The wooded April banks of the Rappahannock are flourishing in the new green of an early Virginia spring. The bark Two Friends, Captain Jack Paul, out of Whitehaven by way of Lisbon, Madeira, and Kingston, comes picking her dull way up the river, and anchors midstream at the foot of the William Jones plantation. Almost coincident with the splash of the anchors, the Two Friends has her gig in the water, and the next moment Captain Jack Paul takes his place in the stern sheets.

“Let fall!” comes the sharp command, as he seizes the tiller-ropes.

The four sailors bend their strong backs, the four oars swing together like clockwork, and the gig heads for the plantation landing where a twenty-ton sloop, current-vexed, lies gnawing at her ropes.

At twenty-six, Captain Jack Paul is the very flower of a quarter-deck nobility. He has not the advantage of commanding height; but the lean, curved nose, clean jaw, firmly-lined month, steady stare of the brown eyes, coupled at the earliest smell of opposition with a frowning falcon trick of brow like a threat, are as a commission to him, signed and countersigned by nature, to be ever a leader of men. In figure he is five feet seven inches, and the scales telling his weight consent to one hundred and forty-five pounds. His hands and feet are as small as a woman’s. By way of offset to this, his shoulders, broad and heavy, and his deep chest arched like the deck of a whale-back, speak of anything save the effeminate. In his movements there is a feline graceful accuracy> with over all a resolute atmosphere of enterprise. To his men, he is more than a captain; he is a god. Prudent at once and daring, he shines a master of seamanship, and never the sailor serves with him who would not name him a mariner without a flaw. He is born to inspire faith in men. This is as it should be, by his own abstract picture of a captain, which he will later furnish Doctor Franklin:

“Your captain,” he will say, when thus informing that philosopher, “your captain, Doctor, should have the blind confidence of his sailors. It is his beginning, his foundation, wanting which he can be no true captain. To his men your captain must he prophet, priest and king. His authority when off-shore is necessarily absolute, and therefore the crew should be as one man impressed that the captain, like the sovereign, can do no wrong. If a captain fail in this, he cannot make up for it by severity, austerity or cruelty. Use force, apply restraint, punish as he may, he will always have a sullen crew and an unhappy ship.”

The nose of the gig grates on the river’s bank, and Captain Jack Paul leaps ashore. He is greeted by a tall, weather-beaten old man—grizzled and gray. The form of the latter is erect, with a kind of ramrod military stiffness. His dress is the rough garb of the Virginia overseer in all respects save headgear. Instead of the soft wool hat, common of his sort, the old man cocks over his watery left eye a Highland bonnet, and this, with its hawk’s feather, fastened by a silver clasp, gives to his costume a crag and heather aspect altogether Scotch.

The gray old man, with a grinning background of negro slaves, waits for the landing of Captain Jack Paul. As the latter springs ashore, the old man throws up his hand in a military salute.

“And how do we find Duncan Macbean!” cries Captain Jack Paul. “How also is my brother! I trust you have still a bale or two of winter-cured tobacco left that we may add to our cargo!”

“As for the tobacco, Captain Paul,” returns old Duncan Macbean, “ye’re a day or so behind the fair, since the maist of it sailed Englandward a month hack, in the brig Flora Belle. As for your brother William of whom ye ask, now I s’uld say ye were in gude time just to hear his dying words.”

“What’s that, Duncan Macbean!” exclaims Captain Jack Paul. “William dying!”

“Ay, dying! He lies nearer death than he’s been any time since he and I marched with General Braddock and Colonel Washington, against the red salvages of the Ohio. But you s’uld come and see him at once, you his born brother, and no stand talking here.”

“It’s lung fever, Jack,” whispers the sick man, as Captain Jack Paul draws a chair to the side of the bed. “It’s deadly, too; I can feel it. I’ll not get up again.”

“Come, come, brother,” retorts Captain Jack Paul cheerfully, “you’re no old man to talk of death—you, with your fewer than fifty years. I’ll see you up and on your pins again before I leave.”



0071

“No, Jack, it’s death. And you’ve come in good time, too, since there’s much to talk between us. You know how our cousin left me his heir, if I would take his name of Jones?”

“Assuredly I know.”

“And so,” continues the dying man, “my name since his passing away has been William Paul Jones. Now when it is my turn to go, I must tell you that, by a clause of the old man’s will, he writes you in after me as legatee. I’m to die, Jack; and you’re to have the plantation. Only you must clap ‘Jones’ to your name, and be not John Paul, but John Paul Jones, as you take over the estate.”

“What’s this? I’m to heir the plantation after you?”

“So declares the will. On condition, however, that you also take the name of Jones. That should not be hard; ‘Jones’ is one of our family names, and he that leaves you the land was our kinsman.”

“Why, then,” cries Captain Jack Paul, “I wasn’t hesitating for that. Paul is a good name, but so also is Jones. Only, I tell you, brother, I hate to make my fortune by your death.”

“That’s no common-sense, Jack. I die the easier knowing my going makes way for your good luck. And the plantation’s a gem, Jack; never a cold or sour acre in the whole three thousand, but all of it warm, sweet land. There’re two thousand acres of woods; and I’d leave that stand.” The dying man, being Scotch, would give advice on his deathbed. “The thousand acres now under plow are enough.” Then, after a pause: “Ye’ll be content ashore? You’re young yet; you’re not so wedded to the sea, I think, but you’ll turn planter with good grace?”

“No fear, William. I’ve had good fortune by the sea; but then I’ve met ill fortune also. By and large, I shall be very well content to turn planter.”

“It’s gainful, Jack, being a planter is. Only keep Duncan Macbean by you to manage, and he’ll turn you in one thousand golden guineas profit every Christmas day, and you never to lift hand or give thought to the winning of them.”

“Is the plantation as gainful as that? Now I have but three thousand guineas to call mine, after sailing these years.”

“Ay! it’s gainful, Jack. If you will work, too, there’s that to keep you busy. There’s the grist mill, the thirty slaves, the forty horses, besides the cows and swine and sheep to look after; as well as the negro quarters, the tobacco houses, the stables, and the great mansion itself to keep up. They’ll all serve to fill in the time busily, if you should like it that way. Only Jack, with the last of it, always leave everything to Duncan Macbean. A rare and wary man is old Duncan, and saving of money down to farthings.”

“Whose sloop is that at the landing!” asks Captain Jack Paul, willing to shift the subject.

“Oh, yon sloop! She goes with the plantation; she’ll be yours anon, brother. And there you are: When the sea calls to you, Jack, as she will call, you take the sloop. Cato and Scipio are good sailors, well trained to the coast clear away to Charleston.”

And so William Paul Jones dies, and John Paul takes his place on the plantation. His name is no longer John Paul, but John Paul Jones; and, as his dying brother counselled, he keeps old Duncan Macbean to be the manager.

When his brother is dead, Captain Jack Paul joins his mate, Laurence Edgar, on the deck of the Two Friends, swinging tide and tide on her anchors.

“Mate Edgar,” says Captain Jack Paul, “it is the last time I shall plank this quarterdeck as captain. I’m to stay; and you’re to take the ship home to Whitehaven. And now, since you’re the captain, and I’m no more than a guest, suppose you order your cabin boy to get us a bottle of the right Madeira, and we’ll drink fortune to the bark and her new master.”