CHAPTER THREE

The Revolutionary War (Part 2)

When John Paul Jones took command of Ranger in June, 1777, the warship was not yet completed. Jones, impatient to be off, had to comb Portsmouth for sail-cloth and sailor. Good recruits were hard to find, and canvas proved so scarce that the indomitable captain prevailed on the ladies of the town to aid him. So the story is that Ranger's sails were made of petticoat silks and satins, and that all sorts of lovely patchwork flew from her crosstrees. More probably the ladies provided the needlework, and Jones stripped some old ships of their canvas.

Leave him, then, for a moment among the local belles, and glance back at the grimmer war-picture.

Brooklyn, Manhattan, and White Plains fell to the enemy in the autumn of '76, and Washington withdrew across the Hudson to New Jersey. Howe followed with 20,000 men, outnumbering the Americans seven-to-one. Leading the Red Coats and the Hessian troops was Cornwallis. Washington, his artillery lost, his forces dwindling, retreated toward Philadelphia, halting at last on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware River. With winter closing in, Howe held his forces on the opposite bank to wait for better weather and reinforcements.

December proved white and bitter, and Washington's army, in the snow, melted away. No pay. No supplies. No ammunition. By mid-December the camp numbered less than 3,000 men. Despite sickness and desertion, Washington hung on.

This was the winter when Congress muddled in Philadelphia, when Esek Hopkins let the warships gather barnacles in Newport. A lesser man than Washington might have thrown up the sponge in despair. But just when the situation seemed at lowest ebb, George Washington showed what he was made of. And he was made of plenty.

It was Christmas night, 1776, and a blizzard was blowing. Huddled in their ragged tents, the Americans shivered, listening to the wolfish wind and the crunching ice cakes in the freezing river. Then the order came to move. You've heard that Washington once threw a dollar across the Rappahannock-that's legendary. But this night he threw his army across the Delaware-this is history.

In the Hessian camp the bonfires were bright; there were puddings and beer steins and "Ach, du Lieber Augustin." The Americans caught the heinies playing bend-the-elbow, just as Washington had suspected, and knocked them for a row of Meerschaums.

Fighting through blinding sleet, Washington's men chased the Hessians eight miles to Trenton, then swung over to smash Cornwallis' best regiments at Princeton. Scared by this brilliant attack, Howe pulled his troops back to New York and New Jersey, for the time being.

That was plasma in the arm of every patriot-plasma for the spirit of Independence. And America needed that plasma. For in the spring of 1777 came the main invasion from Canada¬8,000 fresh regulars under John Burgoyne.

The plan, dreamed up by His Majesty's War Office, was for Burgoyne to march south along Lake Champlain while Howe marched north from New York. The two armies would meet at Albany, and New York State would presumably be crushed in the nut-cracker.

The plan failed for several reasons. American marksmanship was one. Then General Howe-convinced Burgoyne could steam-roller to Albany-diverted his troops over to Jersey for another try at George Washington.

This left John Burgoyne holding a one-handled nut-cracker, with a very tough nut to crack. And "Gentleman Johnny," although a former member of Parliament, a playwright, a personal friend 'of George III, and a great lover, was hardly the man to crack an American hickory nut.

Flags flying, Burgoyne came down the shore of Lake Champlain without opposition, reaching Ticonderoga early in July. For support, a Red Coat army under General St. Leger hooked down from Oswego into the Mohawk Valley, hoping to enter Albany from the west. Bang! St. Leger ran into tough old General Herkimer, and an army of fierce patriots, a detachment under Benedict Arnold. St. Leger's army was chased back into Canada.

Burgoyne faltered; then, pecked at by sharpshooters, he came on. It was August-where was Howe? Well, Howe had been skirmishing over in New Jersey. Giving up hope of trapping Washington, he'd decided to take an invasion fleet down Delaware way to capture Philadelphia from that direction. Washington met the invaders at Brandywine Creek, lost a savage battle, lost again at Germantown, and Philadelphia lay open to the enemy. But Burgoyne, up in northern New York, was out on a limb.

20,000 American squirrel-hunters under Schuyler, Gates. and Arnold closed in on "Gentleman Johnny" at a little town north of Albany and drove him west to Saratoga. There in the Adirondack foothills the Red Coat army was snafued. October 17, 1777, Burgoyne surrendered with 5,000 battered men.

This great victory cushioned the shock of defeat at Philadelphia, and made the Americans determined to fight harder than ever. Congress set up the nation's capital at Lancaster, then moved it to Trenton, protected by Washington's troops. Ben Franklin had gone to Paris to urge the French into the war as an ally, and Burgoyne's defeat would go far to encourage French aid.

Adventures of Ranger

Now go hack to Portsmouth where John Paul Jones is outfitting Ranger. Equipment is still lacking. So are sailors for his crew. But he takes anything he can buy or hire, for here come dispatches from Congress-Burgoyne has surrendered! He must sail at once, and race for France with this important news.

So Ranger set sail on November 1st, scudding out into the Atlantic. Captain Jones drove her beeline, arriving at the French port of Nantes on December 2nd. Pretty good, considering Ranger's patched-up sails-and Captain Jones' delay in mid-Atlantic to capture two enemy vessels in the bargain!

But the cruise was not altogether to Paul Jones' liking. Another ship, starting earlier, had beaten him with the news. And Ranger had displayed several structural defects-in her hull and in her crew. The former would be corrected in drydock, but the crew was another matter.

Waterfront ragtag, the men had been the only ones available. But they could be trained. Chief difficulty, as usual, were the random-picked officers-three Down East codfish skippers commissioned as lieutenants. Mixing Puritanical bigotry with bargain-hunting avarice, they described John Paul Jones, on one hand, as a "godless South Carolina captain;" on the other, they wanted him to chase after prizes. When he rebuked them for not putting the Navy ahead of prize money, they turned sour, crabby, and insubordinate.

Now, leaving Ranger at Nantes to have her masts corrected, Captain Jones rushed to Paris to see about correcting the crew. A talk with Benjamin Franklin about the Navy might help. So Jones began an American naval campaign in the French capital.

Benjamin Franklin-there was a character for you! Maybe you've seen a statue of him-a quaint figure wearing kneepants and square-rimmed spectacles, like somebody's ancient grand- father. Huh! There was more pep and ginger in Benjamin Franklin than you saw at your latest dance. He was the all-American thinker of his day, and one of the big inventors of the American Revolution. Besides that, he invented bifocal spectacles, the smokeless furnace, the laundry mangle, and a score of ingenious gadgets.

He also set op the first U.S. Weather Bureau, proposed daylight saving, organized the Post Office, ran the Philadelphia Fire Department, wrote popular songs, learned to play the harp, and became a champion swimmer. In his spare moments he edited a magazine, wrote a popular publication, Poor Richard's Almanac, and studied physics. Dabbling with electricity (in a day when all the world was afraid of it) was just a hobby, but to make it practical he invented the lightning rod, then devised an electric detonator for explosives. On the side he managed to get around town a good deal, and to fly his famous kite.

So he became America's No.1 diplomat, heading the American Commission in Paris. To John Paul Jones he listened sympathetically, and he liked this fighting captain who demanded improvements in the naval service.

"But don't lose your temper, my boy," you can hear him soothing, "I'll see if I can't get you a better warship."

Better warship? Well, the French had made a loan, Franklin confided. And French engineers were just completing a big frigate, Indien, in a shipyard leased up in Holland.

"France is letting us have the ship, and if I can arrange it, you'n be her captain."

A frigate at last! John Paul Jones shook Franklin's hand in delight. But it was a chicken counted before it was hatched. For Franklin, like Jones, had to deal with wire-pulling and favoritism.

The other commissioners in Paris-Silas Deane, and the Virginian, Arthur Lee-didn't approve the arrangement. Lee in particular did not favor John Paul Jones, and neither did he get along with Franklin. A snob and a pecksniff, he had been criticizing Franklin's easy informality with the French Court, and criticizing Paris as a racy city. Furthermore, he talked so loudly about official secrets that the French Foreign minister had refused to let him in on any confidential matter.

Now when Franklin proposed Jones as captain of Indien, this Arthur Lee talked so loudly around the drawing rooms that British spies picked up news of the frigate. That let the cat out of the bag. France was still neutral, and the French king had to cancel the whole deal. America had lost a warship before it was even launched .

