“Fierce the storm of battle pours;But unmoved as ocean’s rockWhen the tempest round it roars,Every seaman breasts the shock,Boldly stepping where his brave messmates fall.O’er his head, full oft and loud,Like the vulture in a cloud,As it cuts the twanging shroud,Screams the ball.
“Fierce the storm of battle pours;
But unmoved as ocean’s rock
When the tempest round it roars,
Every seaman breasts the shock,
Boldly stepping where his brave messmates fall.
O’er his head, full oft and loud,
Like the vulture in a cloud,
As it cuts the twanging shroud,
Screams the ball.
“Before the siroc blastFrom its caverns driven,Drops the sheared and shivered mast,By the bolt of battle riven,And higher heaps the ruin of the deck.As the sailor, bleeding, dies,To his comrades lifts his eyes,‘Let our flag still wave!’ he cries,O’er the wreck.
“Before the siroc blast
From its caverns driven,
Drops the sheared and shivered mast,
By the bolt of battle riven,
And higher heaps the ruin of the deck.
As the sailor, bleeding, dies,
To his comrades lifts his eyes,
‘Let our flag still wave!’ he cries,
O’er the wreck.
“Long live the gallant crew,Who survived that day of blood!And may fortune soon renewEqual battle on the flood!Long live the glorious names of the brave!O’er these martyrs of the deepOft the roving wind shall weep,Crying ‘Sweetly may they sleep’Neath the wave!’”
“Long live the gallant crew,
Who survived that day of blood!
And may fortune soon renew
Equal battle on the flood!
Long live the glorious names of the brave!
O’er these martyrs of the deep
Oft the roving wind shall weep,
Crying ‘Sweetly may they sleep
’Neath the wave!’”
The attentions shown Paul Jones personally by the Dutch naval officers were very displeasing to the British ambassador, and by intrigue he succeeded in having Captain Rimersima, who had been very polite to the Americans, superseded in favor of Vice-Admiral Reynst, as commander of the Dutch fleet. This vice-admiral belonged to the court party, and was notoriously unfriendly to Paul Jones. On the 12th of November he sent Paul Jones a peremptory order to sail with the first fair wind. In spite of every effort, the American ship was not yet in condition to keep the sea. But, for this very reason, the vice-admiral constantly urged Paul Jones to depart, and even threatened him in case he did not. At last, on the 28th of November, a positive threat was made. The vice-admiral wrote that, unless Paul Jones went out, the Dutch fleet would drive him out. The wind at the time was contrary. Paul Jones received this message from a junior Dutch officer on the quarter-deck of the Alliance, and replied, in a loud, firm voice that not only all the men on the Alliance could hear, but all the sailors in the Dutch man-of-war’s boat:
“The vice-admiral demands impossibilities,” he said. “Can any ship get out of the road in such a wind as this?”
Then he called up an old Dutch pilot that he had kept on board for a week past—Peter Maartens.
“Maartens,” said he, “will you undertake to carry this ship out?”
The pilot, a stolid old Dutchman with a great beard, looked at Paul Jones very solemnly for a long time.
“Not if I keep sober,” he answered gravely; at which even the vice-admiral’s junior officer was forced to smile.
“Then I will have that statement written out, and you shall sign it,” promptly replied Paul Jones.
The paper was written and read to the pilot, who signed it in the presence of the Dutch lieutenant. For ten days they were left unmolested. Sir Joseph Yorke thought, however, that he had succeeded at last in ruining Paul Jones, for, forced to put out as soon as the wind permitted, there was a British squadron waiting for him at either entrance to the harbor. It seemed as if Paul Jones was at last destined to be caught. But Fortune favors the brave—and she had never yet deserted this daring sailor. Everything had been done with the insufficient means at hand to get the Alliance into good condition. Much of her sailing qualities had been destroyed by the crazy Landais’s method of ballasting. This was remedied, and the ship was in fairly good order. As Paul Jones wrote to Franklin: “The enemy still keeps a squadron cruising off here, but this will not prevent my attempts to depart whenever the wind will permit. I hope we have recovered the trim of the ship, which was entirely lost the last cruise; and I do not much fear the enemy in the long and dark nights of this season. The ship is well manned, and shall not be given away!”
How does the gallant spirit of Paul Jones ring in those last words!
About the middle of December the Dutch vice-admiral one day sent word to Paul Jones, desiring him to come on board the Dutch flagship. To this Paul Jones sent a polite but determined refusal. As the Dutch boat pulled off, he said, laughing, to Dale:
“Does that puppet of kings think that an American commodore will obey like a dog the orders of a Dutch admiral?”
Failing to get him on board, Vice-Admiral Reynst wrote him a peremptory note, asking if the Alliance was to be considered a French or an American vessel. If French, the captain’s commission was to be shown to the Dutch vice-admiral, the French flag and pendant displayed, and a gun fired to announce it. If American, the ship was to leave at the earliest possible moment.
