for an instant, within
speaking-distance of an English ship-of-war; and yet
came, anchored, answered hail, reconnoitered, debated,
decided, and retired, without exciting the least suspicion.
His purpose was chain-shot destruction. So easily may
the deadliest foe—so he be but dexterous—slide, undreamed
of, into human harbors or hearts. And not
awakened conscience, but mere prudence, restrain such,
if they vanish again without doing harm. At daybreak
no soul in Carrickfergus knew that the devil, in a Scotch
bonnet, had passed close that way over night.

Seldom has regicidal daring been more strangely
coupled with octogenarian prudence, than in many of
the predatory enterprises of Paul. It is this combination
of apparent incompatibilities which ranks him among
extraordinary warriors.

Ere daylight, the storm of the night blew over. The
sun saw the Ranger lying midway over channel at the
head of the Irish Sea; England, Scotland, and Ireland,
with all their lofty cliffs, being as simultaneously as
plainly in sight beyond the grass-green waters, as the
City Hall, St. Paul's, and the Astor House, from the
triangular Park in New York. The three kingdoms lay
covered with snow, far as the eye could reach.

“Ah, Yellow-hair,” said Paul, with a smile, “they
show the white flag, the cravens. And, while the white
flag stays blanketing yonder heights, we'll make for
Whitehaven, my boy. I promised to drop in there a
moment ere quitting the country for good. Israel, lad,
I mean to step ashore in person, and have a personal
hand in the thing. Did you ever drive spikes?”

“I've driven the spike-teeth into harrows before now,”
replied Israel; “but that was before I was a sailor.”

“Well, then, driving spikes into harrows is a good introduction
to driving spikes into cannon. You are just
the man. Put down your glass; go to the carpenter,
get a hundred spikes, put them in a bucket with a hammer,
and bring all to me.”

As evening fell, the great promontory of St. Bee's Head,
with its lighthouse, not far from Whitehaven, was in distant
sight. But the wind became so light that Paul could

not work his ship in close enough at an hour as early
as intended. His purpose had been to make the descent
and retire ere break of day. But though this intention
was frustrated, he did not renounce his plan, for the present
would be his last opportunity.

As the night wore on, and the ship, with a very light
wind, glided nigher and nigher the mark, Paul called upon
Israel to produce his bucket for final inspection. Thinking
some of the spikes too large, he had them filed down a
little. He saw to the lanterns and combustibles. Like
Peter the Great, he went into the smallest details, while
still possessing a genius competent to plan the aggregate.
But oversee as one may, it is impossible to guard against
carelessness in subordinates. One's sharp eyes can't see
behind one's back. It will yet be noted that an important
omission was made in the preparations for Whitehaven.

The town contained, at that period, a population of some
six or seven thousand inhabitants, defended by forts.

At midnight, Paul Jones, Israel Potter, and twenty-nine
others, rowed in two boats to attack the six or seven
thousand inhabitants of Whitehaven. There was a long
way to pull. This was done in perfect silence. Not a
sound was heard except the oars turning in the row-locks.
Nothing was seen except the two lighthouses of the harbor.
Through the stillness and the darkness, the two deep-laden
boats swam into the haven, like two mysterious whales
from the Arctic Sea. As they reached the outer pier,
the men saw each other's faces. The day was dawning.
The riggers and other artisans of the shipping would before
very long be astir. No matter.

The great staple exported from Whitehaven was then,
and still is, coal. The town is surrounded by mines;
the town is built on mines; the ships moor over mines.
The mines honeycomb the land in all directions, and extend
in galleries of grottoes for two miles under the sea.
By the falling in of the more ancient collieries numerous
houses have been swallowed, as if by an earthquake, and
a consternation spread, like that of Lisbon, in 1755. So
insecure and treacherous was the site of the place now
about to be assailed by a desperado, nursed, like the coal,
in its vitals.

Now, sailing on the Thames, nigh its mouth, of fair
days, when the wind is favorable for inward-bound craft,
the stranger will sometimes see processions of vessels, all
of similar size and rig, stretching for miles and miles,
like a long string of horses tied two and two to a rope
and driven to market. These are colliers going to London
with coal.