So, John Paul Jones went hack to Ranger. With her crew still balky, Jones took her up to Brest for another overhaul. Entering Brest, he discovered the French Atlantic fleet under Admiral Picquet in the harbor. John Paul Jones hove to, and ran up the Stars and Stripes. Then he sent over a boat, requesting Picquet to salute his new flag.

The French admiral, who had never seen the Colors before, was dumbfounded. But the red, white, and blue flew proudly, proclaiming the new nation across the seas. And at sundown the French battleships thundered military acknowledgement-nine guns for the United States of America. The Navy and John Paul Jones had won a formal salute to the flag in foreign waters.

The salute had repercussions. The English ambassador in Paris raged at the French for recognizing America as an independent republic. Great Britain, he said, would demand reparations or war. The French Foreign Minister shrugged. That salute had been made-France would not take it back. If Great Britain wanted to make something of it, why, "C'est la guerre."

So George III, asking more trouble, sent France an ultimatum. Whereupon France came into the war as America's ally.

Meantime, with Ranger refitted, Paul Jones put out into the English Channel, bucking rough seas and April weather. Three months ashore had put him in a lighting mood, and he had also devised an extraordinary plan. The first part of this plan 'was to raid the Scottish coast, and twist the lion's tail right under George III's nose. The second part-but wait until you see how Ranger accomplished the first.

Up on Solway Firth in northern Scotland lies the town of "Whitehaven, not far from Paul Jones' birthplace. To repay the Red Coats for the burning of Falmouth, Jones determined to lay this big port in ashes. Right around England to Whitehaven he drove Ranger. Then-bad luck, again-storms prevented him from entering the harbor.

While he stood offshore, waiting for clearing weather, he caught a coastal schooner on his hook, and learned that the British warship H.M.S. Drake was taking on supplies at Carrickfergus Lough, over in Ireland. John Paul Jones decided to take on H.M.S. Drake.

It was a dare-devil exploit, for it meant entering an enemy harbor at night, scuttling Drake before she could turn and fight, then making a fast get-away. Every man had to be on his toes. So what happened? The crew snarled, the lieutenants scowled, the quartermaster broke into the liquor stores behind Jones' back. When Ranger raced into the harbor, the rummed-up helmsman steered wide off course, Drake's lookouts sighted the American and fired the alarm. Jones got Ranger out to sea just in time.

Without pausing to curse his foul luck, Jones drove back to Whitehaven, his original objective. The sea had flattened during his absence, and now he anchored offshore, jammed two of Ranger's boats with men, and led them at night into Whitehaven harbor.

Some guards were yawning on the parapet of the fort at harbor entrance. Next thing they knew, their yawns were stifled by gags. Cutlasses flashed in the gloom. A fierce, cloaked sailor with a Scotch accent was ordering men up the wall to spike the guns.

The fort silenced, Jones scouted into Whitehaven. But his men were out of incendiary candles. Tinder had to be rounded up. Dawn came swift-footed, and there was only time to set the main wharf ablaze, touch off a couple of cargo vessels, and haul away. But the attack raised a tremendous hue-and-cry in England. Before the week was out, an entire naval squadron was hunting Ranger.

With peril on all sides, Jones' unruly crew grew mutinous, and his lieutenants put up another demand for prize money. Damning the whole privateering system, Jones ordered his men to buckle up for another exploit. Wanted a prize, did they? How'd they like to catch a live one?

This was part two of his plan-a scheme that may seem fantastic today but had a lot to recommend it in 1778. In those days there was no regular means for exchanging prisoners of war. When luckless enough to be captured in battle were left to rot in dungeons or drag their chains around work camps that rivaled in misery the prisons of Nazi Germany.

So he planned to capture a prominent nobleman, the Earl of Selkirk, and hold him hostage until prisoners were exchanged. Not far from Whitehaven, at St. Mary's Isle, lived this Earl. John Paul had seen the Earl's manor house as a boy, and he knew St. Mary's with his eyes shut.

On the night of April 23, 1778, Lady Selkirk was entertaining a lady relative and a neighbor with three charming daughters in her drawing room. There were tea and crumpets, and one of the maidens playing on a harpsichord. Then suddenly a scuffle at the door. A servant running in popeyed. Next minute the drawing room was full of sailors, barefoot tars who brandished pistol and cutlass.

Their leader, an erect figure in officer'. greatcoat, swept off his cockade hat and bowed politely.

"Your pardon, ladies, if you will forgive the intrusion. We have come to call on the Earl of Selkirk."

Gasps of panic from the charming daughters. Servants running. Confusion. A wail from the butler, "They're Americans! The house is surrounded." Lady Selkirk drawing herself up. The Earl of Selkirk is in London."

It must have struck the officer in the blue greatcoat as a blow, but he did not alter expression. With utmost courtesy he inquired into Lady Selkirk's health, told her she had nothing to fear from his company, St. Mary's would not be harmed.

To do Lady Selkirk credit, she coolly poured him a glass of wine, offered another to his scowling junior officer. and invited the visiting company to dinner. The wine was politely accepted, the dinner invitation regretfully declined, and, having remained, all told, about ten minutes, the visitors left the house.

Everything had gone off as courteously as a social call, and in hall an hour Paul Jones had his men hack aboard Ranger and seaward. He was sick at the luck that had let him miss the Earl of Selkirk. But that was war, and the expedition would show the enemy that the American Navy was on the way. It would also show that American Navy men could be gentlemen as well as warriors.

Alas for this happy idea-Ranger was hardly out of the channel when Captain Jones discovered one of his lieutenants pawing over a bag of silver plate. While all had been courtesy within the manor house, one of Lady Selkirk's servants had ducked out of the back door with the family silver, and fallen into the arms of the crew outside.

There was hell to pay then aboard Ranger ! You can imagine John Paul Jones exploding like a powder magazine, thundering at his dour lieutenants to know who the devil took Lady Selkirk's silver.

The lieutenants argued back. It was prize of war-the privateers did it-why should Jones scuttle every chance they had to make a little money from loot?

It took John Paul Jones just about three seconds to summon all hands and deliver a quarterdeck lecture that must have been a masterpiece in salty language. Then he sat down and wrote apologizing letters to the Earl and Lady Selkirk that would have done credit to Emily Post. To the Earl he explained the motive of the raid, the plan to hold him hostage until prisoners were exchanged. To Lady Selkirk he wrote, "I wage no war with the fair." While his crew snarled and growled and his lieutenants went ominously sullen, he sent the silver back.

The whole thing reads like romance, but the letters are on record, and if you ever make port in St. Mary's Isle you can see the self-same silver plate. The story is genuine naval history, as solid as the silver.

You might also make port in Bellast, northern Ireland. Well, there off Carrickfergus you can see some more solid naval history-the place where Ranger battled Drake. For John Paul Jones, with luck running against him three times straight, decided it was high time to win something for a change. The nearest thing at hand was the chance he'd previously missed. So he went back to Carrickfergus, hell-for-sailcloth.

This time he proposed to enter the harbor and attack the enemy warship in broad daylight, gun for gun. At once his lieutenants objected furiously, his crew snarled louder than ever. Expecting mutiny, Jones stood like iron on the quarterdeck, his belt braced with a half dozen pistols. Like an animal trainer in a circus cage, he bent the crew to his will, driving Ranger to Carrickfergus. And this time he caught H.M.S. Drake with her canvas down.

It was late afternoon when Ranger rounded the headland and slipped into Carrickfergus harbor. Drake, at anchor, was still taking on supplies. Innocent as any merchantman, Ranger have to in the roadway, presenting her stern to the British warship. The Britons lowered a small boat and rowed over to examine Jones' ship.

Jones, waiting at the taffrail, noticed the smoke of signal fire rising from the hills around the harbor.

"What are those smoke signals?" he called down to the on coming boat.

The visiting cox'n informed him they were alarm signals warning the countryside of an American pirate who was loose in the Irish Channel. One second later the stunned cox'n was staring down the throat of an uncovered chase gun and talking to the "pirate" in person.

When Drake's lookout saw the small boat tied up prisoner by the newcomer, he howled the alarm. Drake's captain Burdon beat to quarters, had the guns run out, and hoisted anchor to sail over and see what was cooking.