To this Paul Jones replied in these characteristic lines:
“Sir: I have no authority to hoist any colors on this ship except the American, and whenever the pilot will take it upon himself to conduct the ship to sea he shall have my best assistance.Paul Jones,“Commanding the American Continental ship Alliance.”
“Sir: I have no authority to hoist any colors on this ship except the American, and whenever the pilot will take it upon himself to conduct the ship to sea he shall have my best assistance.
Paul Jones,“Commanding the American Continental ship Alliance.”
The officers and men were as anxious to get away from the inhospitable Texel as was Paul Jones, and the sight, day after day, of the low-lying, monotonous landscape, the frozen dikes, and the pale, wintry sky was dreary enough to them. Dale kept the wardroom in a good humor, though, and Bill Green spent much of his enforced leisure, as usual, in learning songs which he claimed to have composed.
At last, as Christmas approached, it was known on board that they were ready to sail, and that a day or two at most would find them at sea. The officers and men were all on board, and no more shore leave was granted.
The wind was already veering round to the east, and although they would have to wait for the wind, there would be no waiting for weather, for the fouler the weather the fairer the chance of running the gauntlet of the British fleet, which would then be dispersed, each ship looking out for herself. Therefore the Americans prayed for bad weather as ardently as sailors usually pray for good.
On Christmas night there was great jollification aboard. Paul Jones dined in the wardroom by invitation of the officers, and afterward announced to them:
“Gentlemen, in forty-eight hours we shall be at sea, with our best American ensign flying, and then we can take care of ourselves.”
A burst of cheering followed this. The only person present besides the officers of the ship was the celebrated Captain Cunningham, who had suffered horrors in an English prison. Paul Jones had at last succeeded in having Cunningham exchanged, and was taking him to France as a passenger.
The jollity aft was quite equaled by the fun forward, and from the foks’l sounds of cheering, laughing, shouting, and the noisy clatter of feet, as the sailors danced reels and hornpipes, was plainly audible. Danny Dixon, who waited behind Paul Jones’s chair, when asked what the noise meant, whispered artfully:
“Please, sir, Mr. Green he’s got a new song, all about ‘a Yankee ship and a Yankee crew, tally hi ho, you know.’ It’s a beautiful song.”
“Is it?” cried Paul Jones, whose spirits rose high at the prospect of once more taking his ship to sea. “Gentlemen, shall we send for Green to give us a new patriotic song he has?”
“Yes, yes,” they all exclaimed, “a song, by all means!”
Danny therefore was sent after Bill, who was found trolling forth in his rich baritone to the admiring foks’l people, and occasionally getting up and shaking a leg to give emphasis to his music.
“Mr. Green,” said Danny, going up to him, “you must report to the cap’n immediate for a song. He knows as how you’ve got a good ’un, and the cap’n and the officers wants to hear it—that there one about a Yankee ship and a Yankee crew.”
“Sho!” said Bill with an affectation of great reluctance, “I knows as you wuthless, tale-bearin’ lubberly boy went and told the cap’n I had a new song, and I’ve a great mind to give you the cat for it.”
“Lord, Mr. Green, I ain’t done no harm,” said Danny apologetically, who understood the case perfectly, and knew there was no danger of the cat. “The cap’n knows you sing grand, and ’twarn’t my fault he axed for you.”
“Well, mates,” said Bill, rising with a delighted grin, “it’s mighty hard on me havin’ to leave you. I’d ruther not sing if I could help it, but orders is orders, you know. Howsomedever, young’un,” he remarked to Danny, “the very next time you gits me in a singin’ scrape like this, I’m a-goin’ to skin you, mind that!”
“Yes, sir,” answered Danny very meekly.
The officers were all sitting around the table with pipes, and full of talk, laughter, and jollity, when Bill Green’s handsome figure and face appeared in the wardroom door. Bill, as usual, pretended to be quite overcome with bashfulness, and twiddled his cap modestly.
“Give him a glass of punch to wet his whistle,” cried Paul Jones, and Danny Dixon officiously filled a glass from the punch bowl and handed it to him.
After gulping down the punch, Bill cleared his throat and remarked that he “had thunk out a little song and had wrote it out”—Bill forgot that the wardroom officers knew he could not write a line—“and as the men got arter him to sing it, he had tried it oncet or twicet, and he’d do his best to pipe it up reg’lar.”
