four months slip by; it is april, and the idle ranger rides in the harbor of brest. morose, sore with inactivity, captain paul jones seeks out doctor franklin at the philosopher’s house in passy.

“this lying by rusts me,” captain paul jones is saying as he and doctor franklin have a turn in the garden. the latter likes the thin french sunshine, and gets as much of it as he may. “yes, it rusts me—fills me with despair!”

“what would you do, then?” asks doctor franklin, his coarse, shrewd face quickening into interest. “have you a cruise mapped out?”

“now i thought, if you’ve no objections, i’d just poke the ranger’s nose into the irish sea, and take a look at whitehaven. you know i was born by the solway, and the coast i speak of is an old acquaintance.”

“i see no objection, captain, save the smallness of your ship.”

“that is easily answered; for i give you my word, doctor, the little ranger can sail round any english ship on the home station. i shall be safe, no fear; for what i can’t whip i can run from.”

“have you spoken to my brother commissioners?”

doctor franklin looks up, a grim, expectant twinkle in his gray eyes. captain paul jones cracks his fingers in angry impatience.

“forgive me, doctor, if i’m frank to the frontiers of rudeness. of what avail to speak to mr. dean, who is asleep? of what avail to speak to mr. lee, who surrounds himself with british spies like that creature thornton, his private secretary? i ask you plain questions, doctor, for i know you to be a practical man.”

the philosopher grins knowingly.

“please do not speak of british spies to commissioner lee, captain jones. my task in france is enough difficult as it stands.”

“and on that account, doctor, and on that alone, i have so far refrained from saying aught to mr. lee. but i tell you i misdoubt the man. his fellow thornton i know to be in daily communication with the english admiralty! he clinks english gold in his pockets as the wage of his treason. this, were there no one save myself to consider, i should say in the face of arthur lee; ay! for that matter in the face of all the lees that ever hailed from virginia. i tell you this, doctor, for your own guidance.” then, following a pause: “not that it sets politely with my years to go cautioning one so much my superior in age, wisdom and experience.”

the philosopher glances up from the violets.

“possibly, captain jones, i have already given myself that caution. however, concerning your proposed cruise: i shall leave all to your judgment. certainly, our warships, as you say, were meant for battle-work, and not to waste their lives junketing about french ports.”

“one thing, doctor,” observes captain paul jones, at parting: “tell your fellow commissioners that i’ve cleared for the west coast of ireland, with a purpose to go north-about around the british islands. if you let them hear i’m off for whitehaven, i give you my honor that, with the spy thornton selling my blood to the english admiralty, i shall have the whole british fleet at my heels before i reach st. george’s channel.”

captain paul jones, in command of the ranger, drops in at whitehaven. with twenty-nine of his lads he goes ashore of a dripping morning, pens up the sleepy garrisons of the two forts, and spikes their guns. then, having spikes to spare, he makes useless a shore battery, while the ballad-mongering midshipman hill, with six men, chases inland one hundred coast guardsmen and militia.

captain paul jones, waxing industrious, attempts to burn the shipping which crowds the tidal basin at whitehaven. in these fire-lighting efforts he succeeds to the extent of five ships; after which he rows out to the ranger. thereupon the people and militia, who crowd the terror-smitten hills round about, come down into their town again.

captain paul jones crosses now to the north shore of the solway for a morning call upon the earl of selkirk. he schemes to capture that patrician, and trade him back to the english for certain good american sailors whom they hold as prisoners. the plan falls through, since the noble earl is not at home. in lieu, the ranger’s crew take unto themselves the selkirk plate, which captain paul jones subsequently buys from them, paying the ransom from his own purse, and returns with his compliments gallantly expressed in a letter to the earl.

from the solway, the little ranger stands west by north across the irish sea. off carrickfergus she finds the drake, an english sloop of war that is two long nines the better than the ranger in her broadsides, and thirty-one men stronger in her crew. to save trouble, the ranger is hove to off the mouth of belfast lough, and waits for the drake to come out. this the english ship does slowly and with difficulty, being on the wrong side of wind and tide.

“the sun is no more than an hour high,”

the story of paul jones suggests lieutenant wallingford wistfully. “shouldn’t we go to meet them, sir?”

captain paul jones shakes his head.

“we’ve better water here,” says he. “besides, the moon will be big; we’ll fight them by the light of the moon.”

slowly, reluctantly, the drake forges within hail. she is in doubt about the ranger.

“what ship is that?” cries the drake.

captain paul jones puts his speaking-trumpet to his lips.

“the american ship ranger,” he replies. “come on; we’re waiting for you.”

without further parley, broadside answers broadside and the battle is on.

both ships head north, the ranger having the weather-gage. this last gives captain paul jones the nautical upperhand. in ship-fighting, the weather-gage is equivalent to an underhold in wrestling.

there is a swell on, and the two ships roll heavily. they shape their course side by side, keeping within musket-reach of each other. the breeze is on the starboard quarter, and a little faster than the ships. by this good luck, the smoke of the broadsides is sent drifting ahead, and the line of sight between the ships kept free. on they crawl, broadside talking to broadside; only the americans are smarter with their guns, and fire three to the drake’s two.

twilight now invests the scene in gray, as the sun sinks behind the close, dark irish headlands to the west. night, cloudless and serene, comes down; the round, full moon shines out, and its mild rays mingle and merge with the angry glare of the battle-lanterns. captain paul jones from his narrow quarterdeck watches the drake through his night glass.