About three hundred of these vessels now lay, all
crowded together, in one dense mob, at Whitehaven.
The tide was out. They lay completely helpless, clear
of water, and grounded. They were sooty in hue. Their
black yards were deeply canted, like spears, to avoid
collision. The three hundred grimy hulls lay wallowing
in the mud, like a herd of hippopotami asleep in the
alluvium of the Nile. Their sailless, raking masts, and
canted yards, resembled a forest of fish-spears thrust into
those same hippopotamus hides. Partly flanking one side
of the grounded fleet was a fort, whose batteries were
raised from the beach. On a little strip of this beach,

at the base of the fort, lay a number of small rusty
guns, dismounted, heaped together in disorder, as a litter
of dogs. Above them projected the mounted cannon.

Paul landed in his own boat at the foot of this fort.
He dispatched the other boat to the north side of the
haven, with orders to fire the shipping there. Leaving
two men at the beach, he then proceeded to get possession
of the fort.

“Hold on to the bucket, and give me your shoulder,”
said he to Israel.

Using Israel for a ladder, in a trice he scaled the wall.
The bucket and the men followed. He led the way softly
to the guard-house, burst in, and bound the sentinels in
their sleep. Then arranging his force, ordered four men
to spike the cannon there.

“Now, Israel, your bucket, and follow me to the other
fort.”

The two went alone about a quarter of a mile.

“Captain Paul,” said Israel, on the way, “can we two
manage the sentinels?”

“There are none in the fort we go to.”

“You know all about the place, Captain?”

“Pretty well informed on that subject, I believe. Come
along. Yes, lad, I am tolerably well acquainted with
Whitehaven. And this morning intend that Whitehaven
shall have a slight inkling of me. Come on. Here we are.”

Scaling the walls, the two involuntarily stood for an
instant gazing upon the scene. The gray light of the
dawn showed the crowded houses and thronged ships with
a haggard distinctness.

“Spike and hammer, lad;—so,—now follow me along,
as I go, and give me a spike for every cannon. I'll
tongue-tie the thunderers. Speak no more!” and he
spiked the first gun. “Be a mute,” and he spiked the
second. “Dumbfounder thee,” and he spiked the third.
And so, on, and on, and on, Israel following him with
the bucket, like a footman, or some charitable gentleman
with a basket of alms.

“There, it is done. D'ye see the fire yet, lad, from
the south? I don't.”

“Not a spark, Captain. But day-sparks come on in
the east.”

“Forked flames into the hounds! What are they
about? Quick, let us back to the first fort; perhaps
something has happened, and they are there.”

Sure enough, on their return from spiking the cannon,
Paul and Israel found the other boat back, the crew in
confusion, their lantern having burnt out at the very instant
they wanted it. By a singular fatality the other
lantern, belonging to Paul's boat, was likewise extinguished.
No tinder-box had been brought. They had no
matches but sulphur matches. Locofocos were not then
known.

The day came on apace.

“Captain Paul,” said the lieutenant of the second boat,
“it is madness to stay longer. See!” and he pointed
to the town, now plainly discernible in the gray light.

“Traitor, or coward!” howled Paul, “how came the
lanterns out? Israel, my lion, now prove your blood.
Get me a light—but one spark!”

“Has any man here a bit of pipe and tobacco in his
pocket?” said Israel.

A sailor quickly produced an old stump of a pipe, with
tobacco.

“That will do,” and Israel hurried away towards the
town.

“What will the loon do with the pipe?” said one.
“And where goes he?” cried another.

“Let him alone,” said Paul.

The invader now disposed his whole force so as to retreat
at an instant's warning. Meantime the hardy Israel,
long experienced in all sorts of shifts and emergencies,
boldly ventured to procure, from some inhabitant of
Whitehaven, a spark to kindle all Whitehaven's habitations
in flames.

There was a lonely house standing somewhat disjointed
from the town, some poor laborer's abode. Rapping at
the door, Israel, pipe in mouth, begged the inmates for
a light for his tobacco.

“What the devil,” roared a voice from within, “knock
up a man this time of night to light your pipe? Begone!”

“You are lazy this morning, my friend,” replied Israel,
“it is daylight. Quick, give me a light. Don't you
know your old friend? Shame! open the door.”

In a moment a sleepy fellow appeared, let down the
bar, and Israel, stalking into the dim room, piloted himself
straight to the fire-place, raked away the cinders,
lighted his tobacco, and vanished.

All was done in a flash. The man, stupid with sleep,
had looked on bewildered. He reeled to the door, but,

dodging behind a pile of bricks, Israel had already hurried
himself out of sight.

“Well done, my lion,” was the hail he received from
Paul, who, during his absence, had mustered as many
pipes as possible, in order to communicate and multiply
the fire.

