by Tim McGrath
Taking his speaking trumpet, Rathbun hailed the Arethusa’s captain, inquiring if he had spotted any rebel privateers. They had, the man replied, but the Americans had been driven off. Rathbun invited him to come aboard for a visit. Ships in fleets of such size rarely knew their companions, and the captain had himself rowed to the Queen, where Rathbun offered him some tea and captivity, then sent a prize crew back with news of the captain’s surrender. Next he sent the Arethusa’s boat along with his own to another merchantman, repeating his invitation, and getting the same results.
Soon another ship was alongside the Queen of France—the Providence. Now it was Whipple’s turn to call across the water, ordering Rathbun to get under way and join the Providence in as subtle an escape as possible. Rathbun did not refuse his commodore—he merely pointed to his two prizes and asked permission to remain; the pickings were too easy to abandon; there were no signals between ships to alert the rest of the fleet of the danger they were in. Until a warship caught on to the act, the American foxes were in a very large—and thus far accommodating—British henhouse.
The man responsible for burning the Gaspee seven years before decided to join in the game. Soon Simpson followed suit. With pure bravado, the three ships sailed unobtrusively through the fleet chatting up captain after captain, taking ship after ship, manning them with skeleton prize crews and sending them homeward. The binge continued until evening, when the Providence captured a thirty-gun ship after a flurry of broadsides. But as the fleet was strewn across the Atlantic for miles, even this action did not give the Americans immediately away.38
Unbelievably, the Americans kept at it for three days, by which time the Ranger had separated from the frigates. At the end of the third day she was in hot pursuit of one last merchantman when two large sail came over the horizon, flying British colors and making straight for the Ranger and her prey. Simpson’s concern soon turned to relief when he made out Whipple’s signals from the Warren. With ten prizes accounted for, it was time to sail home before their incredible luck left them.39
No fewer than eight of the prizes reached Boston, where Whipple’s squadron received a tremendous welcome as they docked on August 24. The holds of the captured ships were full of rum, sugar, and cotton; there were 113 cannons behind the gun ports. The total value of Whipple’s haul topped a million dollars—not bad for two months’ cruising. Whipple even had a ballad written in his honor:
Come listen and I’ll tell you how first I went to sea,
To fight against the British and win our liberty.
We shipped with Captain Whipple who never knew a fear,
The Captain of the Providence, the Yankee privateer.40
On it went for six verses, adding color (in addition to erroneously calling the Providence a privateer) to what was as happy a tale of pluck as any in the war.41
On September 6, the Deane and Boston, accompanied by two of the thirteen prizes they had taken from the British that summer, including the Thorn, a sloop-of-war, sailed past Castle William, the fortress protecting Boston harbor, and docked at John Hancock’s wharf—the designated refitting station for all Continental vessels. But the gaiety and joy over Whipple’s arrival just two weeks earlier in Boston had turned dolorous; even Nicholson’s and Tucker’s great success could not overcome the disastrous news trickling in from Maine, at a place called Penobscot.42
Since the summer of 1778, John Paul Jones had been in France, watching the seasons change while his chances at fame and fortune dimmed. The notoriety he had achieved with the Whitehaven raid and victory over the Drake had lifted his spirits—and inflated his ego. Forgotten were the mishaps at Whitehaven and the near-comical kidnap attempt of the Earl of Selkirk. What the public remembered—as did Jones—was the panic he had put into play. In the weeks after his return to France, he had been congratulated by Benjamin Franklin, feted by Admiral d’Orvilliers, and taken under the wing of Louis Philippe Joseph, le Duc de Chartres, Grand Master of the French Masonic lodges. He even drew up his own coat of arms, ordering it engraved on a silver set he had purchased (perhaps inspired by Selkirk?).