"What ship is that?" he thundered at Jones.

"The American Continental ship, Ranger I" Jones trumpeted hack, while Stars and Stripes unfurled aloft from the halyards. «And as the sun is only an hour from setting it is therefore time lo begin."

Drake began at once, firing a blast that hit nothing but water. Jones swung Ranger around-held fire until within pistol shot-then gave the enemy a salvo that shredded her rigging.

The English replied furiously, but Jones maneuvered Ranger so deftly that she glided about like a figure-skater, dodging each enemy broadside. Drake, with her rigging badly damaged, was unable to do more than wallow. The Americans poured a hot fire into the British ship, hammering her with cannon balls, bullets, and grenades. Within ten minutes Drake was reduced to a sitting duck.

The battle lasted half an hour; then Drake struck her mangled Bag. Captain Burdon was dying, forty crewmen lay dead, the spar deck was blown to rubbish, and another broadside would have sunk her.

Ranger's casualties: two dead, six wounded.

Now in fire power both ships had been evenly matched, hut the "Britons had the advantage of forty more men and playing on their own "home field." When you add in the factor of Ranger's mutinous crew, this victory-the first major naval battle won by the Americans-seems incredible.

Put it down to the skilled seamanship of John Paul Jones and his insistence on gunnery practice. Put it down to the discipline he managed to maintain where a lesser leader might have lost control. TACT, PATIENCE, JUSTICE, FIRMNESS-John Paul Jones was a man who practiced that he preached. Ranger's astonishing victory over Drake was the pay-off.

Yet there are limits to such things as patience. One of the two men killed aboard Ranger had been Lieutenant Wallingford, the only junior officer Jones had felt he could trust. Now it fell to Lieutenant Simpson, one of the malcontents, to go aboard Drake as commander and take charge of the captured vessel.

Jones gave this underling explicit instructions. It would be ticklish business running the captive warship through English waters hack to France. The whole Royal Navy would be out to stop them.

"The honor of our flag is much concerned with the preservation of this prize," Jones wrote out the orders. "Therefore keep close by me and she shall not be given tamely up. You are to take your station on the Ranger's starboard quarter at or about the distance of a cable's length."

With hasty repairs made on Drake, the two ships set out to run the gauntlet back to France. May 5th brought them almost within sight of the Normandy coast. Then Ranger's lookout sighted enemy patrols. Jones cleared for action, and at the same time Simpson let Drake fall behind and veer off. Jones signaled to the ship astern, and the signals were ignored. The distant enemy patrol went on its way, and Simpson went on his way. Before Jones could bring Ranger on a round-about tack, Drake was half way over the horizon.

This was mutiny at its worst, and John Paul Jones set his teeth like a bear trap, determined to recapture the prize. The race lasted throughout a night. Damaged Drake was as slow as Simpson's wits, however, and Ranger overhauled her the following morning.

John Paul Jones was out of patience now. Clapping Simpson in irons, he trained Ranger's guns on Drake, and drove her, double-captive, into Brest.

The French people went wild. An American, single-handed, had bearded the enemy lion in its den and come back with a prize warship to boot. When the news reached Paris, John Paul Jones was the toast of the hour.

He wasn't interested in toasts. Hot-foot he rushed to Paris to see about exchanging the English seamen he had captured aboard Drake for American prisoners held captive in England. In Paris, too, lie dispatched by special messenger the letters he had written to the ,Earl and Lady Selkirk. And he lost no time in reporting the details of his cruise to Franklin and the American Commission.

Franklin gave the indomitable captain a big hand, and the exchange of prisoners was arranged. This alone was enough to make Jones' daring cruise worth while. Then the capture of a first-class enemy warship, snared at its home base, was a feat unequalled in the annals of naval warfare. Finally the raid of Whitehaven had thrown George Ill's Admiralty into a tremendous dither. The First Lords of George III's Admiralty were given to realize that the Revolutionary Navy could come across the Atlantic. This meant some of the Royal Navy would have to stay home to guard home waters. British coastal towns began to clamor for protection. The public raised an uproar. John Paul Jones really started something when he visited England with Ranger.

Now how was John Paul Jones rewarded for having dealt these blows to the enemy? Well, aside from Franklin, the American Commissioners in Paris received him as though he were peddling a case of measles. Word of the St. Mary's raid had reached France-the stolen silver business-the Earl of Selkirk was denouncing him to the world as a pirate. Furthermore, one of the people on St. Mary's had recognized him as the John Paul 'rumored to have killed a man at Tobago. Now the story was loose about his "changed name"-the Maxwell affair-all the rumors came back to haunt him.

So Mr. Arthur Lee, whose bumbling tongue had already cost America a warship, set out to cost America a great naval captain. His motives, of course, were political. His methods were red tape. And he entangled John Paul Jones in the mesh. While Paris cheered Jones, this commissioner was undermining him.

Jones was demanding a court martial for mutinous Lieutenant Simpson. Arthur Lee demanded a long investigation. Seventy-seven members of Jones' rascally crew, calling themselves "The Jovial Tars," sent the Paris Commission a whining letter, claiming John Paul Jones had maltreated them. They declared they had originally enlisted in the Navy to serve under Simpson, "who is now confined, innocently as we think, in a Lousey, Dirty, French Gaol."

Overlooked was Jones' raid on the enemy homeland, his great victory over Drake, his effecting the release of American prisoners. The American Commissioners in Paris mulled over this misspelled scrap of paper from "The Jovial Tars" as if it were an authenticated legal document.

Simpson, summoned to testify, said he had fled off with Drake only to save her from the sighted enemy patrols. It was all a big mistake, and he'd never meant to desert Jones.

To Jones' utter amazement and against Franklin's urgent advice, Lieutenant Simpson was completely exonerated. On top of that, Simpson was made acting captain of Ranger and ordered to sail her back to America. Relieved of his command, John Paul Jones was left stranded in Paris.

There is only one answer to this staggering episode-backhall politics fighting for private patronage, plus the personal malice of a jealous conniver. But no conspirator could tread on John Paul Jones. Destiny and Ben Franklin went to work to help him obtain another ship. Result: the Bonhomme Richard.

Taps For Nicholas Biddle

It took Paul Jones nearly a year to get his new ship-you can leave him there in Paris fighting in a tangle of political red tape, and review the war in America.

Captain Jones was not the only victim of red tape. The little Revolutionary army and navy were snagged in the wrangly political stuff as though it were a field of barbed wire. Remember, each state wanted to run the war for its own benefit-meaning each one wanted special favors. Pressure groups campaigned around Congress harder than the British.

So military supplies were delayed, taxes went uncollected, the war effort bogged down, and George Washington had to replace good commanders like General Schuyler with mediocre ones like Horatio Gates. Similarly, the Marine Committee had been forced to wire-pull the list, that had originally by-passed John Paul Jones.

Of these other Continental Navy captains, Nicholas Biddle was one who deserved his appointment without question.

Early in 1777, with the first of the new American frigates, Randolph, he put to sea. III luck caught him with a storm off Hatteras, and Randolph, carelessly built, snapped her masts. Some British prisoners being transported by the frigate staged a mutiny, but young Captain Biddle put it down neatly and brought Randolph into Charleston for repairs.

In this spring of 1777, you'll remember, Esek Hopkins was relieved of his command at Newport and Paul Jones was at Portsmouth struggling to equip Ranger. Now, while Randolph lay in Charleston being refitted, two more new American frigates put to sea.

These were Hancock and Boston-the former, a 32-gunner, rated as the finest American warship of her time, and under command of Captain John Manley; and the latter, a 24-gunner, under Captain Hector McNeil. Both of these captains were high above Jones on the Marine Committee's list, and much was expected of them.

Manley, you recall, was the one-time Royal Navy boatswain and Marblehead fisherman who had served well enough in Washington's mosquito fleet, but whom Jones had protested "not fit to command a frigate." McNeil, a salty Celt, had been a good merchant captain, but knew little of naval warfare.

Sailing as a team, the two Yankee warships put out, leading a squadron of nine Massachusetts privateers. Late in June, off Newfoundland Banks, the squadron overhauled H.M.S. Fox, a brand new 28-gunner. A broadside from Boston and a raking blast from Hancock, and Fox was captured.

