University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
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 cocked 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 cellarway.
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
it. 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 south-eastern
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 waters, 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.