He then began, his rich voice echoing musically through the low-pitched wardroom. The officers soon caught the refrain, and whenever it came they accompanied it with much clinking of glasses, and trolled out a chorus, Dale leading. This was the song:
“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,Tally hi ho, you know,O’er the bright blue waves like a sea bird flew;Sing hey aloft and alow.Her wings are spread to the fairy breeze,The sparkling spray is thrown from her prow,Her flag is the proudest that floats on the seas,Her homeward way she’s steering now.A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,Tally hi ho, you know,O’er the bright waves like a sea bird flew;Sing hey aloft and alow.
“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho, you know,
O’er the bright blue waves like a sea bird flew;
Sing hey aloft and alow.
Her wings are spread to the fairy breeze,
The sparkling spray is thrown from her prow,
Her flag is the proudest that floats on the seas,
Her homeward way she’s steering now.
A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho, you know,
O’er the bright waves like a sea bird flew;
Sing hey aloft and alow.
“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,Tally hi ho, you know,With hearts on board both gallant and true,The same aloft and alow.The blackened sky and the whistling windForetell the quick approach of the gale;A home and its joys flit o’er each mind—Husbands! lovers! ‘On deck there!’ a sail,A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,Tally hi ho, you know;Distress is the word—God speed them through!Bear a hand, aloft and alow!
“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho, you know,
With hearts on board both gallant and true,
The same aloft and alow.
The blackened sky and the whistling wind
Foretell the quick approach of the gale;
A home and its joys flit o’er each mind—
Husbands! lovers! ‘On deck there!’ a sail,
A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho, you know;
Distress is the word—God speed them through!
Bear a hand, aloft and alow!
“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,Tally hi ho, you know;The boats all clear, the wreck we now view,‘All hands’ aloft and alow.A ship is his throne, the sea his world,He ne’er sheers from a shipmate distressed.All’s well—the reefed sails again are unfurled;O’er the swell he is cradled to rest.A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,Tally hi ho, you know,Storm past, drink to ‘wives and sweethearts’ too,All hands, aloft and alow!
“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho, you know;
The boats all clear, the wreck we now view,
‘All hands’ aloft and alow.
A ship is his throne, the sea his world,
He ne’er sheers from a shipmate distressed.
All’s well—the reefed sails again are unfurled;
O’er the swell he is cradled to rest.
A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho, you know,
Storm past, drink to ‘wives and sweethearts’ too,
All hands, aloft and alow!
“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,Tally hi ho, you know,Freedom defends, and the land where it grew—We’re free, aloft and alow!Bearing down is a foe in regal pride,Defiance floating at each masthead;One’s a wreck, and she bears that floats alongsideThe Stars and Stripes, to victory wed.For a Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,Tally hi ho, you know,Ne’er strikes to a foe while the sky is blueOr a tar’s aloft or alow.”
“A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho, you know,
Freedom defends, and the land where it grew—
We’re free, aloft and alow!
Bearing down is a foe in regal pride,
Defiance floating at each masthead;
One’s a wreck, and she bears that floats alongside
The Stars and Stripes, to victory wed.
For a Yankee ship and a Yankee crew,
Tally hi ho, you know,
Ne’er strikes to a foe while the sky is blue
Or a tar’s aloft or alow.”
Roars of laughter and applause greeted this, and Bill was compelled to respond to an encore. The evening and a part of the night passed in gayety and merriment, and the sober Dutchmen were much astonished at the hilarity on the American ship. Paul Jones had had the ship dressed for Christmas, and the British at the Texel were obliged to endure the sight of an American flag flying from every masthead on the Alliance. At last, two days after Christmas, Peter Maartens, the pilot, was sent for. The weather was thick, and a tremendous gale seemed to be rising. When Paul Jones proposed to take the ship out, Peter shook his head very solemnly.
“Any pilot who takes a ship out in this weather is likely to lose his license, and I can’t risk it,” he said.
Peter had rather a weakness for the bottle, although it was said that he was as good a pilot when he was half seas over as when he was quite sober. It was Christmas time, and Peter was liable to yield to temptation. Paul Jones was therefore not surprised when, as night was falling, a few hours after, Peter Maartens’s boat hailed the ship, and he announced that he was ready to carry her out. Immediately the anchor was lifted, and within an hour the Alliance stood down the river in the teeth of a northeast gale.
It was a murky December night when, with a strong wind, the ship started on her way toward the open sea. A perfectly new American ensign had been run up for the occasion, and Sir Joseph Yorke had the mortification of knowing that the ship went boldly out to run the gauntlet of her enemies, without any disguise whatever. Dale, as first lieutenant, was on deck. Bill Green was at the wheel. Peter Maartens’s orders, although very judicious, were not very distinct, as he had been indulging in the flowing bowl, and the first thing the Alliance knew she was afoul of a Dutch merchantman. The Alliance dropped her best bower anchor, in the effort to get clear, and in the wind, the darkness, and confusion, the cable parted or was cut by the Dutchman. Peter Maartens then declared that nobody but the devil himself would put to sea in such a gale, and flatly refused to carry the ship out that night. However, he brought her to anchor so close inshore that in the morning they were forced to cut the cable themselves in order to get out, thus leaving both their bower anchor and sheet anchor in the roads of Texel; but they were out of the Dutch port, or purgatory, as Paul Jones himself expressed it, and under close-reefed topsails they were heading for the ocean in the midst of a roaring gale. But the American ensign flew as long as they were in sight of land, and until they were three marine leagues out. The Alliance hugged the shoals so close, in order to keep to windward of the blockading British squadrons, that several times they had hard work in clawing off. At last, however, they were clear.