Manley decided the squadron should head toward Halifax, and McNeil protested. They ought to go to the West Indies-the enemy. were thicker than fleas around Halifax. On this point both captains remained at loggerheads. Then Manley pulled rank; the squadron headed north.

Sloppy seas. Fog. Then on July 6, Hancock ran straight into H.M.S. Rainbow, battleship, with the brig Viper bringing up the rear. Sir George Collier, captain of the Rainbow, opened fire at once. Unwilling to risk fight with a two-decker, Manley crowded sail on Hancock to run. Rainbow gave chase like a thundercloud.

Manley signaled Boston for support. But McNeil had his own hands full, with H.M.S. Flora arriving over the horizon to cut him off. The chase lasted through one night, a foggy day, another night.

Flora, cutting in, recaptured Fox. Boston and Hancock became separated. Rainbow overhauled Hancock on the third day, and the battle was on.

Hancock's men fought desperately, giving the big Britisher broadside for broadside. But they couldn't stand off the two-decker. Down came Hancock' s foremast in a crash of flaming canvas. One after another the Yankee gunners fell. Viper sailed in for the kill, and Hancock was lost. Down came her colors through the smoke. Marblehead Manley had lost his frigate.

McNeil escaped with Boston and took home news of the defeat. Hancock had been the pride of New England, and her loss was a stunning blow.

The public raged, blaming McNeil and demanding his court-martial. He was weighed, found wanting, and dismissed from the service. But today you can see that the fault was not so much McNeil's alone as lack of team-work. First, lack of teamwork between the States. Then lack of team-work between the Marine Committee and the Navy. Finally, lack of team-work between the early American captains.

Meantime young Captain Biddle down in Charleston was doing a better job. Randolph's masts having been stepped in, Biddle headed her out for the Gulf Stream where he promptly caught a convoy of enemy merchantmen and captured four ships including one with 20 guns. But something was wrong with Randolph, and he had to put in for another overhaul.

A successful crossing to France with diplomatic messages followed, and he was again in Charleston where the Carolinians contributed four gunboats as a cruising squadron. Biddle headed straight for the West Indies to raid British traffic.

On March 7, 1778, Randolph was off the island of Barbadoes, slipping along through early morning mist. Suddenly, like a ghost-ship from nowhere, a huge battleship loomed dead ahead in the fog. Randolph's lookout identified her as H.M.S. Yarmouth, 64 guns! No chance to signal the gunboats for support.

No chance to run. Captain Biddle could only open fire point blank. And with Randolph's guns outnumbered exactly two-to-one, he could only hope to wound this sea leviathan. Boom! Randolph blazed a broadside.

Boom! Yarmouth's guns returned fire. Began a fierce slugging match-frigate vs. battleship--on a par with CL fighting BB in this modern day. Or, in ringside parlance; it was comparable to middleweight against heavyweight, and Biddle knew his only chance was to dodge the enemy's haymakers, close in, and grapple.

He called for boarders and rushed forward to lead. A bullet struck his leg. Flashing his cutlass, he ordered his men to hoist him in a chair. And they were carrying him forward, cheering for the charge, when a shot struck Randolph's powder magazine.

The American frigate vanished in one, single thunderclap of fire.

The little Carolina gunboats, barking in to join the fight, fell back stunned. Randolph was gone. Captain Biddle was gone.

Picked up five days later from a floating piece of driftwood, one solitary survivor lived to tell the tale.

Low Ebb

Loss of two brand new frigates, Hancock and Randolph, would have been enough to stagger the newborn American Navy. But that wasn't all. Throughout 1777, the Royal Navy had been coming across the Atlantic like a herd of whales to run down a school of little mackerel. Blow after blow they struck the American Continentals.

They captured the new frigate Delaware in the Delaware River before she ever put to sea. The nen frigate Congress had to be destroyed at New York to save her from capture by Lord Howe. Montgomery. another of the new warships, was similarly scuttled in the Hudson River. Early in 1778, the frigate Washington was burned in Delaware Bay to save her from capture. The new frigate Effingham was destroyed at her berth in the same bay shortly afterward.

Five new warships lost before they started. Two more lost in action at sea. Why, the new navy was hardly launched, and-half its ships were gone! Now how about the rest?

Well, not long after Randolph was lost in the Caribbean, Captain Joseph Olney set out from Boston with the American brig, Cabot. Off Nova Scotia he was sighted by H.M.S. Milford, chased ashore, forced to run Cabot aground and leave her ignominiously on the beach.

About the same time, the new frigate Virginia put out from Annapolis. She was commanded by James Nicholson, another of those wire-pulled figures who was appointed over the head of John Paul Jones.

What happened ? Well, Nicholson was short on navigation, and the first night out he ran Virginia slam on to a Maryland shoal. She lost her rudder, and Captain Nicholson lost his trousers. For when dawn came, it revealed a British warship on the horizon. And with Virginia stuck fast on the reef, Nicholson went overside into a small boat so fast he forgot his pants.

While this character in underdrawers raced for shore and safety, a young lieutenant named Joshua Barney tried to save Virginia by running up sail and ordering all hands to man a jury rudder. The crew promptly mutinied, overpowered Barney, and broke into the liquor stores. When the British warship closed in, she found Virginia sitting with closed gun-ports, her crew carousing like a cheap clambake. The cheesy crew surrendered Virginia without firing a shot.

And to top off this burlesque performance, Captain Nicholson came clowning down the bay next day under a flag of truce to beg the British to return his trousers. Funny, you think? Well, the date was April, 1778, when John Paul Jones was fighting his head off overseas and capturing Drake.

Now Nicholson had been No. 1 in the long list of appointments which by-passed Jones. So the Marine Committee was in no temper to take shenanigans from Thomas Thompson, another high on the list.

Thompson commanded the new frigate Raleigh. He had officered a slaver in the old days, and he knew how to handle a ship-in peacetime.

Raleigh was a fine 32-gunner, and for partner she set sail with the old flagship Alfred. The two ships headed for the Caribbean, then over to France.

On the way, Thompson ducked out of a skirmish with H.M.S. Druid-chased away by a little corvette carrying 22 guns. Alfred's commander, Captain Hinman, openly criticised this tactic, and the two captains reached France with a ripening grudge.

They came back across the Atlantic, a bickering team. On March 9, two British ships were sighted. Alfred, nearest, sailed over to attack, discovering them to be two sloops. The sloops accepted the challenge, rushing at Alfred with flaming guns. Hinman, expecting Thompson to bring Raleigh into the battle, anticipated easy victory. Thompson didn't join battle. Instead, he sailed right on past the fighting ships, and made for the horizon.

Slow old Alfred was chopped to pieces, and after a desperate battle Hinman struck his flag. The two British sloops then set out to catch Raleigh. The new frigate had plenty of fire power, but Thompson, himself, didn't have a spark. Crowding on sail, he ran.

The little sloops chased him half way home to Portsmouth while he jettisoned gear and guns to lighten ship. He made Portsmouth all right, but he never served in another naval vessel. Court martial for Thomas Thompson.

So the record goes in 1778 for the American Continental Navy. And as a final blow the Navy was to lose Raleigh.

With Thompson dismissed, the frigate was assigned to Captain John Barry, .a two-fisted Irishman up from the merchant marine. Barry had been skipper of Black Prince, the freighter which was converted into Alfred. To repay Barry for the loss of his merchantman, the Marine Committee commissioned him a naval captain, and gave him the little 16-gun sloop, Lexington.

About the time Hopkins was cruising off the Bahamas, Barry took Lexington down Delaware Bay and handily captured the British 8-gun sloop Edward. The Marine Committee rewarded him by appointing him captain of Effingham, then building.

As previously mentioned, this ship had to be destroyed to keep her from falling to the enemy when the British blockaded the Delaware and closed in on Philadelphia. John Barry made a desperate effort to raise and repair Effingham right under the Red Coats' eyes. It was hopeless, and he applied for another ship. Under the circumstances reported, he got Raleigh.

Barry rushed to Boston where Raleigh was waiting. He wag delighted with the frigate, and readied her to sail at once. She put out of Boston on September 25, 1778, and her first day out, at 1200, sighted two enemy warships.

