Post by John Paul Jones on Aug 6, 2011 21:34:21 GMT -5
The air was crisp, for though it was now spring, winter still lingered in the dawn like a sore loser. It was especially cold for the time of year what being in upstate Massachusetts, north of New Hampshire. The rocky coast was beaten by the fresh winds to the point that most of the evergreens faced inland, leaving the other trees (still barren) to fend for themselves. It was a picturesque sight to see Langdon's Island at this time of year, when even the gulls found the murky green waters too cold to bob about on. Only the sturdiest of fishing yawls and trapping luggers dotted the littoral waters, their nets and lobster cages put over the side for the day's catch.
In spite of these conditions, John Paul Jones was warm. He wore a long blue boatcloak with a shoulder-cape over his predominantly blue and red-faced uniform. What's more, his attire was dry and he had hot vittles in his belly... an uncommon condition when at sea. He stood in silence on the stone jetty across from Langdon's Island, his arms folded across his chest to keep his warmth. The sun felt good against his freshly shaven cheek, but these things were of little concern to him. He'd trade his warmth, satisfied appetite, and full night's sleep for the sight across the way on the island's shore.
Across from the mainland was a broad beach, covered in the same smooth rocks and overlooked by the same bluffs and evergreens. However, at the center of the beach was a construction site, comprised of long, low storehouses and mess tents. Piles of timber and cordage were stacked nearby and men milled about the site busily. A great amount of scaffolding extended from the shallows and up the beach by a good eighty feet, encasing the hull of a ship nearly ready for launching. Her yellow-ochre hull was washed with white tallow below the waterline, which was marked by a broad black whale running from stem to stern. Above the whale her hull was pierced with eighteen gun ports, not yet filled by her armament but promising her purpose - war. Her rails were painted black to match her upperworks and the freshly stepped masts were painted white with black wooldings. Gold woodwork adorned her stern, which was a full gallery that wrapped about her quarters. Whoever was to captain her would have a fine cabin with an excellent view. The sight that made his chest swell was the series of flags fluttering from her mastheads, which were still without fighting tops and topmasts. From her stern flew a large flag bearing thirteen stripes and a blue canton adorned with thirteen stars - the colors of his adopted nation and its cause.
Jones brushed back his boatcloak, producing a small pocket telescope bound in leather. He pulled it open and trained it at the ship across the way, scanning her stern and reading the word Hampshire.
"That's no name for a ship like that..." Jones said to himself, "she's a fast and agile one by the looks of her... a true ranger."
He shut the lens and turned from the sight, walking back down the jetty towards the streets of Kittery. A letter was due to Congress, one detailing his request for command of that fine vessel. He could take some fine prizes with her, make her a real thorn in Britain's side... if only they would look past their self-serving motives and drop their bureaucratic policies for a moment.
In spite of these conditions, John Paul Jones was warm. He wore a long blue boatcloak with a shoulder-cape over his predominantly blue and red-faced uniform. What's more, his attire was dry and he had hot vittles in his belly... an uncommon condition when at sea. He stood in silence on the stone jetty across from Langdon's Island, his arms folded across his chest to keep his warmth. The sun felt good against his freshly shaven cheek, but these things were of little concern to him. He'd trade his warmth, satisfied appetite, and full night's sleep for the sight across the way on the island's shore.
Across from the mainland was a broad beach, covered in the same smooth rocks and overlooked by the same bluffs and evergreens. However, at the center of the beach was a construction site, comprised of long, low storehouses and mess tents. Piles of timber and cordage were stacked nearby and men milled about the site busily. A great amount of scaffolding extended from the shallows and up the beach by a good eighty feet, encasing the hull of a ship nearly ready for launching. Her yellow-ochre hull was washed with white tallow below the waterline, which was marked by a broad black whale running from stem to stern. Above the whale her hull was pierced with eighteen gun ports, not yet filled by her armament but promising her purpose - war. Her rails were painted black to match her upperworks and the freshly stepped masts were painted white with black wooldings. Gold woodwork adorned her stern, which was a full gallery that wrapped about her quarters. Whoever was to captain her would have a fine cabin with an excellent view. The sight that made his chest swell was the series of flags fluttering from her mastheads, which were still without fighting tops and topmasts. From her stern flew a large flag bearing thirteen stripes and a blue canton adorned with thirteen stars - the colors of his adopted nation and its cause.
Jones brushed back his boatcloak, producing a small pocket telescope bound in leather. He pulled it open and trained it at the ship across the way, scanning her stern and reading the word Hampshire.
"That's no name for a ship like that..." Jones said to himself, "she's a fast and agile one by the looks of her... a true ranger."
He shut the lens and turned from the sight, walking back down the jetty towards the streets of Kittery. A letter was due to Congress, one detailing his request for command of that fine vessel. He could take some fine prizes with her, make her a real thorn in Britain's side... if only they would look past their self-serving motives and drop their bureaucratic policies for a moment.