At last the _Ranger_ is ready for sea; and still those belated despatches from General Washington for the French King do not come. One cold October day a horseman, worn and haggard, rides into Portsmouth. Stained, dust-caked, reeling in his saddle, he calls for Captain Paul Jones. “Here,” responds that gentleman. “What would you have?” “I come from General Washington,” cries the man. “Burgoyne has surrendered! Here are your despatches for France!” Captain Paul Jones takes the packet, stunned for the moment by the mighty news. “And now for food and drink,” says the man faintly, as with difficulty he slips to the ground. “One hundred and eighty miles have I rode in thirty hours. It was the brave news kept me going; the thought of those beaten English held me up like wine.” “One hundred and eighty miles!” cries Captain Paul Jones. “Thirty hours!” The man points to his mount, where it stands with drooping head and quivering flank. “That is the tenth I’ve had. Horse flesh and hard riding did it!” Ten minutes after the despatches are put in his hands, Captain Paul Jones is aboard the _Ranger_. Then comes the tramp of forty feet about the capstan. Twenty powerful breasts are pressed against the capstan bars, and the _Ranger_ is walked up to its anchors, while aloft the brisk top-men are shaking out the sails. “Anchor up and down, sir!” reports Boatswain Jack Robinson, who has left his Polly at home, while he sails with the _Ranger_. “Anchor up and down!” repeats Captain Paul Jones. “Bring her home!” With a “Heave ho!” the _Ranger_‘s anchors are pulled out of Portsmouth sands. Captain Paul Jones himself takes the wheel and pays off its head before the breeze, already bellying the foresails. “Give her every stitch you have, Mr. Hall,” says Captain Paul Jones. “We must be clear of the Isles of Shoals by daybreak.” “And then?” asks Lieutenant Hall. “East, by south, half east! And Mr. Hall, day and night, blow high, blow low, spread every rag you’ve got. Burgoyne has surrendered. Either I shall tear the sticks out of the _Ranger_, or spread that news in France in thirty days.” “More haste, less speed!” murmurs the prudent Lieutenant Hall; and so, having eased his mind like a true seaman, he goes forward heatedly to spread sail. The top-heavy little _Ranger_, with her acre of canvas, heels over until, with decks awash, she glides eastward like a ghost. “Pipe all hands aft, Mr. Bo’sen!” commands Captain Paul Jones. Boatswain Jack Robinson puts his whistle to his lips, and sends a shrill call singing through the ship. The crew come scampering aft; all save a contingent aloft, who race down by the backstays, claw under claw, as might so many cats. Some of our old friends of the _Providence_ are there--the aquatic Scipio and Cato, with the little red Indian port-fire, Anthony Jeremiah.