Paul Jones, wrapped in a cloak and with a sou’wester pulled down over his eyes, called to him Lieutenant Dale, who had the deck.
“Dale,” he said, carelessly, “what passage, think you, shall we take to France?”
“The northward, I presume, sir,” replied Dale, astonished at the question from his commander.
“And do the officers and crew expect we shall go north, and away from the British Isles?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied Dale, still more surprised.
“Then,” said Paul Jones, laying his hand on Dale’s shoulder, “you may depend upon it, if all my officers and men expect me to avoid the English Channel, every British captain that is hunting for me likewise will look for me to the northward. But I will sail through their channel, under the very noses of their fleet at Spithead.”
“Sir,” said Dale, who was a very matter-of-fact young man, “surely nobody will think of hunting for you in the lion’s mouth.”
Paul Jones at this laughed one of his rare laughs.
“You will go with me willingly into the lion’s mouth?” he said; to which Dale replied coolly:
“Of course, sir.”
In spite of the bad weather the ship made a good run, and the next day, it being perfectly clear, they passed boldly through the Straits of Dover, and were in full sight of the whole magnificent British fleet in the Downs. They then made the Isle of Wight, which they passed, and for more than an hour they were within a very short distance of the fleet assembled at Spithead. The forest of masts, the huge dark hulls of the ships, the fluttering ensigns, made a lovely picture in the bright air of December. What would not one of those brave British captains have given to know that Paul Jones, the invincible, was sailing under their very lee!
Paul Jones resorted to his usual ruse. The ports of the Alliance were closed, her guns covered with spare sails and tarpaulins, she flew the British ensign, her crew were kept below, and she presented the appearance of a smart British merchant ship, or possibly a letter of marque.
Two days was Paul Jones in the British Channel, much of the time in sight of the chalk cliffs of England, and scarcely an hour of the night or day that he was not in view of the British cruisers, which, as Dale justly said, did not think it worth while to look for him in the lion’s mouth. He kept well to windward, though, for this man, so daring in his undertakings, yet carried the details out with the most consummate prudence.
After getting clear of the channel, and in easy reach of the French harbors, he cruised about off Cape Finistère for some days. A furious January gale coming up in the Bay of Biscay, and having but one anchor left, Paul Jones put into the port of Corunna, in Spain. The fame of his exploits had preceded him, and he and his officers received the utmost attention, especially from some Spanish naval officers there. Paul Jones greatly admired the Spanish ships, which were sheathed with copper, and expensively fitted; but, like Nelson, he had no great faith in the ability of the Spaniards to take care of their fine ships.
On this cruise the Alliance seems to have been indeed a stormy petrel, and encountered much bad weather, so that it was the 10th of February before anchor was cast in the roads of Groix, before L’Orient.
Shouting multitudes received him. Letters of enthusiastic praise from Franklin and Lafayette and many distinguished Americans and Frenchmen awaited him, and he was hailed as the hope of the infant navy of his country.
The wound in the head which Paul Jones had received, and which he had made light of, turned out to be more serious than he would at first acknowledge. He had had one or two other hurts, of which he had said nothing, and his labors and the mental strain to which he had been subjected seriously affected his health and particularly his eyes. The multitudes that lined the quays and streets of L’Orient to greet him when he came ashore for the first time, were touched to see that the great sea warrior’s eyes were bound with a white handkerchief, and he leaned upon the arm of his faithful Dale. Danny Dixon trotted close behind, and during the days of Paul Jones’s illness and partial blindness the boy became eyes and hands to him. Paul Jones took a lodging on shore, leaving the ship in Dale’s command, as she lay in the roads. Every day he walked out for exercise, Danny following sedately behind him and gazing at him with a peculiar expression of reverence that often made Paul Jones smile. But the intensity of the boy’s affection was sweet to him. He spent the early spring months at L’Orient very quietly, trying to regain his health. He had the society of his faithful young lieutenant, and whenever he appeared in public he was greeted with the utmost enthusiasm. Repeated messages were sent him from the French court to visit Paris; but not until he felt it necessary, in order to secure his gallant crew their prize money, did he determine to go. Dale was to be left in command of the Alliance; Danny Dixon was to go to wait on the captain, and was overwhelmed with delight at the idea of seeing the world under such distinguished auspices.
