By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
DECATUR AND SOMERS
LITTLE JARVIS
PAUL JONES
[Illustration: _The guns broke loose._]
PAUL JONES
BY
MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
AUTHOR OF
LITTLE JARVIS, MIDSHIPMAN PAULDING, CHILDREN OF DESTINY, MAID MARIAN,
THROCKMORTON, ETC.
[Illustration: Publisher Logo]
D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY
INCORPORATED
NEW YORK LONDON
1936
Copyright, 1893,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must not be
reproduced in any form without permission of the publisher._
Printed in the United States of America.
INTRODUCTION.
“The fame of the brave outlives him; his portion is immortality.”
_From the funeral discourse pronounced over Paul Jones._
The writer feels the most sincere diffidence in making use of the mighty
name and personality of Paul Jones, who, as Cooper justly says, was not
only a great seaman but a great man. An excuse, however, is not wanting.
It is justifiable and profitable to bring before the eyes of American
youth this heroic figure, and if it be done inadequately, the fault is
not in the intention. It is not too much to say that the achievements of
Paul Jones, the ranking officer in the Continental marine, had much to
do with placing the American navy upon that lofty plane of skill and
intrepidity which can only be matched by England, the Mistress of the
Seas.
Strangely enough, Paul Jones is but little known to the multitude, and
the misrepresentations concerning him that occasionally appear in print
to this day are the more inexcusable because few public men ever left a
more complete record. This record has been carefully studied by the
writer, and, although this story is professedly and confessedly a
romance, history has been consulted at every point. Log books, journals,
and biographies have been searched, especially the logs, journals, and
letters of Paul Jones himself. Much relating to him has been left out,
but nothing of consequence has been put in that is not historically
true. The language ascribed to him is, whenever possible, that used by
him at the time, or afterward, in his letters and journals. When it is
wholly imaginary it is made consistent, as far as lies in the writer’s
power, with what is known of his mode of expression. The mere recital of
Paul Jones’s actual adventures is a thrilling romance, and his character
was so powerfully romantic and imaginative that it lends itself readily
to idealization. But he is more than the type of mere daring. Technical
authors write of him with the most profound admiration, and among naval
men of all nations he stands as the model of resource as well as
boldness. His plans were far-reaching, and his most hazardous
undertakings were inspired by a sublime common sense. John Adams said of
him: “If I could see a prospect of half a dozen line-of-battle ships
under the American flag and commanded by Commodore Paul Jones engaged
with an equal British force, I apprehend the result would be so glorious
for the United States, and lay so sure a foundation for their
prosperity, that it would be a rich compensation for the continuance of
the war.” And Franklin, his steadfast friend, in one noble sentence
described him: “_For Captain Paul Jones ever loved close fighting._”
Washington, Lafayette, Jefferson, and Morris esteemed him, and left
evidence of it. Nor did his enemies fail to pay him the compliment of
wishing to ruin him, for at one time there were forty-two British
frigates and line-of-battle ships scouring the seas for him. He was the
first to raise the American flag on the ocean, and so well did he
maintain its honor that he kept it flying in the Texel, with thirteen
double-decked Dutch frigates menacing him in the harbor, while twelve
British ships lay in wait for him outside. He was offered comparative
security if he would hoist the French ensign and accept a commission in
the French navy. More than that, he was told that unless he agreed to
this he must give up the splendid trophy of his valor, the captured
British frigate Serapis—“the finest ship of her class I ever saw,” he
wrote. But cruel as this last alternative was, Paul Jones unhesitatingly
transferred his flag from the beautiful Serapis to the inferior Alliance
and got to sea in the face of the British fleet, with his “best American
ensign flying,” as he himself wrote at the moment. Well might Paul Jones
say proudly to the American Congress: “I have never borne arms under any
but the American flag, nor have I ever borne or acted under any
commission except that of the Congress of America.”
He served without pay or allowance, and made advances out of his private
fortune to the cause of independence. He was wounded many times in his
“twenty-three battles and solemn rencounters by sea,” as he expressed
it. Yet there is not one word of his wounds in any line of his official
correspondence, although the wounds of others are frequently called to
the attention of the Congress. He fought whenever he had a chance, and
he was never defeated. The two British war-ships he captured were taken
in the face of enormous odds and within sight of the three kingdoms,
when both seas and shores were swarming with his enemies. The captain
who surrendered to him was made a baronet for the defense of the British
ship. What, then, must have been the splendor of the attack! Truly, Paul
Jones deserved well of his country, and he was not without proof of its
gratitude. He was unanimously elected the ranking officer of the
American navy by the Continental Congress, which also gave him a gold
medal and the thanks of Congress. France showed her appreciation of his
services by awarding him the cross of the order of Military Merit, never
before given a foreigner, and a gold sword. Thus was the splendid roll
of American sea officers made lustrous from the beginning by the name of
Paul Jones.