These were H.M.S. Experiment, a big two-decker carrying 50 guns, and H.M.S. Unicorn, a 22-gun sloop-of-war. Raleigh's 32 guns were no match for this pair, so Barry had to light out.

He headed north for misty water, and the two Briton5 took off after him. For two days the chase went on. Then, just as Barry thought he'd got Raleigh away, he sighted islands dead ahead, and had to veer off on a wide tack seaward. The enemy made a tangent to bisect his course.

Unicorn, fast and vicious, came up first. Raleigh fought her off the quarter, blasting at the Briton with savage accuracy. But these English Jacks were good, and although hard hit, punched a salvo at Raleigh that wrecked her fore-topmast. This slowed Barry's ship in maneuver, and he swung in to make it a slugging match, hoping to wreck the sloop before the battleship arrived.

In twilight gloom the battle roared, but the sloop out-dodged the slower Raleigh, and fired signals for Experiment to snap into it. The big two-decker came up like Fate, and at 1700 was lobbing cannon balls at Raleigh. No chicken-hearted Thompson or Nicholson, Barry had his men fighting like wildcats, and for nine hours the action lasted hot and heavy. Then, his ship a shambles, his chances hopeless, Barry headed straight for the islands and rammed the frigate hard on the rocks.

While Barry and most of the crew escaped through the woods, the Britons sailed in and captured what was left of Raleigh.

Submarines! Torpedoes!

Low ebb. Very low. No wonder the Mother Country thought she'd won the war. On the land and on the sea the Americans had been badly beaten throughout 1778. Look at the Continental Navy-ships scuttled or captured--captains gone by the board. Look at the American Army-

Well, Burgoyne had been trounced the year before, but the enemy still held New York and Philadelphia, tightening the grip. Through the January blizzards of 1778, George Washington had been stymied in Pennsylvania, his troops barefoot, starving, huddled like a gypsy camp at Valley Forge. Food, clothing, weapons, munitions-the Americans lacked everything.

"These are the times that try men's souls," wrote Thomas Paine, while the Red Coat officers danced in Philadelphia, Washington's troopers died of pneumonia, and American money sank so low that all the mint could coin was the phrase, "Not worth a Continental." The Americans were in dire need, the Revolution at lowest ebb.

Now, you've heard that Necessity is the mother of Invention. Did you know that an American invented a SUBMARINE during the Revolutionary War? And TORPEDOES?

The record rivals anything from Jules Verne, and is one of the most fantastic stories in naval history.

The inventor's name was David Bushnell. A Connecticut Yankee, he was one of those idea men whose thoughts explore ahead of their time. He had gone to Yale College to study philosophy and come back with his head full of filberts-so his neighbors said.

Bushnell wanted to build a boat, but not an ordinary boat. For boats, as everyone knew, were built for the sole purpose of sailing on the water. But Bushnell's boat, he declared, was going to sail under the water.

Now who the devil ever heard of such a thing? Certainly not the hard-headed Yankees of Connecticut. They tapped their foreheads when they mentioned David Bushnell. But Bushnell, tapping his forehead, built the boat.

He called her the Marine Turtle or The Maine Torpedo, and she was the whackiest craft ever launched. The natives regarded her with their mouths open. They didn't know that Leonardo da Vinci, three hundred years before, had drawn up plans for a similar submarine. The Marine Turtle looked like a turtle. She was built of oak, her hull covered over in resemblance to a turtle's shell. Air inside, Bushnell said, made her buoyant. That was all right. But he proposed to dive her under water by a sort of fin-like contraption where her keel should be. Craziest of all, where a turtle had a tail, this Marine Turtle had a sort of screw which was turned by a hand crank inside. That was supposed to make her go! And to top it off, she had a big auger at her prow, which thrust out like a turtle's head. Could you beat it? Bushnell figured he could sneak along underwater and come alongside some vessel and bore a hole in her hull. Then he could stick a bomb in the hole and run.

That was in 1776. Bushnell made a trial run before Governor Trumbull of Connecticut, who was impressed enough to send him to New York. That winter the amazing thing happened. Marine Turtle waddled down New York Bay, dived, crept up to a British ship anchored on blockade, and tried to bore in. Unforeseen obstacle-the ship bad a copper bottom! Turtle's auger could not chew into the metal, and the bit broke off. But one of Turtle's underwater bombs exploded, and scared the enemy galley-west.

Late in 1777, with the British surrounding Philadelphia, Bushnell made another submarine run down the Delaware. As might be expected, poor Turtle submerging blindly, came a-cropper and cracked up. That the Turtle succeeded as well as she did was the amazing thing. Then, even more amazing, the Marine Committee refused to deal further with Bushnell's idea.

Cold water poured on his submarine, he now proposed another startling innovation-his torpedoes. These were simple devices, merely powder kegs with contact triggers attached, much like mines. But Bushnell's ingenious scheme was to launch them at the enemy, rather than have them moored where ships might run into them. Launch them? Well, they didn't have engines, but tide was to be the motive power. Let them sail down the Delaware on the racing current-dozens of these hair-trigger kegs-and they'd slam into the British blockaders at river-mouth and blow the enemy ships to blazes.

Late in December of that discouraging winter, about one hundred of Bushnell's torpedoes were launched at the enemy. More Fate! That night the weather fell far below zero! The river, scummed with ice, went slow and sluggish. In the morning the torpedoes, caught in the freeze, went crawling downstream like flies in molasses. The British saw them inching along, and thought some American supply barge had capsized. Watchers were set to fend them off with boat hooks. Several were picked up by the English crews. And one enterprising boatswain, setting out to capture one from the ice, was blown to Kingdom Come.

The episode became known as the Battle of the Powder Kegs, and Bushnell was laughed at, kidded, and jeered. Wide publication was given a poem about the affair. Here's some of it:

'Twas early day as poets say,
Just as the sun was .rising,
A soldier stood on a log of wood
And saw a sight surprising.

As in amaze he stood to gaze,
The truth can't be denied, sir,
He spied a score of kegs or more,
Come floating down the tide, sir.

Now up and down throughout the town
Most frantic scenes were acted,
And some ran here and some ran there
Like men almost distracted.

"Therefore prepare for bloody war
These kegs must all be routed,
Or surely we despised shall be,
And British courage doubted!"

The cannon roar from shore to shore,
The small arms loud do rattle,
Since time began, I'm sure no man,
E'er saw so strange a battle.

Ridicule followed laughter. Bushnell could hardly appear on the street but 'what someone shouted verbal brickbats. The Marine Committee wouldn't see him. This patriot who had invented the first American submarine, the first contact torpedo, was laughed out of the war. He changed his name, retired to the backwoods of Georgia and became a country schoolteacher, embittered and forgotten.

Vive La France!

You begin to see the Revolutionary War was no walk-away for the Americans. Truth is, it was a long, hard, desperate struggle, and the Americans nearly lost. They might, indeed, have lost had not the French come in as an ally. As related, France joined sides with America in the spring of 1778. Franklin's genial diplomacy, Burgoyne's defeat, and Jones' victory over Drake were prime factors in winning France as an ally. Also, France had been at odds with Great Britain for years, especially since the loss of Canada.

But another, deeper motive brought France to America's aid. For all her royalist exterior, France was becoming democratic. In other words, the people were turning against the Old World system of monarchy, and hoping for a more liberal government. Writers like Voltaire were fighting for freedom of thought and speech. "I may disagree with what you say," wrote Voltaire, "but I will defend to the death your right to say it." Many Frenchmen cheered the American Revolution from the starting gun, and volunteered valuable aid.

Every schoolboy knows about Lafayette who crossed over to offer his services to Washington. But there were two other Frenchmen who worked overtime for the American cause, and did even more than Lafayette.

One was Beaumarchais, a writer, musician, merchant, diplomat, and liberal thinker in the champion class. He raised money in France for the American cause. He contributed heavily from his own pocket. He ran a secret organization "'which sent supplies overseas to George Washington. Between 1776-77, he shipped 30,000 rifles, 200 cannons, munitions, tents, provisions which reached America just in time to save the patriot army.

Hats off to Beaumarchais! He gave his entire fortune to America, and when he died he was in actual poverty.