Better yet, he learned from Franklin that l’Indien, the frigate he had been lusting for, was to be his. John Adams and Arthur Lee had been after Jones to turn the Ranger over to Simpson. With French Minister of Marine Antoine de Sartine’s assurances that l’Indien would shortly be in Brest, Jones happily declared his independence from both Simpson and the Ranger on the Fourth of July: “I will with your approbation not only pardon the past, but leave [Simpson] to command the Ranger,” he assured the commissioners, then accompanied them to a gala celebration of the Fourth at the Hôtel de Valentinois.43
While anxiously awaiting his frigate’s arrival, Jones divided his time between learning French, happily flirting with the ladies (which made the straitlaced John Adams jealous), and bombarding Franklin and Sartine with new plans to finish off Whitehaven, destroy the fishery at Cameltown, and take the Irish linen fleet. All he needed was “three very fast Sailing Frigates” and who knows? He might even destroy the coal industry at Newcastle, sending all Britain to shivering in the coming winter. He even sent George Washington a present: a pair of giant epaulets. “Command me without reserve,” he implored the general.44
But he did not get two more frigates; he did not even get l’Indien. The Dutch blamed slow construction, but the real reason was politics: they were not about to turn over such a warship to an American captain. Jones sought sympathy from the Comte d’Orvilliers only to find him preoccupied with his own disappointments. While Jones was in Paris, the admiral led his fleet in a battle against a British force under Admiral Keppel (HMS Victory, years later Nelson’s command, was Keppel’s flagship). After four days of angling for advantage, twenty-seven French ships-of-the-line formed a line of battle against thirty British vessels. The fleets traded broadsides and then parted company. D’Orvilliers was taken to task for not maintaining the fight, but Jones’s latest friend, de Chartres, took most of the blame once it was learned that he either misread or disobeyed d’Orvillier’s signals.45
When Jones had left Brest for Paris weeks earlier he believed he had d’Orvilliers and other French officials in his pocket. Now his reception was cold, and he soon learned why. Ever since Simpson was released from jail, he informed anyone who lent an ear that Jones had been dismissed from the Continental service. The sale of the Ranger’s prizes, including the Drake, had gone badly; Jones was enraged to see the uniforms of the Drake’s officers—including that of her dead captain—on sale in waterfront shop windows. Further, the two hundred prisoners Jones had brought into port had yet to be exchanged for American captives in English prisons. He poured out his frustrations to Franklin’s secretary, Edward Bancroft, interweaving with his travails a plan for attacking the British Isles, unaware that Bancroft relayed any useful information to the British Admiralty. Idle again, he told Bancroft, “If I had a Mistress here I have time enough on my hands to shew her Attention.”46
If Jones had gotten his wish and l’Indien had been his, the war might have ended very differently for him. Had he put his plans into action, he would most assuredly have sailed into a trap, and rivaled Gustavus Conyngham as England’s most famous prisoner. As before when Jones faced ennui, his petulant resentment rose to the surface. Returning to Paris, he learned that Abraham Whipple was at Brest with the Providence and asked him to arrange a court-martial for Simpson. To the prince of Nassau-Siegen, the nobleman sent to Amsterdam to bring l’Indien to France, Jones described himself as “cast off and Useless” and begged the prince to find him another ship. He referred to Arthur Lee as “the Wasp” and John Adams as “Mr. Roundface.” Finally, he beseeched King Louis himself, blending flattery (calling le Roi “the Protector of the Rights of Human Nature”) and umbrage (“I have been chained down to shameful activity for the Space of Five Months”) with hope (“You will not . . . suffer me to remaining longer in this insupportable disgrace”). Even
the attentions of Mme. de Chaumont did not alleviate his despair. Jones did not see himself as “on the beach” so much as marooned. Franklin, beset with his own sea of troubles, now saw Jones as a contentious boor.47