The words of Lamartine about the great profession in which Paul Jones
served gloriously, and the language of Cooper regarding Paul Jones
himself, may be quoted. Lamartine says: “Among the illustrious men who
have filled the foremost ranks in great contests, men have always been
most dazzled and interested by the heroes of the sea.... The variety and
extent of natural and acquired faculties which must of necessity be
united in one individual to constitute a great seaman, astonish the mind
and raise the perfect sailor beyond all comparison above all other
warriors.”
Cooper says: “In battle, Paul Jones was brave; in enterprise, hardy and
original; in victory, mild and generous; in motives, much disposed to
disinterestedness, although ambitious of renown and covetous of
distinction; in his pecuniary relations, liberal; in his affections,
natural and sincere; and in his temper, except in those cases which
assailed his reputation, just and forgiving.” Moreover, he was a true
and patriotic American, and, except Columbus, the Admiral of the Ocean
Seas, Paul Jones was the very boldest man who ever sailed blue water.
Molly Elliot Seawell.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
FACING PAGE
The guns broke loose _Frontispiece_
“Hooray for Cap’n Paul Jones!” 23
The Ranger and the Drake 43
“Haul away! Yo ho, boys!” 50
At the first discharge two of the guns burst 93
Battle of the Bonhomme Richard and the Serapis 102
Paul Jones and Franklin at the Court of Louis XVI 147
Paul Jones 162
PAUL JONES.
[Illustration: Squadron under sail]
CHAPTER I.
On a bright day in January, 1776, a lithe, handsome young man, wearing
the uniform of a lieutenant in the Continental navy, stood on the dock
at Philadelphia gazing keenly down the river. His eyes were peculiarly
black and beautiful, and had an expression of command in them that is
seldom absent from those of a man born to lead other men. His figure was
slight, and he was not above medium height; but he was both graceful and
muscular.
The river was frozen, except a tortuous channel cut through the ice and
kept open with difficulty. Innumerable masts and spars made a network
against the dull blue of the winter sky, and fringed the docks and
wharves; while far down the glittering sea of ice lay a small squadron
of five armed vessels, which was the beginning of the glorious navy of
the United States.
This young lieutenant, Paul Jones by name, looked about for a boat to
take him down the river to the squadron; and seeing a ragged,
bright-eyed boy about twelve years old sitting in a rickety skiff from
which a passenger had just been landed, he called the boy, and, jumping
lightly into the boat, said:
“Take me to that ship over yonder with ‘Alfred’ painted on her stern.”
The boy pulled away with a will, but kept his eyes fixed on Paul Jones’s
uniform and the sword which lay across his knee.
“Them ships is to fight the British, ain’t they?” he asked presently,
jerking his head toward the ships then just collected in the river,
whose crews and armaments were yet to be provided.
“Yes,” answered Paul Jones, smiling. “If you were a man I would enlist
you.”
The boy said nothing more, but pulled steadily toward the Alfred. When
they reached the side of the ship her decks were heaped with coils of
rope, piles of shot, some unmounted guns, and all the litter of a
merchant vessel being converted into a man-of-war. But the Alfred,
although not built for fighting, was yet a stanch little ship, and when
armed and manned had no cause to run away from any vessel of her class.
Paul Jones studied her with the eye of a seaman, as they approached.
Meanwhile a crowd of strange thoughts rushed upon him. “At last,” he
thought to himself, “I am at the beginning of my career. A poor Scotch
gardener’s son, shipping as a common sailor boy because there were so
many mouths to feed at home—coming, at thirteen, to this new country
that I have learned to love so well—left a modest fortune, and rising to
the command of a ship before I was twenty, I determined to cast my fate
with these people, to whom I owe all the kindness I ever knew, and I was
proud to be among the first to raise my arm in the defense of these
colonies against tyranny. All those I loved as a child in Scotland are
dead, and all that is now dear to me is in my adopted country. The cause
of these colonies is a just one, and I could no more refuse to fight for
that cause than any man born here. The chances for success and promotion
are all with the army; our few small vessels can hope for but little in
contests with England, the Mistress of the Seas; but I think I was born
a sailor, and my heart turns ever toward blue water. The day that I
received my commission as a lieutenant in the Continental navy was
surely the most blessed and fortunate of my life, and my adopted country
shall never have cause to regret giving it me.” Deep in his heart Paul
Jones had a strange feeling that glory awaited him; for those destined
to immortality have mysterious foreknowledge of it.