When Paul Jones went on board the Alliance to say farewell before leaving for Paris, he received the applause dearest to him—that of his officers and crew. The men were piped aft, and, standing surrounded by his officers, he made them a short speech. He was still pale, and the wound in his head was not fully healed.
“I go to Paris, my men,” said Paul Jones, “chiefly to secure the prize money that you have so gloriously earned. I shall not rest until I have got it for you. I leave in command my trusty Mr. Dale. Behave to him as you would to me. You have seen his gallantry in action, and you will now see his justice and probity in calmer times. I thank you all”—here Paul Jones’s voice broke, and it was a moment or two before he could proceed. “I thank you all, officers and men, for the courage that enabled us to capture the Serapis. The victory was as much yours as mine, and you have the word of Paul Jones that your just reward shall be secured. I shall return shortly, and, till then, farewell!”
The sailors gave Paul Jones not only three cheers, but three times three, and the officers joined in the cheering with a will. Dale had been appointed to reply for the officers, and he stood with moist and glowing eyes as he spoke:
“All that we have acquired of glory is through you. Can we ever forget that you commanded our ship in the unequal battle, fought the guns in person, lashed the ships together with your own hand, took up a pike like the humblest man on board to repel the enemy when they would have boarded us, and succeeded against water, fire, treachery, and valor? As long as ships traverse the ocean will your name be known; and as long as life lasts will we esteem it the highest honor that we can claim, to say, ‘We fought with Paul Jones on the Bon Homme Richard!’”
Another round of cheers followed this, when Bill Green was put forth as the spokesman for the men.
“’Tis said, sir,” began Bill, hitching up his trousers before starting in on his oratorical effort, “that there’s two things no sailor-man can do—one is, to make a speech, and t’other is, to ride a horse. ’Tain’t reasonable as a sailor could ride a horse, sir, ’cause horses is ornnateral beasts, that is always yawin’ about from side to side, no matter how straight you lay your course, nor what quarter the wind is from. But we don’t need to make no speech about our commodore. That ’ere British ensign we has got speaks loud enough; them two British ships you took agin the awfullest odds we ever see—theyspeaks; that gallant ship o’ ourn, the Bunnum Richard, that went to the bottom—thatship speaks; that ’ere cut acrost your forehead, sir—thatspeaks; and, as for we in the foks’l, give us the name o’ Paul Jones for our cap’n and we kin wallop anything afloat. The cap’n on the S’rapis, he nailed his flag to the mast and then he had to haul it down. But we don’t need for to nail our flag to the mast, sir, because we all knows that the man who touches that ’ere flag is a dead man, if Commodore Paul Jones is commandin’. And so we says, commodore, health and long life to you! and, as Mr. Dale has said, the proudest thing we kin ever say is, ‘We fought under Paul Jones on the Bunnum Richard, sir!’”
Another tremendous round of cheers followed this. Paul Jones, with his eyes full of tears, shook hands silently with each of his officers, and then, with a profound bow to the men assembled, he stepped to the side. In an instant, as if by magic, every sailor sprang aloft, and in less time than it takes to tell it the yards were manned. Two fine French frigates that lay close by the Alliance also manned their yards, and thundered out a salute of thirteen guns to the commodore’s broad pennant, which was about to be hauled down. The Alliance responded with thirteen guns; and so, amid the applause and cheers of his men, the thunders of artillery, and all the honors that could be heaped upon him, Paul Jones left his ship.
Within an hour he was on the road to Paris, traveling by thediligence.
It was his intention to get to Paris as quietly as possible, and for that reason he wore plain citizen’s clothes, and wrapped himself in a large cloak; but Danny Dixon, swelling with the importance of the charge of his commander’s portmanteau, had no notion of letting the great man pass unknown through the world. Danny sat in the rumble along with a very smart and dapper little valet, who was accompanying his master, a French officer, to Paris. As Danny was not by any means as elegant as the Frenchman, he was subject to much contempt, all of which he bore with stoical good humor.
The May morning was fresh and beautiful, and as they dashed along the broad and level road they saw green fields on each side of them, and comfortable homesteads in sight, while occasionally a noble chateau reared its towers in proud seclusion, half hidden by great trees. The trees were just budding, and when thediligencerolled occasionally over the moss-grown stone bridges the streams beneath ran over their pebbly beds with the laughing fullness of the spring. The air was deliciously soft and fresh, and as Paul Jones sat on the box seat, inhaling the beauty and glory around him, he felt a subtile joy and satisfaction in life. Presently he looked back to see how Danny was getting on. Danny, with the commodore’s portmanteau tightly clasped between his knees, was looking a picture of satisfaction.
