# The Story of John Paul Jones/Chapter 1

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JOHN PAUL JONES
CHAPTER I BORN 1747 EARLY DAYS DIED 1792
In the year 1758 a little trading vessel called the Friendship sailed out of the harbor of Whitehaven, in England, and turned her prow in the direction of the good colony of Virginia. Among the crew was a little boy, who had been lately bound apprentice to the ship’s owner. Full of life, and overjoyed with expectations of the wonderful continent of the West, he ran about the vessel doing odd jobs, making himself useful in ​many ways, and becoming a favorite with all the crew.
He was the most precious and valuable of all that little vessel’s precious cargo, including the ship’s company, for he turned out to be the famous and gallant John Paul Jones.
The first thing for us to do in going over the life and brave deeds of Paul Jones, is to take away his last name, which he had no right to at all. He took it, as the English said he took many other things without any just claims. However this may be, his right name was simply John Paul, and he was born on the 6th of July, 1747. Like several other Revolutionary heroes, he was not born in the country whose glorious history he helped to make, but on a fine old estate in the parish of Kirk-bean, Scotland. And like many another great man, his parents were poor.
The father of our hero was a gardener on this estate, which was owned by a Mr. Craik, and called “Arbigland.” He had, as we are told, ​excellent taste in laying out gardens and planting trees. It was a beautiful country home where the little John first saw the light of day, with shady groves and beautiful lawn, and all the things that make for health and happiness in a little boy. John’s father worked about the place and rested in a quaint little cottage almost under the eaves of the large mansion. His father had been gardener before him; had lived and died close to nature in that homely and gentle trade—he was at the end of a long line of gardeners, who had come by their positions as naturally as kings come by their thrones, and it seemed very probable that the little boy, who romped around the spacious grounds, and ran across the flower beds, and climbed the tall elms, would come to be a gardener, too, and pass a quiet life far away from all the din and tumult of bloodshed and war. But this was not to be.
John’s father began to work for Mr. Craik when he was quite young and he soon became ​a favorite of his wealthy and generous master. He had many duties to perform, but he found time from them to woo and win Jean Macduff, the ruddy and buxom daughter of a small farmer in the neighboring parish of New Abbey, and we may imagine him making his way through the rocky passes, across the crooked streams, over the wonderful, wild landscape which Sir Walter Scott tells us about, to call on his Scotch lassie and present her with a fresh bouquet from Mr. Craik’s gardens.
Jean’s family were as old as the Scotch hills and quite as rugged and proud. There were strength and force and energy in the good old stock from which she came, and there was a generous share of these qualities left on hand for the child who came to her later and made her name familiar to all the world.
The marriage of the homely pair took place after the fashion of the simple Scotch country folk, and they settled down on Mr. Craik’s es​tate to a life of happiness and usefulness. If anyone had told them that they should help to be responsible, in any way, for the independence of the United States of America, they would probably have opened their eyes very wide, and accused the speaker of flattery.
Seven children came to this pair, two of whom died before they had an opportunity to win renown, one at the age of seven months and the other at the end of three days. Of those who grew up, the eldest was a boy named William. Then came three girls, Elizabeth, Janet, and Mary Ann. And then came John. When John grew up he had an illustrious child of his own, of whom any parent might be proud, a child that has grown to strong and splendid power. For John became, as you know, the father of the American navy.
When years had passed, and this gardener’s son had achieved greatness, some well-meaning people tried to show that after all there was no​ble blood running in his veins, that his real father was an earl—maybe the Earl of Selkirk—or, at any rate, some one of gentle birth. There are always people of this sort, who seem to think that greatness must be the child of riches and polite breeding. They have even tried to prove that the mighty Shakespeare was a baronet’s son, as if the author of “Hamlet” could have been honored, in any way, by a title. And they could not bear to think that the famous admiral was the son of a Scotch gardener. Such, however, he was, and like many great men he inherited his genius and character from his mother.
About the beautiful mansion of his father’s patron and employer, within hearing of the mighty waves that dashed against the Galloway shore hard by—and suggested, for ought we know, to the adventurous heart of the boy, a longing for the sea—the young John Paul spent the fleeting and precious days of his early childhood.
We shall come back here, to this home, with ​him after a while when events have become more stirring, so it is well to become acquainted with it now.
He led a free and happy life amid these grand surroundings. He climbed the trees and ate the luscious apples, and tore his clothes as he ought to have done, and as it is a little boy’s right to do. Perhaps the weird music of the desolate ocean, the distant peak of the great mountain of Hellvellyn which rose above its neighbors not far away, did their part to plant the seeds of future courage in the boy’s heart.
About the pretty cottage, on Mr. Craik’s estate, rose the rugged Scotch hills, weird and silent, save for the shrieks of wild birds that nested high among them, or the dismal echoes from the distant sea. It was amid these scenes that the old witches met the fearless and warlike Macbeth, and told him how to go forth and win renown and glory. It was among these grand, inspiring ​scenes that the little John Paul first gazed abroad upon the world.
As years gave him strength to wander, these views, with all their weird legends, inspired him to ramble forth. Sometimes with the son of Mr. Craik, he explored the rocks and caverns, climbed the heights, and gazed out over the broad expanse of ocean. Perhaps he wondered a little about the strange land beyond, and longed to go there. He could see the ships which passed along the shore nearby, and hear the hoarse voices of the hardy mariners borne upon the inward breeze. He could hear the loud, gruff commands of mates and skippers. Down in the little bay, along the edge of the lawn, the storm-tossed vessels often came for shelter, and their tall masts mingled with the slender trees of the grove along the water’s edge, and seemed to be a part of it. We may well imagine the wide open eyes of the little boy, as he watched the sailors rowing toward the shore, in their small boats, and listened to their wonderful tales of
It was on this vessel that the young patriot sailor first raised the American flag.—Page 30.
​adventure, of treasures dug up in mysterious islands, and terrible battles fought with pirates, on the high seas,
So he passed the happy days until he was twelve years old, when he bade good-bye to his parents, and went across the Firth to Whitehaven, to be bound apprentice to Mr. Younger, a merchant in the American trade.
I have seen many pictures of the famous admiral, standing on the decks of vessels in the midst of shot and shell; and inspiring scenes they are indeed. But still I cannot seem to banish from my mind the thoughts of a shabby wide eyed little boy, but twelve years old, clinging to the deck-rail of a lurching ship, his coat and hair blown by the ocean wind, looking far off over the restless sea. And I wonder whether he was not sometimes lonely but did not dare to say so—and whether he wanted to go home.