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- CHAPTER XVIII.
THE EXPEDITION THAT SAILED FROM GROIX.
Three months after anchoring at Brest, through Dr. Franklin’s
negotiations with the French king, backed by the bestirring ardor of
Paul, a squadron of nine vessels, of various force, were ready in the
road of Groix for another descent on the British coasts. These craft
were miscellaneously picked up, their crews a mongrel pack, the
officers mostly French, unacquainted with each other, and secretly
jealous of Paul. The expedition was full of the elements of
insubordination and failure. Much bitterness and agony resulted to a
spirit like Paul’s. But he bore up, and though in many particulars the
sequel more than warranted his misgivings, his soul still refused to
surrender.
The career of this stubborn adventurer signally illustrates the idea
that since all human affairs are subject to organic disorder, since
they are created in and sustained by a sort of half-disciplined chaos,
hence he who in great things seeks success must never wait for smooth
water, which never was and never will be, but, with what straggling
method he can, dash with all his derangements at his object, leaving
the rest to Fortune.
Though nominally commander of the squadron, Paul was not so in effect.
Most of his captains conceitedly claimed independent commands. One of
them in the end proved a traitor outright; few of the rest were
reliable.
As for the ships, that commanded by Paul in person will be a good
example of the fleet. She was an old Indiaman, clumsy and crank,
smelling strongly of the savor of tea, cloves, and arrack, the cargoes
of former voyages. Even at that day she was, from her venerable
grotesqueness, what a cocked hat is, at the present age, among ordinary
beavers. Her elephantine bulk was houdahed with a castellated poop like
the leaning tower of Pisa. Poor Israel, standing on the top of this
poop, spy-glass at his eye, looked more an astronomer than a mariner,
having to do, not with the mountains of the billows, but the mountains
in the moon. Galileo on Fiesole. She was originally a single-decked
ship, that is, carried her armament on one gun-deck; but cutting ports
below, in her after part, Paul rammed out there six old
eighteen-pounders, whose rusty muzzles peered just above the
water-line, like a parcel of dirty mulattoes from a cellar-way. Her
name was the Duras, but, ere sailing, it was changed to that other
appellation, whereby this sad old hulk became afterwards immortal.
Though it is not unknown, that a compliment to Doctor Franklin was
involved in this change of titles, yet the secret history of the affair
will now for the first time be disclosed.
It was evening in the road of Groix. After a fagging day’s work, trying
to conciliate the hostile jealousy of his officers, and provide, in the
face of endless obstacles (for he had to dance attendance on scores of
intriguing factors and brokers ashore), the requisite stores for the
fleet, Paul sat in his cabin in a half-despondent reverie, while
Israel, cross-legged at his commander’s feet, was patching up some old
signals.
“Captain Paul, I don’t like our ship’s name.—Duras? What’s that
mean?—Duras? Being cribbed up in a ship named Duras! a sort of makes
one feel as if he were in durance vile.”
“Gad, I never thought of that before, my lion. Duras—Durance vile. I
suppose it’s superstition, but I’ll change Come, Yellow-mane, what
shall we call her?”
“Well, Captain Paul, don’t you like Doctor Franklin? Hasn’t he been the
prime man to get this fleet together? Let’s call her the Doctor
Franklin.”
“Oh, no, that will too publicly declare him just at present; and Poor
Richard wants to be a little shady in this business.”
“Poor Richard!—call her Poor Richard, then,” cried Israel, suddenly
struck by the idea.
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