“How do you like this?” asked Paul Jones, amused at the boy’s rapt look of enjoyment.
“Fust-rate, sir,” answered Danny, touching his cap. “This ’ere’s mightily like being on the topsail yard, sir, and I think she rolls and pitches a good deal. But maybe that’s because she ain’t ballasted right—all the dunnage is aft, sir—”
Here Paul Jones frowned at Danny, which immediately checked his eloquence.
“Sacre bleu!” said the dandy valet, who was dressed quite as well as his master, and who spoke what he thought was English; “you talk ze rubbish. Your master, he is vidout doubt, a man of seafaring, who goes to home with a hundred louis d’or in his plocket—poket—pocket—for a jollitime.”
“He is, is he?” answered Danny wrathfully. “I’ll have you to understand, sir, that I serves Commodore Paul Jones, o’ the Bunnum Richard, what took the S’rapis, and the Britishers has sent out forty-two ships o’ the line and frigates for to ketch him, and they’d ruther have him nor the whole durned French navy, with all your wuthless admirals throwed in.”
“You are von saucy boy,” responded the Frenchman angrily; “and as for your Paul Jones, vy, I nevair heard of ze gentilhomme before!”
“Well,” replied Danny, very coolly, “I’ll give you something for to remember the fust time you ever heerd of him!” and, without a moment’s warning, he suddenly caught the little Frenchman by the ankle and by the collar, and, jerking him off the seat, held him suspended over the back of the rumble, about five feet from the ground, while the horses galloped along, the postilions cracked their whips, and the white road sped beneath them.
As soon as the Frenchman could get his breath he bellowed loudly, but he was afraid to struggle lest Danny should drop him, and he little knew the strength in those young sinews and strong boyish arms.
“You ain’t never heerd o’ Commodore Paul Jones,” bawled Danny, “and you never heerd on the Bunnum Richard nor the S’rapis nuther, but I reckon you’ll remember all about ’em next time you hear on’ em!” Danny emphasized these remarks by giving the little Frenchman several tremendous shakes, which terrified him more than ever.
The commotion was not heard for a moment or two, on account of the rattling of thediligenceand the rate at which they were traveling, but as soon as the affair was noticed cries resounded from the passengers, both to Danny and to the postilions to check the horses. Just as Paul Jones turned around and caught sight of Danny thediligencecame to a halt, and, with a final shake, Danny dropped the Frenchman in the road.
Quite forgetting himself in the surprise and shock of the occasion, Paul Jones cried out angrily: “What are you doing, sir? Have you lost your mind?”
“No, sir,” replied Danny, touching his cap again, “but that ’ere frog-eating landlubber, he had the imperence for to tell me that he ain’t never heerd o’ you, sir, nor of the way you took the Drake and the S’rapis, nor the forty-two British cap’ns as was on the lookout for you, sir; so I jest handed him over the side, sir, meanin’ to hold him there by the slack o’ his trousers till he axed for quarter, sir.”
Meanwhile, the Frenchman, sputtering and swearing, had got up from the ground and was brushing the dust off his elegant attire. The French officer, his master, at first disposed to be angry, could not help laughing at Danny’s explanation and the tone in which it was given. He explained it in French, and everybody shouted with laughter, except the unfortunate lackey and Paul Jones, but even Paul Jones could not wholly refrain from smiling.
“Behave yourself better in future, sir, and remember it is I who tell you so.”
Danny bobbed his head and touched his cap again, saying, “Ay, ay, sir.”
But the boy’s words had turned every eye on Paul Jones. Was this slight, dark, quiet man the redoubtable Paul Jones, the terror of the seas, the man that England put forth all her might to capture, but who was still free, still great? Paul Jones’s dark skin flushed under this close scrutiny. The French officer, raising his hat, made a profound bow, and said:
“May I ask if we have the honor of addressing the celebrated, the invincible Paul Jones?”
“Your compliments do me too much honor,” replied Paul Jones, “but I am the person you have so flatteringly described.”
All hope of privacy was now at an end. Every eye was fixed on him, and every ear was open to catch his lightest remark. This was not what Paul Jones desired, and he inwardly chafed at Danny Dixon’s indiscreet devotion that had betrayed him. But Danny was not the boy to let the fact remain in obscurity that he served Paul Jones, and he beamed with delight at the French officer’s words.
The poor valet, having brushed the dust off his clothes, now climbed back into the rumble, and thediligenceproceeded upon its way. The only word that Danny condescended to address to him was when they alighted two days afterward in the streets of Paris.
“Do you know now, Mounseer Landlubber, who Commodore Paul Jones is?”
“Parbleu, yes,” sighed the lackey. “I vill not forget ze gentilhomme—nevair, nevair!”
