III JOHN PAUL JONES AND A GROGLESS NAVY

“Interview your great-uncle and find out what he thinks of our modern navy,” said the city editor.

“My great-uncle?” I asked.

“Admiral J. Paul Jones. Wasn’t he one of your distinguished relatives? You’ve got the same name.”

“Oh, Uncle John? I believe we are related, but he was one of the rough specimens—sort of a piece of bark on the family tree—other side of the family, you know.”

“Well, you may find his bark worse than his bite.”

“Which planet is his shade living on now, do you know?”

“Neptune, I presume.”

And that is where I found him. He gave me genial greeting.

“Shiver my timbers, but I’m glad to see you. Come alongside and cast anchor, my lad, and tell me what wind blew you here.”

I explained that the mighty world below was palpitating for a few timely remarks from its old fighting hero.

“Fire away, then,” he replied. “What’s the first question?”

“Do you believe, Admiral,” I asked, “that a navy can be run on water—that is to say, of course, the ships have to run on water ... but I mean the men. Do you think——” And then I got tangled up and came to a full stop, for the expression on the old sea dog’s face was a mixture of puzzlement and pugnacity.

“What do you mean?” he roared. “Not to give the men water in place of grog?”

His attitude was positively menacing. I began to grow nervous.

“Why—er—that is the idea, Admiral. Do you believe it is possible to conduct a navy efficiently on prohibition principles?”

“Prohibition? Never heard the word before. And now that I have heard it I don’t like the sound of it. What are you jibbing and windjamming in this way for? Come right out and run up your true colors. Do you mean to tell me that anybody is seriously proposing to do away with grog in the American Navy? I’d hang the dastardly rascal from the yard-arm. Walking the plank would be too good for him.”

“Well, Admiral, you might as well know the whole truth. Grog has not only been abolished in the Navy (and that took place some years ago), grog has been abolished throughout the country. Liquor can neither be manufactured nor sold anywhere in the United States.”

Perhaps I should have broken the startling news to the old fellow more gently. But instead of the expected outburst of anger he sat stunned, still as a statue, or a speak-easy in Harlem.

For two minutes or more he kept silent. Then he spoke. “Say it again,” he muttered in a weak tone, “and say it slow.”

I complied.

“No grog for them as fights the battles, no whiskey, no brandy, no shandy-gaff, no Jamaikey rum, nothin’ but milk and water. What kind o’ putty-faced swabs—But I needn’t ask. I see it now. You’ve been conquered by them Turks and water-drinking Mohammedans. But who’d have thought it?” And he shook his grizzled head disconsolately. “No whiskey, no brandy, no shandy-gaff, no Jamaikey rum,” he went on muttering to himself as in a daze, over and over again, until I thought it might be advisable to recall him to himself.

“America thinks a great deal of you, Admiral,” I interrupted his melancholy monologue. “The nation cherishes the memory of your thrilling exploits. It will never forget your heroic deeds.”

The old Admiral brightened up a bit at this, but quickly relapsed into his melancholy mood. “No whiskey, no brandy—” he began again, when I tried the effect of another diversion.

“The nation is still safe, Admiral, and it has the largest number of ships and sailors in its history. The recent great war produced its heroes, too. We do not lack for defenders, you will be glad to know, if ever America is assailed again.”

“Yes, I’ve heard something about it,” he grumblingly admitted. “There’s a new-fangled cowardly sort of craft that goes under water and stabs in the back, a regular assassin, I call it. Farragut and Perry and some of the boys went down to perform at a seance in Philadelphia the other night, and they heard a lot of talk about your new naval heroes that have made us back numbers. There was Sims, and Daniels, and Benson, and—and—Admiral What’s-his-name? I can’t just think of it. Gray? No, that’s not it exactly. Admiral—Admiral—”

“Not Grayson?”

“Yes, that’s it, Rear Admiral Grayson. His flagship was the George Washington, I believe. And Admiral Denby, what did he do? I just can’t recollect on the moment.”

“Mr. Denby is not an Admiral; he’s the Secretary of the Navy. He’s not supposed to go to sea. He sits at a desk, instead of standing on a deck.”

“Oh, I see. But Rear Admiral Grayson? I wish you would describe some of his exploits to me.”

“Well-er—that’s a little difficult to explain, Admiral Jones, for you have been so long out of touch with our system. Admiral Grayson is really a doctor, and—”

“You mean the admirals say he is a doctor and the doctors say he is an admiral?”

“Oh, no, Admiral, not so bad as that. He is a medical admiral, not a fighting admiral. Rear Doctor—I mean Rear Admiral—Grayson was a naval surgeon, and he has been regularly promoted to the post of rear admiral. His job was looking after the President’s health, and all agree that he tendered good service.”

“Oh, a medical admiral, eh?” grumbled the old sea dog in a disappointed tone. “So that’s what he is. I can see him now, standing on the bridge of the good ship Calomel, stethoscope in hand, studying the symptoms of the approaching foe, writing the battle orders on prescription blanks and getting ready to fire a volley of quinine pills, three times a day before meals, at the hated enemy. I can see him taking the temperatures of the crew before going into action, and then, with a lancet in one hand and a scalpel in the other, preparing to repel boarders. I can see him charging the enemy (five dollars a visit, half price for office calls, consultations fifteen, operations, what you’ve got), I can hear the ringing words of command to candidates for vaccination: ‘Present arms.’ I can see him, with his trusty clinical thermometer and his rapid firing hypodermic, bravely—”

“You’ve got the wrong idea, entirely, Admiral Jones,” I hastened to interrupt. “It’s different from your day. None of our admirals do any hand-to-hand encounters. There are no more clashes at close quarters. Sometimes ships fight each other four or five miles apart.”

The grizzled veteran looked as if he scarcely understood what I was saying.

“No coming together with grappling irons, and fighting it out fair and square with pistols and cutlasses on the quarterdeck? A modern naval battle is just a long-distance artillery duel between Sunday School classes composed of total abstainers, as likely as not commanded by a specialist on whooping cough and measles? I guess it’s a good thing I shuffled off when I did. In my time a sea fight was more a matter of men than of machinery. I wouldn’t know how to go about it today. Everything is changed. I’m sure I’d forget to order a double round of hot lemonade for all the crew, instead of a stiff glass of grog, before going into an engagement. I must tell Farragut about it. I suppose they wouldn’t let him say anything stronger than ‘Darn the torpedoes,’ or ‘Oh, fudge,’ if he were down on the job today. And Commodore Perry: ‘We have met the enemy and made ’em all sign the pledge.’ That’s the sort of message he’d be expected to send nowadays. I suppose with all these new-fangled inventions you’ve been telling me about, wireless, and range-finders, and searchlights, and turbines, and seaplanes and torpedoes and all the rest of ’em, a fellow has to stay sober to work ’em. In my day we always considered that a man fought better when he was about three sheets in the wind. I don’t say our ways were perfect, but I’m sure I wouldn’t feel at home on one of your big floating machine shops. I’d forget myself sometimes and want to get close enough to the enemy to see him without a telescope—or a stethoscope.

“Well, you’ll have to excuse me now, my lad. I have a date with Lord Nelson for three o’clock, to join in the historic and comforting ceremony known as splicing the main brace. I’ll break the news to him about what you’ve just been telling me. He’ll need a bracer after he hears it.”

And as the old hero hobbled away I could hear him muttering to himself: “No whiskey, no brandy, no shandy-gaff, no Jamaikey rum; water, water everywhere, but not a drop o’ drink.”