The other Frenchman was Vergennes, the Foreign Minister. From the first he urged the King of France to aid the American republic. He ran diplomatic interference for the Americans around Europe, and helped Franklin openly. Through Vergennes, Franklin was able to procure for John Paul Jones the Bonhomme Richard. This vessel was a venerable old hulk from the merchant service-a ship already condemned by the insurance companies, believe it or not-an old tramp named the Duras.

Her hull was barnacled, her decks were blistered, her sails 'were rotten, and her hold was a dark jungle of rats. But she was a 900-tonner, might be converted into a two-decker, and had room for guns. Jones, rushing to L'Orient to take her over was happy to accept anything that could sail. After a year ashore in Paris (snared in red tape) he was raring to get to sea.

He took command of Duras with bursting energy. During his lay-off in Paris, he'd studied naval architecture, and he set to work to make this hulk a battleship. It was tough going. But he ripped out wormy woodwork, tore up decks, installed gun mounts, applied paint. When she was done he christened her Bonhomme Richard, in honor of Poor Richard's Almanac.

Now his troubles began-first, the guns. The Ministry of Marine was low on ordnance; so they gave him a clutter of museum pieces that 'wouldn't have done credit to a Chinese junk. No matter-he got them cleaned, patched together, mounted. Liners were worn away and the cannon balls wouldn't fit? All right, the gunners would have to smear tar or putty on the round shot and make them fit.

Now for the crew-and what a crew! Sweepings of the French seaport towns. Malays. Portuguese. Lascars. A gang of British prisoners. It would take more than tar and putty to correct these misfits. But you could shape them into some resemblance of a crew-if you were John Paul Jones.

Among them (the crew numbered some 227 men) there were eighty Americans, former war prisoners released in the Drake exchange. These Jones used as the nucleus of his crew. One was Richard Dale, a young patriot who served under Barry and had been captured early in the war. He talked Paul Jones' language, so Jones made him his first officer.

Such was the Bonhomme Richard and of such stuff was her crew-a castaway ship full of castaways. Then, incongruously, the French government assigned to Jones a four-ship squadron to sail with Richard-French warships Alliance, Pallas, Vengeance, and Cerf.

Here was political idiocy. For Alliance was a brand new American-built frigate-which the Continental Congress had donated to France. The French had put her under the command of Pierre Landais, an officer previously dismissed from the French Navy for insubordination! Now it ,wasn't enough that Paul Jones had to sail in ratty old Richard for his flagship. Landais at once wanted to be admiral. Strutting like a rooster, he tried to run the cruise; then he turned sour and sullen when Jones took command.

The other French captains, notably Denis Cottineau in command of Pallas, were anxious to cooperate with Jones. Not Landais. June 18th, the ships put out for a trial run. The second night out, Paul Jones signaled for a maneuver. Landais ignored the signal. Richard was crossing Alliance's bow. Landais refused to give way, and smashed straight into Jones' ship--a collision that wrecked Richard's jib and cracked Alliance's mizzenmast.

In white fury, Jones called Landais on the mat. Landais said he'd misread the signals. The ships had to limp into L'Orient for repairs. A lucky break, really, for it was then Jones picked up the Americans for his crew. Unlucky, too, for just before the squadron sailed again, Jones was directed by the French Ministry to share his authority with the four French captains. Landais had pulled some back-stage wires.

Imagine Paul Jones' feelings as the squadron once more set sail (August 14, 1770). Deprived of top rank-Richard, a wormy, old tub armed with castoff guns-a crew like the workmen of Babel-a cruise with every captain commodore, especially pompous Landais. Only the eighty Yankees, valiant young Lieutenant Dale, and honest French Captain Cottineau kept the thing from utter nightmare. Jaw set, thoughts dead ahead, Jones set the Bonhomme Richard's course for England.

Bonhomme Richard and Serapis

Everything went wrong. Richard proved slow and leaky. Landais bickered over the course and insulted Paul Jones to his face. The Frenchmen voted down a plan Jones devised to attacking enemy shipping off Scotland. In a fog, Cerf turned tail and made for home.

Doggedly Jones went on. Nothing could stop him now-and early morning, September 23, Richard's lookout sighted a fleet of forty merchantmen skirting Flamborough Head, on the English coast. Jones "Sailed in to attack. The vessels were under convoy of British warships-Countess of Scarborough, a 20-gunner, and Serapis, a brand-new frigate carrying 50 guns. Jones signalled his squadron for battle formation, and headed Richard straight for Serapis.

But Pierre Landais held Alliance back, deliberately stalling. Vengeance, smallest of the French warships, dashed in to attack the English merchantmen-and sent them scattering for cover. Only Captain Cottineau followed Jones' signal, and brought Pallas in line to do battle ..

Richard sailed right up to Serapis which was waiting as though astonished by the boldness of this approaching tramp.

"What ship is that?" Captain Pearson of Serapis challenged.

Jones didn't answer.

H.M.S. Serapis hailed again.

Still Jones refused reply. Richard was almost abreast of Serapis now-beam to beam. Then suddenly both ships fired simultaneously-a volcanic, double broadside. The roar clouded both ships with smoke.

As the thunder rolled aside, there were screams from Richard's main-deck, jets of flames bursting from below. Two of the shabby main-battery cannon had exploded, slaying their American gun crews and firing the ship.

Now Serapis unleashed another broadside that struck Richard hard amidships. The old rag wagon reeled at the blast. There was hell below decks, guns blown from their mountings, splinters flying, pandemonium, flames, smoke. Young Dale, serving as gunnery officer, strove to keep the crews at their posts. The American gunners fought on, cheering. But the Portuguese and Lascars ran riot. Serapis' round shot came tearing through Richard's rotten hull as if it were cardboard. Another battery was shot away. Another. Richard, out-gunned from the start, lost every big gun she owned in the first few moments of battle. Dale rushed his gunners topside to man the secondary batteries.

Secondary batteries? The spar-deck was shot to hell'n-gone. Serapis, maneuvering swiftly, was raking Poor Richard at will, pouring a tornado of metal that swept the aged vessel from stern to stem. A great crater yawned in Richard's foredeck and sides where the exploding batteries below had burst her timbers. Men lay slaughtered from scupper to scupper, half buried under sprawls of rigging and burning canvas. Dale found only three cannon in action-three little 9-pounders-all that remained of Richard's rummage-sale artillery!

But those three little cannon were thumping. Paul Jones, a fierce, smoke-blackened figure, was serving as pointer for one of them on the quarterdeck. Serapis would thunder a broadside, and Jones' guns would crack like a horse-pistol, firing puny shots at Serapis' mainmast. Those shots were hitting, though. And the other two guns were smacking Serapis with rounds of grape and canister.

Meantime Jones was swinging Richard closer and closer to the Briton, trying to lock alongside and grapple. Once the ships collided for a moment, but the British Marines shot Jones' men away from the cat-heads, the great grappling irons tore loose, and the vessels drifted apart. But a moment later, Jones drove Richard squarely under the enemy's bow, and Serapis' jib boom rammed through the shrouds of Richard's mizzenmast.

Racing through a hail of bullets, Jones led a squad of sailors amidships, and with a heavy hawser succeeded in lashing the enemy's bowsprit to Richard's shrouds.

Serapis, her nose caught fast in Richard's rigging, was unable to break away, and Jones sent his riflemen aloft to pepper the Briton's spar-deck. Tied together like bulldog and mastiff, the two ships wrestled in a pall of smoke and flame. The mangey mastiff snarled and snapped. The British bulldog chawed and roared. One broadside after another ripped through Richard's hull until her main deck was shot completely out, her ribs were exposed, and only a miracle seemed to keep her whole upper deck from collapsing into her fiery interior. If there'd been a sea running, the old hulk would have swamped at first comber, but now she clung to Serapis like a burning sponge. The wild battle went on.

There were guns going off to northward where Pallas was fighting the Countess of Scarborough. But where was Alliance? Why didn't Landais come up?

No matter-Jones was too busy to worry about Landais. He was starboard, larboard, all over Richard's tottering deck, directing the gunners, shouting encouragement, running repair crews, aiming the 9-pounders.

In the midst of which, Richard's master-at-arms rushed up in sudden, mad panic, and tried to haul down the American flag, screaming, "Surrender! Quarter! Quarter I"

Paul Jones wheeled, snatched a pistol from his belt, and hurled it at the man, knocking him flat. But the cry echoed shrill and the English beard it. Captain Pearson hailed to know if Jones was surrendering.