Ironically, it fell to Chaumont to rescue his wife’s lover. At first the French power broker offered Jones his privateer, l’Union. Desperate though he was for a command, Jones declined. He wanted a navy vessel. Outside of that, he had but one specific at this time, telling Chaumont, “I wish to have no Connection with any Ship that does not Sail fast; for I intend to go in harm’s way.”48
By November he was near despair over getting a command, when he heard from an Irishman in l’Orient, James Moylan, who had established a good working relationship with American captains and the commissioners in Paris. Moylan had found a ship: the Duc de Duras, an armed former East Indiaman. She was twelve years old—positively ancient by contemporary standards . . . but she was a ship.49
Jones left Paris for l’Orient in December to inspect the Duc. He found her huge but certainly slow, opulent but rotten—a maritime Miss Havisham. The Duc had a poop deck and a captain’s cabin below fit for an admiral, along with drawing and dining rooms to boot. She was 152' long with a 40' beam and 1,050 tonnage. With no frigates looming on Jones’s horizon, he described her as “a good character for Sailing and working” to Chaumont, and entreated Sartine to buy her. Believing himself his own best salesman, he left for Paris to plead his case.50
Once the king was informed that the Duc was no longer fit to serve les Companie des Indies, he declared her fit for John Paul Jones. The captain officially took command on February 4, 1779.51
But the fates were not through tormenting Jones’s mettle or ego. Before he left Paris to oversee the Duc’s refitting, he was subjected to one more embarrassment. Having endured the slings and arrows of Simpson, Lee, Adams, and the French court, the opposite sex now had its turn. Jones had gone to Passy to pay his respects to Mme. de Chaumont and Franklin. Once back in l’Orient, he received a letter from Franklin regarding his learning of a “mystery” in Jones’s life. The captain immediately jumped to the conclusion that Franklin had learned of his killing “the Ringleader” in Tobago years ago, and sent a detailed explanation of the incident, including why he added “Jones” to his name.
Upon reading the letter, Franklin became perplexed; it was not that incident at all, he replied, but a recent one: a local priest had gone to Franklin and Mme. de Chaumont to report that Jones had attacked the wife of the hotel gardener. According to the clergyman, Jones had “attempted to ravish her,” the priest titillating his listeners with details that Franklin found “not fit for me to write.” The woman’s grown sons planned to kill Jones, but he had already left for l’Orient.
Once Franklin investigated the allegation, his mood swung from worry to glee, “for the old Woman being one of the grossest, coarsest, dirtiest and ugliest that we may find in a thousand, Madame Chaumont said it gave a high Idea of the strength of Appetite and Courage of the Americans.” While Franklin dismissed the incident as a tall tale, Jones could hear the laughter from his patron and his mistress—laughter directed at him, not with him. Knowing what he knew of Paris, he was sure the fictional escapade was common knowledge.
The humor eluded the captain, who poured himself into converting the French merchantman into an American warship. He had already given her a new name, inspired by Franklin’s most popular writings, Poor Richard’s Almanack. As Jones oversaw the piercing of gun ports and the lading of stores, painters were at work on the stern, scraping off Duc de Duras and adding the name Bonhomme Richard.52
In 1779, two Americans—one young, one younger—signed on ships commanded by two very different Continental Navy captains. Nathaniel Fanning, twenty- four, was already an experienced sailor. A Connecticut merchant’s son, he had earlier gone to sea aboard a privateer, and been given a prize-master’s duties on his second voyage.
His third voyage was not as lucky. He had signed on as a junior officer for the privateer Angelica’s maiden voyage out of Boston in May 1778. On his twenty-third birthday she was captured by HMS Andromeda, bound for Portsmouth, England, whose list of passengers included General Sir William Howe. Once aboard the British warship, Fanning and his shipmates were asked by the general if they would be interested in joining the Royal Navy. When all refused, Howe declared, “You are a set of rebels, and it is more than probable you will be hanged.” Once the ship docked, Howe went off to meet with Lord North and his cousin King George; Fanning and the other Americans were sent to Forten Prison.