“good! very good!” he murmurs, as the drake’s foremast is splintered by a round shot. then, to the salem man who has the wheel: “bring us a little closer, mr. sargent; a little closer in, if you please.”

captain paul jones again rivets his glass upon the drake. an exclamation escapes him. it comes upon him that his gunners are having advantage of the roll of the ships, and time their broadsides so as to catch the drake as, reeling to port, she brings up her starboard side. by this plausible manouvre, those sagacious ones who train the ranger’s guns are sending shot after shot through and through the drake, between wind and water, half of them indeed below the water-line. captain paul jones, through his glass, makes out the black round shot-holes; they show as thick as cloves in the rind of a christmas ham.

“why!” he exclaims, “this doesn’t match my book! i must put a stopper on such work.”

shutting up his glass, captain paul jones leaps from the after flush-deck down among his sailors. drunk with blood, grimed of powder, naked to the waist, the black glory of battle in their hearts, they merrily work their guns. it is as he beheld from the after-deck. the ranger rolls to port as the drake, all dripping, is fetching up her starboard side.

“fire!” cries the master-gunner, and “fire!” runs the word along the battery.

the long nines respond with flame and bellow!

then they race crashingly inboard with the recoil, and are caught by the breeching tackle. with that the smoky work is all to do over again. the brawny sailor men—from nantucket, from martha’s vineyard, from sag harbor, from new london and barnstable and salem and boston and portsmouth they are—shirtless and shoeless, barefoot and stripped to the belts, ply sponge and rammer. again each black-throated gun is ready with a stomachful of solid shot.

“show ‘em your teeth, mates!”

the guns rattle forward on their carriages. the quick port-tires stand ready, blowing their matches. there is a brief pause, as the master-gunner waits for that fatal downward roll to port which offers and opens the drake’s starboard side almost to the keel.

“ah! i see, mr. starbuck,” begins captain paul jones sweetly, addressing the master-gunner. “your effort is to hull the enemy.”

“fire!” cries the master-gunner, for just then the ranger is reeling down to port, while the drake is coming up to starboard, and he must not waste the opportunity.

the long nines roar cheerfully, spouting fire and smoke. then comes that crashing inboard leap, to be caught up short by the tackle. again the sponges; again the rammers; with the busy shot-handlers working in between. and all the while the little powder monkeys, lads of eleven and twelve, go pattering to and fro, with cartridges from the magazines.

“why, yes, sir!” responds the master-gunner, now finding time to reply to the comment of captain paul jones; “as you says, we’re trying to hull her, sir.”

captain paul jones makes out three new holes below the brake’s plankslieer, the hopeful harvest of that last broadside.

“may i ask,” demands captain paul jones, who as a mere first effect of battle never fails of a rippling amiability, “may i ask, mr. starbuck, your design in thus aiming below the water-line?”

“saving you presence, captain, we designs to sink the bitch.”

“precisely! that is what i surmised! to a quick seaman like yourself, mr. starbuck, a word will do. i don’t want her sunk, d’ye see! i want to bring her into france as an object-lesson, and show the frenchmen what americans can do. under the circumstances, mr. starbnck, i shall be obliged if you let her hull alone. it will take mr. hitchburn, our carpenter, a week as it is “—this comes off reproachfully—“to stop the holes you’ve already made. and so, mr. starbnck, from now on comb her decks and cut her up in the spars as much as ever you like; but please keep off her hull.”

“ay, ay, sir!” says the master-gunner, saluting. then: “pass the word that we’re to leave her hull alone. cap’n has set his heart on catching her alive.”

with that the plan of attack finds reversal, the ranger firing as she comes up to port and when only a narrow streak of the drake’s starboard beam is visible above the waves.

captain paul jones remains among the sailors, canvassing in a gratified way the results of this change. while thus engaged, port-fire anthony jeremiah grins up at him, meanwhile blowing his match to keep it lighted.

“you enjoy yourself, i see, jerry,” remarks captain paul jones, who, as observed, is never so affable as when guns are crashing, blood is flowing, and splinters flying.

“me like to hear the big guns talk, captain,” responds the indian. “it gives jerry a good heart.”

captain paul jones again swings his glass on the drake. he is just in time to see her fore and main topsail-yards come down onto the caps by the run. the last broadside does that. in an instant, he is running aft.

“down with your helm, mr. sargent!” he roars. “pull her down for every ounce that’s in you, man!”

quartermaster sargent, thus encouraged, climbs the wheel like a squirrel; the ranger’s topsails shiver; then, yielding to her helm, she slowly luffs across the helpless stern of the drake.

“aboard with those sta’board tacks!” shouts captain paul jones. then, turning again to the wheelman: “steady, mr. sargent; keep her full!”

there is a skurry across the ranger’s decks, as the men rush from the port to the starboard battery.

“stand by, mr. starbuck,” calls ont captain paul jones, “to rake her as we cross her stern.”

“ay, ay, sir!” returns the master-gunner. “she shall have it for’ard and aft, as my old gran’am shells peas cods!”

“steady, mr. sargent!” and again captain paul jones cautions the alert wheelman. “keep her as she is!”

the guns are swung, and depressed so as to tear the poor drake open from stern-post to cutwater at one discharge. the ranger gathers head; slowly she makes ready to cross her enemy’s stern so close that one might chuck a biscuit aboard. it is a moment fraught of life and death for the unhappy drake.

with her captain and first officer already dead, the situation proves beyond the second officer, on whom the responsibility of fighting or surrendering the ship devolves. his sullen british soul gives way; and he strikes his colors just in time to avoid that raking fire which would else have snuffed him off the face of the sea.

“out-fought, out-manoeuvred, and out-sailed!” exclaims captain paul jones.

lieutenant hall, flushed of combat, comes up.

“we have beaten them, captain!” exults lieutenant hall.

“we’ve done more than that, mr. hall,” responds captain paul jones. “we have defeated an aphorism, and made a precedent. for the first time in the history of the sea, a lighter ship, with a smaller crew and a weaker battery, has whipped an englishman.”