"No!" John Paul Jones trumpeted back. '''I HAVE NOT YET BEGUN TO FIGHT!"

The battle roared on-impossibly, incredibly, against all odds. Richard should -have sunk long ago. She should have struck long ago. But the shattered vessel with the undaunted captain fought harder than ever, hitting Serapis with bullets, canister, grapeshot, grenades. The enemy staggered under this fusillade. Her mainmast was cracking. Her gun crews began to wilt. It was Serapis, now, who looked done in.

And suddenly a ship loomed through the smoke off Richard's beam. At last! Alliance! The Americans set up a wild cheer. Then the cheer was drowned by a tremendous roar from Alliance's guns-a terrific broadside that boomed like the thunder of cataclysm. THAT BROADSIDE WAS AIMED AT THE BONHOMME RICHARD! The blast lifted Jones' ship almost out of the sea, And when the riddled hulk settled back, only one thing alone seemed to keep her afloat. The unsinkable spirit of John Paul Jones!

Weeping in rage, the Americans saw treacherous Landais sail coolly off-no doubt that he had tried to sink Paul Jones. On top of this disaster, one of Richard's terrorized crew released the English prisoners in the forepeak, and they came pouring up out of a hatch like wildmen, convinced Richard was going down.

She was going down. Paul Jones sprang at the rioters with a brace of pistols, shouting, "Man the pumps. It's your only chance to keep afloat. Serapis is sinking, too!"

Richard Dale, at Jones' elbow drove the prisoners to the task-the ruse worked. To Serapis' captain it must have seemed a nightmare, for the ship he had reduced to wreckage went on fighting like a bloody spectre.

Discouragement took Serapis' crew. Clinging high in Richard's rigging, Yankee snipers kept up a deadly fire that drove the enemy tars from their guns. Sharpshooters began swinging over into Serapis' cross trees. One of Jones' sailors, a lad named Hands (or Hamilton) crawled out on a yardarm with a bucket of grenades." "On his own initiative," as Jones described later, he clung to this hazardous perch and began flinging his bombs at an open hatchway in Serapis' deck far below.

Down the hatch! A grenade struck home, and exploded a cartridge dump on Serapis' lower deck. Barn-Barn-Bam! There was a series of terrific blasts as the explosion jumped from gun to gun, setting off one powder box after another. As Serapis' gunners rushed topside to escape this holocaust, Jones' boarders swarmed over the rail, attacking with pike and cutlass.

Then "while pitched battle raged hand to hand, the Americans were dumfounded by the sight of Alliance circling in again. There could be no mistake. No chance for error. And once more Landais fired point blank at the Bonhomme Richard-two broad rides this time!-killing Jones' men right and left.

Unbelievable as was this treachery, its outcome remains one d history's most incredible episodes. For firing at Jones' ship was like shooting at a skeleton. Alliance's broadsides went clean through Richard's ribs, and some 01 those cannon balls struck Serapis. The English, unaware of Landais' double-cross, thought Alliance was shooting at them. Stunned at the prospect of fighting a fresh ship, Captain Pearson called, "Surrender!" and with his own hands hauled down Serapis' flag. The battle was over. The Bonhomme Richard had won.

Rather, it was the Americans who had won. For a ship is no more than the men aboard her, and poor old Richard was nothing-a tramp to begin with-a wreck to end with-and so beat up at the last that shortly after her crew was transferred to Serapis, she sank like a stone: carrying her flag down with her.

A stone? A monument. A monument to fighting American Navy men-to Seaman Hands (or was it Hamilton?)-to Lieutenant Richard Dale-to Captain John Paul Jones of the American Revolution.

Counter-Blockade

The Richard-Serapis battle was the last big sea engagement fought by the American Continental Navy. At the end of 1779 there was little of that navy left. Captains ""ere lacking, crews preferred to sail on money-making privateers j there was no money for building new vessels, and such warships as remained were badly handled.

Bungling was inevitable. For the Continental Navy was a body without a head. No Commander-in-Chief had been appointed after the dismissal of old Esek Hopkins, and the Marine Committee was a political, not a military headquarters. Typical result was the fantastic beaching of John Paul Jones.

Colors flying, he headed captured Serapis for France, then was forced by a North Sea storm to make port in Holland. There, at the Texel, he rushed dispatches to Paris, describing the treachery of Captain Landais and demanding Landais' court-martial.

Alliance had meantime returned to L'Orient, and Landais' own junior officers had written to the American Commission, reporting their French captain a megalomaniac unfit for a command. Benjamin Franklin promptly ordered Landais ashore and demanded Paul Jones be put in command of Alliance.

When Jones finally brought Serapis down-coast to France, he found himself an international hero. He was knighted by the King of France, who presented him a sword. Paris cheered him to its rooftops. And the Continental Congress in America awarded him a vote of thanks.

But when he took command of Alliance, it was to find Franklin's order countermanded. By whom? By Mr. Arthur Lee! Franklin bad left Paris, and this Arthur Lee, this loud-talker, had been "got to" by Pierre Landais. Wherefore Commissioner Lee decided that since Landais had been made captain of Alliance by the Continental Congress in America, only that distant authority could remove Landais. So Landais was returned by Mr. Lee to Alliance's quarterdeck, with orders to sail her to America. And John Paul Jones was stranded.

He argued. Appealed. Wrote letters that almost burned up the dispatch bags. First he'd lost command of Ranger to a mutineer. Now he was beached in favor of a zany who had nearly blown Richard to pieces.

It was no consolation to learn that Landais, sailing Alliance to America, went raving insane and had to be confined by his officers. Yes, Landais reached Boston a blithering lunatic-which explains his ghastly conduct during the Serapis battle. But it didn't get Paul Jones his ship.

For months Jones waited around Paris, a celebrity to the French, a bane to the American Commission. But he finally obtained the little 20-gun sloop, Ariel, and raced for America. The Marine Committee had promised him command of the battleship America when she was finished, and he'd never forgotten that promise. He sailed into Philadelphia, his heart high.

Philadelphia roared welcome. The Continental Congress received him with honors. But he didn't get America. Just as she was ready to sail, Fate struck him a final blow. A French warship was lost off Boston. So the Continental Congress voted to give the new battleship to the King of France.

There was no other ship for John Paul Jones. He was stranded throughout the remainder of the war, and at its close he took sail for Europe where he volunteered in the Russian Navy.

Now a word on behalf of the French-don't confuse them with crazy Landais. With the American Continental Navy petering out, the French fleet was coming over to smash the Royal Navy's blockade just in the nick.

Merely the threat of French aid had forced the Red Coats to withdraw from Philadelphia in the spring of 1778. Washington had tried to trap the Red Coat army as it retreated overland across Jersey, falling on its flank at Monmouth. The Red Coats took a thrashing, but managed to escape the trap.

Monmouth was the last major land battle in the north, the enemy concentrating thereafter on Virginia and the Carolinas. There they met up with such hardy characters as' Marion the Swamp Fox, Nathaniel Greene, and Lighthorse Harry Lee. These patriots and their men fought delaying actions, giving French aid a chance to arrive.

Meantime the American Continental Navy made a few more tries. In September 1779, Dudley Saltonstall took a fleet up the Penobscott in Maine to attack a British supply base. Against advice of his officers, he dropped anchor and delayed attack. Next day, a British squadron arrived to defend the base. Whereupon Saltonstall ran his ships aground and burned them without firing a shot. He was summarily court-martialled.

At Charleston the following year four American warships-Providence, Boston, Queen of France, Ranger-were trapped in the harbor, and surrendered helplessly.

Three large Federal ships remained to the Americans-Saratoga, Trumbull, and Confederacy. Saratoga foundered at sea in 1781. Confederacy, under Captain Seth Harding, ran into H.M.S. Rae• buck and H.M.S. Orpheus down in the West Indies. Harding was compelled to surrender. And Trumbull, commanded by James Nicholson lost her canvas in a tremendous battle off the Delaware Capes with H.M.S. Iris and H.M.S. General Monk. This time Nicholson was captured-ship, pants, and all.

So the Revolutionary Navy faded out of the picture like ships drifting away in evening fog.