Both boats now pulled to a favorable point of the principal
pier of the harbor, crowded close up to a part of
which lay one wing of the colliers.

The men began to murmur at persisting in an attempt
impossible to be concealed much longer. They were
afraid to venture on board the grim colliers, and go
groping down into their hulls to fire them. It seemed
like a voluntary entrance into dungeons and death.

“Follow me, all of you but ten by the boats,” said
Paul, without noticing their murmurs. “And now, to put
an end to all future burnings in America, by one mighty
conflagration of shipping in England. Come on, lads!
Pipes and matches in the van!”

He would have distributed the men so as simultaneously
to fire different ships at different points, were it not that
the lateness of the hour rendered such a course insanely
hazardous. Stationing his party in front of one of the
windward colliers, Paul and Israel sprang on board.

In a twinkling they had broken open a boatswain's locker,
and, with great bunches of oakum, fine and dry as tinder,
had leaped into the steerage. Here, while Paul made a
blaze, Israel ran to collect the tar-pots, which being presently
poured on the burning matches, oakum and wood,
soon increased the flame.

“It is not a sure thing yet,” said Paul, “we must have
a barrel of tar.”

They searched about until they found one, knocked
out the head and bottom, and stood it like a martyr in
the midst of the flames. They then retreated up the
forward hatchway, while volumes of smoke were belched
from the after one. Not till this moment did Paul hear
the cries of his men, warning him that the inhabitants
were not only actually astir, but crowds were on their
way to the pier.

As he sprang out of the smoke towards the rail of the
collier, he saw the sun risen, with thousands of the
people. Individuals hurried close to the burning vessel.
Leaping to the ground, Paul, bidding his men stand
fast, ran to their front, and, advancing about thirty feet,
presented his own pistol at now tumultuous Whitehaven.

Those who had rushed to extinguish what they had
deemed but an accidental fire, were now paralyzed into
idiotic inaction at the defiance of the incendiary, thinking
him some sudden pirate or fiend dropped down from the
moon.

While Paul thus stood guarding the incipient conflagration,
Israel, without a weapon, dashed crazily towards
the mob on the shore.

“Come back, come back,” cried Paul.

“Not till I start these sheep, as their own wolves many
a time started me!”

As he rushed bare-headed like a madman, towards the
crowd, the panic spread. They fled from unarmed Israel,
further than they had from the pistol of Paul.

The flames now catching the rigging and spiralling
around the masts, the whole ship burned at one end of
the harbor, while the sun, an hour high, burned at the
other. Alarm and amazement, not sleep, now ruled the
world. It was time to retreat.

They re-embarked without opposition, first releasing a
few prisoners, as the boats could not carry them.

Just as Israel was leaping into the boat, he saw the
man at whose house he had procured the fire, staring like
a simpleton at him.

“That was good seed you gave me;” said Israel, “see
what a yield,” pointing to the flames. He then dropped
into the boat, leaving only Paul on the pier.

The men cried to their commander, conjuring him not
to linger.

But Paul remained for several moments, confronting
in silence the clamors of the mob beyond, and waving
his solitary hand, like a disdainful tomahawk, towards
the surrounding eminences, also covered with the affrighted
inhabitants.

When the assailants had rowed pretty well off, the
English rushed in great numbers to their forts, but only
to find their cannon no better than so much iron in the
ore. At length, however, they began to fire, having
either brought down some ship's guns, or else mounted
the rusty old dogs lying at the foot of the first fort.

In their eagerness they fired with no discretion. The
shot fell short; they did not the slightest damage.

Paul's men laughed aloud, and fired their pistols in
the air.

Not a splinter was made, not a drop of blood spilled
throughout the affair. The intentional harmlessness of
the result, as to human life, was only equalled by the
desperate courage of the deed. It formed, doubtless, one
feature of the compassionate contempt of Paul towards
the town, that he took such paternal care of their lives
and limbs.

Had it been possible to have landed a few hours earlier
not a ship nor a house could have escaped. But it was
the lesson, not the loss, that told. As it was, enough
damage had been done to demonstrate—as Paul had
declared to the wise man of Paris—that the disasters
caused by the wanton fires and assaults on the American
coasts, could be easily brought home to the enemy's
doors. Though, indeed, if the retaliators were headed
by Paul Jones, the satisfaction would not be equal to
the insult, being abated by the magnanimity of a chivalrous,
however unprincipled a foe.