Occupied with these thoughts, Paul Jones did not come out of his
daydream until the boat’s nose touched the accommodation ladder over the
Alfred’s side. He rose with a start, and held out a piece of money to
the boy, who blushed, and shook his head.
“I don’t want no money,” he said diffidently, “for helpin’ my country.”
Paul Jones paused and looked steadily at the ragged lad, who looked back
steadfastly at him.
“You seem to be rather an odd sort of boy—and, by my life, I like such
boys,” said he. The quartermaster had then come down the ladder, and
stood ready to salute as soon as he caught the young lieutenant’s eye.
This man, Bill Green, was a remarkably handsome, bluff sailor of about
forty-five, with a fine figure, and was dressed with as much care and
neatness as if he were a quarter-deck officer. Paul Jones was instantly
struck by his admirable appearance, and more so when he spoke. His voice
was full and musical, and his manner extremely polite and respectful,
without being in the least cringing. The lad, too, seemed taken by the
quartermaster’s pleasant looks, and spoke again, after a moment, looking
alternately from him to Paul Jones:
“I’m a very strong boy—and I allus thought I’d like to be a sailor.
Won’t you take me now, sir, and let me fight the British?”
The quartermaster grinned broadly at this, but Paul Jones did not smile.
“What is your name, my lad?—and have you parents?”
“My name’s Danny Dixon, sir, and I ain’t got any father or mother or
brothers or sisters; and I’d ruther be a sailor, sir, nor anything.”
Paul Jones looked hard at the boy, and then turned to the quartermaster.
“We’ll see if his story is true, and if it is—why, we shall have use for
powder boys on this ship, and we might do worse than take this lad.”
“In course, sir,” responded Green. “I’ll find out something about him,
and I’m thinkin’ he’d make a good, strong powder monkey and maybe he’s
old enough to be helper to the jack-o’-the-dust.”
Danny’s eyes gleamed.
“I’ll go ashore now, sir, and bring you back some one to prove who I
am,” he cried eagerly; and Paul Jones had to step hurriedly out of the
boat to keep from being carried back to the dock, so keen was the boy to
put off. And in two hours he was back again on the Alfred, and regularly
entered on the ship’s books.
“Because,” said Bill Green, who was a foks’l wag, “when we comes to
fightin’ the British, most likely the cap’n will call you up and make
you a quarter gunner, or sumpin’ on the spot, boy; and you can’t git
your share of the prize money if you ain’t entered on the ship’s books,
reg’lar.”
Danny luckily did not mention his expectation of becoming a quarter
gunner to Paul Jones, who, as first lieutenant, had charge of the ship
in the absence of her captain. But he did ask that he might be put on
the books so he could get his prize money; which the young lieutenant
promised to do, laughing in spite of himself at Danny’s serious
expectation of a considerable fortune in prize money.
Captain Saltonstall was to command the Alfred, but he had not yet
arrived, and upon Paul Jones rested the duty of preparing the ship for
sea. From the day his foot first touched the deck his active spirit
pervaded everything, and the officers under him, as well as the men,
felt the force of his commanding energy. Besides working all day, he and
the other officers stood watch and watch on deck throughout the wintry
nights, to prevent desertions; and although every other ship in the
squadron had her crew lessened by desertion, not a single man was lost
from the Alfred.
“And I’m a-thinkin’, mates,” remarked Bill Green, in the confidence of
the foks’l, “as how we’ve got a leftenant as is a seaman; I seen it by
the cut o’ his jib; and if he was the cap’n o’ this ’ere ship, he’d lock
yardarms with a Britisher if he had half a chance.”
One day, in the midst of the bustle of fitting the ship out, Commodore
Hopkins, who was to command the little squadron, came on board the
Alfred. He was formally received at the gangway by Paul Jones and shown
over the ship by him.