Paul Jones’s first visit in Paris was to his best and firmest friend, Benjamin Franklin. In all of his anxieties, as well as his triumphs, Franklin had stood unflinchingly by him; and now, no man rejoiced more at his splendid fame than Franklin. As soon as it was known that the immortal Paul Jones was in Paris crowds flocked to see him, and his modest lodgings were overrun with people of the greatest distinction. The American cause was very popular, and the presence of two such men as Benjamin Franklin and Paul Jones was calculated to add luster to the cause they served.
Whether Paul Jones walked in the gardens of Paris or upon the boulevards, he was followed by a respectful and admiring crowd. The first night he went to the theater, as soon as he entered the word went round, “There is Paul Jones!” As he advanced and took his seat the whisper increased to a buzz, and then into an uproar, the audience rising and applauding excitedly. Paul Jones, with a blush upon his manly features, rose and returned the salutations of the crowd.
In a few days came an invitation, which was in reality a command, to visit Versailles and to meet the king, Louis XVI, and his queen, Marie Antoinette. Both of them were afterward to lay down their lives on the scaffold, but then they were in the heyday of power and magnificence. Louis earnestly desired the independence of America, and entertained the highest respect for the characters of her great men.
On a beautiful Sunday in May, Paul Jones, with Franklin, set off for Versailles in a plain coach. Danny Dixon, in a brand new sailor suit, sat on the box with the coachman and did duty for a footman. Inside sat Dr. Franklin, in the simple dress of an American citizen. His coat was plain but handsome, and he remarked to Paul Jones, smiling: “This is the coat, my friend, in which I was insulted by Lord Loughborough. I wear it whenever I appear as the representative of my country; and it is my ambition to wear it upon the day that an honorable peace is signed between America and Great Britain”—which actually came to pass.
Paul Jones wore a splendid new uniform of an American commodore, and looked every inch a great man.
All along the road to Versailles, which was crowded with magnificent equipages, with horsemen superbly mounted, and with a great and merry populace, the carriage containing the two Americans was pointed out with the utmost interest. They drove slowly down the grand avenue, and at last the palace of Versailles burst upon their sight in glittering beauty. The terraces were of velvety greenness, the fountains sparkled brilliantly in the noonday sun, and the trees were in their first fresh glory of the May.
A crowd of great people—courtiers and court ladies superbly costumed, ministers and statesmen, naval and military officers in dazzling uniforms—crowded the grand staircase; but all made way for the venerable Dr. Franklin and Paul Jones, for the word had sped from mouth to mouth who they were. Respectful greetings met them on every side, and when they entered the anteroom they were the cynosure of all eyes.
Paul Jones and Franklin at the Court of Louis XVI.
Paul Jones and Franklin at the Court of Louis XVI.
Presently the great folding doors of the audience chamber were thrown wide, and an instant hush fell upon the vast crowd of nobles and gentlemen. The king and queen, seated in armchairs on a dais, over which there was a canopy, and surrounded by members of the royal family and their suite, were seen at the end of the vast and splendid hall. By a silent motion the gentleman usher, one of the greatest nobles in France, singled out Dr. Franklin and Paul Jones. Both of them rose at once and entered the audience chamber, after which the doors slid noiselessly into their grooves until the two reappeared at the end of half an hour.
Within the hall Franklin and Paul Jones approached the king and queen with dignified composure. They were respectful but not awed, and were much more at their ease than half the great people who surrounded royalty.
On reaching the dais upon which sat Louis XVI, whose mild and frank countenance expressed the honest man and the gentleman much more than the king, Dr. Franklin bowed profoundly, and said:
“Sire, I desire to present to your Majesty Commodore Paul Jones, of the American navy.”
“And I am heartily glad to see so great a hero,” responded Louis. Then the same ceremony was gone through with the queen, whose grace and beauty were then at their zenith.
Both of them entered into conversation with the two Americans. Never were two men more congenial in general tastes and opinions than the excellent Louis and the great Franklin. Louis admired Franklin’s genius, and Franklin respected the king, who, although his youth was spent in the most corrupt court in the world, yet grew up honest, temperate, and moral. The beauty and enthusiasm of the young queen deeply impressed Paul Jones. Little did he then think that lovely head would one day fall under the axe of the guillotine!
The king’s chief attention, though, was bestowed upon Paul Jones, whom he had long desired to meet.
“I wish to thank you,” he said, “for the very noble and interesting account of your glorious cruise, that you wrote out at my request. But, after all has been said, I am yet constrained to ask you, how could you have accomplished the capture of the Serapis in the face of such enormous odds?”
“By hard fighting, sire,” responded Paul Jones, with a smile; and the king and the lovely queen both smiled at the manly simplicity of the answer. The king then said:
“I understand that the British have tried Captain Pearson by court-martial, and, considering the fact that he defended himself for five hours against Commodore Paul Jones, they have not only acquitted him, but have made him a baronet besides. He is now Sir Richard Pearson.”