Four great sea captains deserve further mention. These were Wickes, Barry, Conyngham, and Barney. Although they served on and off in the Federal Navy, they won greatest fame as Revolutionary privateers.

Lambert Wickes was the captain who ran the blockade to take Benjamin Franklin to France. Later, as a raider, he took many a merchantman from England.

Barry, after losing Raleigh, went out on a privateer and harried British shipping all the way across the Atlantic. In the last days of the war he commanded Alliance, replacing Landais. Cruising as a raider, he captured a half dozen enemy vessels, including the sloops Atlanta and Trepassy.

Gustavus Conyngham, another Irish-born patriot, took his privateer, Revenge, on all kinds of excursions. Sailing in and out of French, Spanish, and Portuguese ports, Conyngham captured over sixty enemy merchantmen. These prizes paid the costs of the American diplomatic missions in Europe throughout the war.

As for Joshua Barney, his record reads like a magazine adventure serial. He, you remember, was the naval lieutenant who tried to save Virginia after Nicholson ran her aground in the Chesapeake. The British captured him, then released him in a prisoner exchange-to their regret.

At once Barney signed aboard a big privateer, Pomona. After she crossed to France and back, capturing two rich prizes, Barney reentered the Federal service as lieutenant on the new sloop, Saratoga. Down to the West Indies, and Saratoga captured a big, armed Indiaman, Charming Molly. Josh Barney was made captain of this vessel Heading north, Molly ran into a tropical hurricane, the same storm that sank Saratoga. While Barney fought to keep his prize afloat, a British battleship took him captive.

He was sent to England on a convict ship, and, after a grim voyage, was jailed in Old Mill Prison at Plymouth. Barney tunneled out. Aided by the English underground (there were many Englishmen in sympathy with the American cause) he secured a British naval uniform and a fishing boat. With two other Yankees, he set out for France.

They were skimming on their way when-thunderation!-they were stopped by a big British privateer. Her skipper hailed to know Barney's business. "Nobody's business!" said Barney, standing bold in his British epaulets. "I sail on secret mission for the King!" But the privateer captain demanded papers, and insisted the fishing smack put back to Plymouth.

At Plymouth Barney escaped ashore, and lay hidden for three weeks in a garret. From there the underground sneaked him to London, and he obtained a passenger ship to the Netherlal,1ds. On the Channel crossing, he offered first aid to a seasick lady, who repaid him by inviting him to call on her in Brussels. Barney called, and found himself having tea with European royalty-including Emperor Joseph of Austria!

With this sort of luck, he was soon sailing for Spain where he caught a Yankee privateer, Boston-bound. So he reached America after two years absence. It sounds like Hollywood, but it's history.

These raiders did much to convince George III's War Office that the American Revolution was more than it could down. The supply lines to America were 3,000 miles long, and some 500 Yankee privateers were on the Atlantic by 1781, chopping at these lines. Upwards of 450 merchantmen were on Britain's missing list. With Barneys, Barrys, and Conynghams all over the sea, the Royal Navy had to loosen its blockade of the American coastline to obtain ships for convoy duty.

French sea power, then, was the telling blow. And as a cincher, French Foreign Minister Vergennes induced Spain and Holland to come in as America's allies. While Dutch and Spanish squadrons attacked in the West Indies, the French fleet sailed to Chesapeake Bay to blockade the Red Coats in Virginia.

It was too much for Lord Cornwallis, trying to hold the Yorktown peninsula. Baffled by George Washington, who'd fooled him. with a brilliant feint in the direction of New York, Cornwallis found himself facing Washington and Lafayette landward, with the sea at his back. His lordship expected Red Coat reinforcements by sea. Instead, French Admiral de Grasse sailed over the horizon, plus Admiral Rochambeau with 6,000 French troops.

American land and French naval forces attacked with beautiful team-work, and with De Grasse sealing up the Chesapeake, the Red-Coat goose was cooked. George Washington did it to a turn. After a desperate, losing battle, Cornwallis surrendered. It was October 19, 1781. The Americans had won their independence. Their new Ship of State was launched.

Sail On!

It took everything America could muster to keep the Ship of State afloat. During the ten years following the Revolution, the Americans did not have a Navy. The country was burdened with war debts, and there was no money to build warships as an escort for the Ship of State. Besides, many early Americans considered a navy a bid for colonial expansion, a means for undemocratic conquest. Others pointed to the poor showing of the Continental Navy, which had lost every one of its ships through mismanagement or disaster.

But President George Washington, captaining the new Ship of State, and John Adams, his executive officer, knew hat a navy was vitally necessary. Wars might come, piratical attacks from overseas aiming to drive the new republic from its democratic course. The place to stop such attacks was on the sea. Never give the pirates a chance to board. America must have a navy escort.

It takes time to build such a navy, and there were those at the start who resisted the new plan. During the 1780's John Paul Jones wasn't there.

He had entered the Russian Navy to serve Catherine the Great. Three times the country of his choice had passed him over for the like of Thompson, Nicholson, mutinous Simpson, and crazy Landais. Now Empress Catherine offered to make him admiral -Catherine who posed as liberal defender of Holy Russia in a war against the invading Turk.

Crusader at heart, Jones headed for St. Peterf5burg, traveling through Scandinavia in arctic weather and making an incredible passage across the Gulf of Finland in an open boat. A story in itself, this wild voyage-Jones sitting in the stern sheets with pistol and compass on knee, ordering the terrified boatmen to row him through night and blizzard over a sea of tumbling water and plunging icebergs.

He arrived in Catherine's court to find her a tyrant worse than Cleopatra,' for this was Czarist Russia, brutal and backward beyond imagination. True to contract, he took over a ratty fleet in the Black Sea, and by genius alone heat the Turks in the Battle of the Niemen.

By this feat he won the enmity of one-eyed Count Potemkin, Catherine's Prime Minister and special favorite. This cancerous character, jealous of Jones from the start, conspired to undermine the victorious admiral. Promising Jones command of the Baltic fleet, he sent him to Petrograd, and had him smeared in a scandal-so obvious a frame-up that even the Russian magi5trates dismissed the charge.

But to a man as sincere and square-cut as Paul Jones. this trickery was the last straw. There was no honor in Catherine's service. and he was glad to return to France.

He reached Paris in 1790. The French Revolution was on. Franklin had returned to America, old friends were scattered, others dead. In Russia, Jones had corresponded with Thomas Jefferson, who had encouraged him to hope for another commission in the American Navy. But the navy was now disbanded.

There was no job for a sailor. Jones felt himself a shadow on the sidelines. Governor Morris, the new American Minister, snubbed him. Paul Jones was tired, low in spirit, ill-he had never quite recovered from that desperate trip across the Gull of Finland.

On July 18th, 1792, he was found lying across his bed with his feet braced on the floor. John Paul Jones died with his boots on.

The French Revolution stormed in Paris, and the lonely naval captain was buried-and forgotten?

Not quite.

Little by little his story became known. As the years went by his genius became acknowledged. His ideas were incorporated in the American Navy's structure. His principles of leadership became fundamentals-standards to be met by every American naval officer.

Still, outside the Navy, he remained in strange obscurity. A century after his death he was only a vague legend in schoolbooks, a vague name to the general public. Fate seemed determined to bury him. Other Continental captains were publicly glorified. As late as 1900 Congress was urged to erect a monument to "The Father of the American Navy." The name proposed was not Jones.

Militarily he stood head and shoulders above the other Continental captains, the only one who never lost a battle or a ship. And one of the few who never sailed a privateer for profit, never faced a naval court of inquiry.

So at last he emerged from obscurity to take his rightful place in the Navy's history.

In 1905, at the instigation of President Theodore Roosevelt, a search ,vas made for Jones' grave by the American Ambassador in Paris, General Porter. Historians provided valuable clues, and after careful investigation, the grave was located in the old Protestant Cemetery of St. Louis. Excavations were made, and there, in a forgotten corner of Paris, the body was found in a lead coffin.

In July, 1905, a squadron of American warships brought the captain home to the United States. Today he lies in the Chapel of the Naval Academy of Annapolis. Fitting resting place for John Paul Jones, who who answered the hail to surrender with-

    "I HAVE NOT YET BEGUN TO FIGHT!"