He found French as well as Americans imprisoned at Forten. For one full year he endured the rats, lice, foul water, and slop served as food, including bread laced with fine powdered glass. In June 1779 he and 120 others were exchanged for a like number of British prisoners. They arrived in Nantes, where they were welcomed by the townsfolk, singing their praises in French and treating them to a wondrous meal at l’Hôtel d’Orléans. From Nantes, Fanning made his way to l’Orient:
The town is not very large, and the dwelling houses are not so high nor so elegant . . . but the streets are pretty regular and well paved, and there is here an excellent dockyard and a long row of buildings which are founded upon the Key and make a fine appearance as one approaches the town from the sea. 53
It was here that Fanning met John Paul Jones. The captain told him of his intent to cruise to America and offered him a midshipman’s berth. Fanning learned from the ship’s crew that Jones was to first cruise the English Channel, but “As there was no other opportunity of procuring a safe passage” home, Fanning signed on, not knowing that he was in for the battle of his life.54
While Fanning was coming to terms with Jones in l’Orient, the privateer Delaware, a twelve-gun brig, was departing Philadelphia for the West Indies. Aboard her was John Kessler, a seventeen-year-old landsman.
Born in Philadelphia to a German cabinetmaker and his wife, young John was apprenticed to a dry goods merchant at age eleven for five years. When war broke out, his master gave him permission to drill with a volunteer brigade who later marched to Perth Amboy, New Jersey, to meet Washington’s army after the fall of New York, during which time his apprenticeship ended. He was next contracted out to serve a Philadelphia brewmeister, “rapidly instructed in the art of malting and brewing” when the Howe brothers came to call. After John and his master joined the fleeing patriots, the Redcoats feasted on what barrels they found at the brewery before destroying it.
Kessler next became a tobacconist’s clerk. For years the youngster had watched friends go off privateering; by 1779 the lure of the sea and good money propelled him to the waterfront, where he signed the Delaware’s muster roll. His captain was John Barry. Like Kessler, Barry needed both a job and fast money.55
The Delaware had a successful maiden voyage, returning to Philadelphia with two handsome prizes. Once Kessler got his sea legs he proved a quick study, and Barry took a liking to the lad, raising him in the course of two voyages from clerk to steward to captain of marines. Returning up the Delaware from her second cruise, the brig sailed past the still shorthanded Confederacy, once again moored off Chester. Captain Harding was in Philadelphia, but he had left orders for his second-in-command, Lieutenant Stephen Gregory, to send a boarding party to each passing vessel, and press into service the hands necessary to provide a full crew for the frigate.
As the Delaware glided by, Gregory hailed her, ordering her captain to come to. Barry kept right on sailing. Gregory made a second hail, which Barry acknowledged, but still did not slow down. A third hail was accompanied by a warning shot. The Delaware maintained her course.
An enraged Gregory sent a longboat across the river manned with his toughest sailors and marines, only to watch as the brig’s crew, brandishing pikes and cutlasses, cowed them at the gangway. They were heading back to the frigate when the brig’s captain ordered his diminutive 4-pounders run out as he hailed Gregor
y: “I advise you to desist firing, this is the brig Delaware, and my name is John Barry.” Now knowing who he was up against, Gregory did as he suggested.56
After this cruise Congress called Barry back to duty to oversee construction of the America, a ship-of-the-line being built in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Kessler remained with the Delaware, now under the command of James Collins. A third voyage to St. Eustatius and Haiti went well; the fourth did not. Heading home, the brig was captured by a British frigate. The Americans were taken to Kingston, Jamaica, and locked in a small prison. Collins had a brother in Kingston who owned a small vessel. For months he and his men plotted their escape. On September 22, 1780, the day after Kessler’s nineteenth birthday, they broke out, took over the little ship, and made for Port-au-Prince. Once there, Kessler recalled, “every one had to shift for himself,” and he signed on another privateer bound for Salem, Massachusetts, wondering if he would ever be as lucky at sea as he had been under Barry’s direction, not knowing that their courses would cross again, under much more dangerous conditions.57
As Jones was readying the Bonhomme Richard, Gustavus Conyngham was plot- ting his escape.
Mill Prison was perched on a spit of land by Mill Bay, just west of Plymouth, England. It was a rectangular structure with a large courtyard. There were high brick walls on the south and west; three long buildings—the first, a hospital—ran west to east, ending with the cook’s house, a two-story structure, and finally the main entrance. All combined, they formed the north wall. Running north to south to form the east wall were the officers’ quarters and the “long prison:” two-story buildings with an equally high wall between them on the east.58