“Sire,” answered Paul Jones, “if I have the good fortune to meet him again, I will make him a lord!”
At this the king laughed heartily, and repeated it to the queen; and from that Paul Jones’sbon motwent the rounds of Europe.
As they were about to leave, the king said to Paul Jones: “It is my intention to show in some marked manner my approval of your brilliant conduct and my appreciation of so brave an ally, and I design that you shall receive it in your own country and among the plaudits of your fellow-citizens. But all Europe will know it as well.”
Paul Jones bowed his thanks, while Dr. Franklin, in a few words, expressed the gratitude the American Government and people would feel at honors bestowed to their foremost naval hero. Then, with profound and respectful bows, they left the presence of royalty.
Paul Jones’s popularity was still further increased by these marks of kingly favor, and he became the fashion with the nobility and the court people. No assembly was complete without him, and “le brave capitaine,” as he was called, was surrounded by brilliant men and beautiful women whenever he appeared in society. But what chiefly pleased Paul Jones was the popular regard the masses had for him, and the attentions paid him by the French naval and military men. These, indeed, penetrated his soul. In a very little while the honors alluded to by the king were announced to Paul Jones through the Minister of Marine, M. de Sartine. A magnificent gold-hilted sword, inscribed “Vindicati Maris Ludovicus XVI Remunerator strenuo vindici,” was presented him, and the extraordinary honor of the cross of the Order of Military Merit, which had never before been given to any but a Frenchman. This last, however, he could not accept, as an American officer, without the permission of Congress, and therefore the cross was sent, with a most flattering letter to the French minister at Philadelphia, with directions that Congress be asked to allow Paul Jones to accept it—which permission was afterward enthusiastically granted.
The conferring of this last honor made Paul Jones a chevalier of the Order of Military Merit, and he was already the Commodore of the American Navy. But none of these titles were used by him. His cards bore the simple but proud name of “Paul Jones.” He needed not titles or distinctions; and, although he appreciated them, he knew that they could not confer any title upon him that would add one iota to his reputation.
The American commissioners were so poorly provided with money that they could never secure Paul Jones a ship worthy of him, and the best they could do was to get the Ariel, a French sloop of war. But Richard Dale and Henry Lunt, together with nearly all the officers and men of the Bon Homme Richard, were available for the Ariel, so that Paul Jones had the same splendid company that had served under him in his last glorious cruise.
A singular fatality seemed to attend all of Paul Jones’s departures from port. He could never get the ship he wanted, or one worthy of him; nor could he ever leave when he wished. Contrary winds detained him in the roads of Groix for several weeks. When the wind finally changed, on the morning of the 8th of October, there was every indication of squally weather.
“Do you know,” said Paul Jones to Dale, whom he always treated with the utmost confidence, “I have private information that Sir James Wallace, in the Nonesuch line of battle ship, is waiting for me outside; and she, you know, is copper sheathed, and one of the finest ships in the world.”
“But it is not written, Paul,” answered Dale, with an affectionate smile, “that Paul Jones is ever to be taken by the British.”
The most affectionate intimacy had now grown up between the commodore and his young lieutenant; and although Paul Jones was some years older than Dale, the young lieutenant in private called his commander “Paul.”[5]They were like an older and a younger brother. In public, the strictest official etiquette was observed by both; yet when they were alone they were like two boy friends in their tender friendship.
The wind increased in violence as they got out into the bay, and by nightfall it was a roaring tempest. Then came up a storm of which, Paul Jones himself wrote afterward, “until that night I did not fully conceive the awful majesty of tempest and of shipwreck. I can give no idea of the tremendous scene.... I believe no ship was ever before saved from an equal danger off the point of the Penmarque rocks.”
These Penmarque rocks are among the most dangerous in the world, and lie between L’Orient and Brest. The gale continued to increase, and on the night of the 9th of October, when the Ariel had the Penmarques under her lee, the storm became utterly terrific. The sky was of a dreadful darkness, and the waves rushed up into great green mountain slopes, with a crest of white phosphorus that made a weird and awful glare upon the storm-swept ocean. Black as the sky was, it seemed to grow suddenly blacker, as a great mass of clouds went flying over to the northwest, where it formed a terrible bank that reached from the surface of the sea to the arch of the heavens. The edges were of a luminous green, and lightnings began to play upon the face of this awful cloud bank. It spread quickly over the sky like a great black pall, and then a blast burst forth. It was as if the cloud were a volcano, spouting wind, rain, hail, thunders, and lightnings. A vast grayish-white veil of rain was tossed by the screaming wind between heaven and earth, and rent by the forked lightning.