The commodore was a big, burly man, who had spent the best part of his
life at sea. He examined the ship carefully, and his silence, as Paul
Jones explained what he had done and was doing with the means at his
command, made the young lieutenant fear that it had not met with the
commodore’s approval. But, secure in the consciousness that he had done
his duty, Paul Jones could afford to do without the praise of his
superiors. He was not, however, destined to this mortification. Standing
on the quarter-deck, surrounded by the officers, Commodore Hopkins
turned to Paul Jones, and said:
“Your activity has pleased me extremely, and my confidence in you is
such, that if Captain Saltonstall should be unable to reach here by the
time the ships can get away, I shall hoist my flag on this ship, and
give you the command of her.”
A flush rose in Paul Jones’s dark face, and he bowed with the graceful
courtesy that always distinguished him.
“Thank you, commodore,” he said, “and may I be pardoned for hoping that
Captain Saltonstall may not arrive in time? And when your flag is
hoisted on the Alfred, there will be, I trust, a flag of the United
Colonies to fly at the peak, and I aspire to be the first man to raise
that flag upon the ocean.”
Commodore Hopkins smiled.
“If the Congress is as slow as I expect it to be, it will be some time
yet in adopting a flag; and there will not be time to have one made for
the ship before we sail.”
“I think there will, sir,” replied Paul Jones.
The young lieutenant had good reason for his expectation. The Congress
had practically decided upon the flag, and Paul Jones, out of his own
pocket, had bought the materials to make one. Bill Green was an expert
with the needle, boasting that he could “hand, reef, and steer a needle
like the best o’ them tailor men,” and was fully capable of making a
flag.
On a stormy February day, when the channel had been freed from ice
enough for the little squadron to get out, the Alfred was made ready to
receive her flag officer. Captain Saltonstall had arrived some days
before, to Paul Jones’s intense disappointment. But he was as ready to
do his duty as first lieutenant as he had been that hoped-for duty as
acting captain.
The commodore’s boat was seen approaching on the wind tossed water. The
horizon was overcast, and dun clouds scurried wildly across the troubled
sky, with which the pale and wintry sun struggled vainly. The
boatswain’s call, “All hands to muster!” sounded through the ship, and
in a wonderfully short time, owing to the careful drilling of Paul
Jones, the three hundred men and one hundred marines were drawn up on
deck. The sailors, a fine-looking body of American seamen, were formed
in ranks on the port side of the quarter-deck, while abaft of them stood
the marine guard, under arms. On the starboard side were the petty
officers, and on the quarter-deck proper were the commissioned officers
in full uniform with their swords, and Paul Jones headed the line.
When it was reported, “All hands up and aft!” Captain Saltonstall
appeared out of the cabin. Paul Jones, having previously arranged it,
called out, “Quartermaster!” and Bill Green, neat, handsome and
sailorlike, stepped from the ranks of the petty officers.
From some unknown regions about his clothes Bill produced a flag, rolled
up, and, following Paul Jones, stepped briskly aft to the flagstaff. He
affixed the flag to the halyards, along with the broad pennant of a
commodore, saw that they worked properly, and then stood by. The
commodore’s boat was then at the ladder, and the commodore came over the
side. Just as his foot touched the quarter-deck the flag with the
pennant flew up on the staff like magic, under Paul Jones’s hands, the
breeze caught it and flung it wide to the free air, and the sun,
suddenly bursting out, bathed it in glory. Every officer, from the
commodore down, instantly removed his cap, the drummer boys beat a
double ruffle on the drums, and a tremendous cheer burst from the
sailors and marines. As Paul Jones advanced, Commodore Hopkins said to
him:
“I congratulate you upon your enterprise. The flag was only adopted in
Congress yesterday, and this one is the very first to fly.”[1]
“Such was my hope, sir,” answered Paul Jones, modestly. “I wished the
honor of hoisting the flag of freedom the first time it was ever
displayed; and this man,” pointing to Bill Green, who stood smiling
behind him, “sat up all last night in order to make this ensign for the
ship—an ensign which will ever be attended with veneration upon the
ocean.”
Bill Green came in for his share of congratulation too; and as if the
appearance of the flag had bewitched the wind, it suddenly shifted to
fair, the sun came out brilliantly, and within half an hour the squadron
of five ships—the Columbus, the Andrew Doria, the Sebastian Cabot, and
the Providence, led by the Alfred—had spread all their canvas, and were
winging swiftly toward the free and open sea.