The repute of Paul Jones was now great, and the American Congress
intended sending him abroad to take command of a splendid frigate, then
building in Holland. But owing to the representations of the British
Government to Holland, and also to France, which had not then openly
joined the American cause, the frigate was handed over to the French
Government instead of to the American commissioners at Paris. These
commissioners were Benjamin Franklin, Silas Deane, and Arthur Lee. The
next best thing to be done for Captain Jones was to give him command of
the Ranger, sloop of war. She was then fitting out at Portsmouth, New
Hampshire.
The Congress had adopted, on the 14th of July, 1777, the present
national ensign of the stars and stripes, and on the same day Paul Jones
received his orders to command the Ranger. He at once started for
Portsmouth, carrying with him one of the new flags, and as he had before
hoisted for the first time the original flag of the colonies, so he had
the honor of raising the new ensign upon the Ranger the first time the
Stars and Stripes ever floated over an American man-of-war.
There never was any trouble about manning Paul Jones’s ships, and
neither Bill Green nor little Danny Dixon could have been kept off with
a stick. Therefore, on the fair, bright summer day that Paul Jones
arrived at Portsmouth the very first creature he put his eyes on was
Danny.
“Why, how are you, my lad?” cried Paul Jones, as he sprang out of the
lumbering stagecoach, and saw Danny standing by the door of the inn
where it stopped.
“Quite well, sir,” answered Danny with shining eyes, and stepping up to
take Paul Jones’s luggage. He shouldered two portmanteaus manfully, but
Paul Jones held on to a large parcel that he carried under his arm.
“No, no,” he cried, “this is too precious to be trusted out of my own
hand. And how did you know I would be here to-day?”
“I didn’t know it for certain, sir, but Mr. Green and me, we has stood
watch and watch for two days lookin’ for you, and Mr. Green says, if he
ain’t the fust man aboard the Ranger to know you has come as how he’ll
take it out on my hide, certain. But that’s only Mr. Green’s way o’
jokin’, sir.”
Danny went through with this very respectfully, and Paul Jones’s smiling
eyes showed that he knew perfectly well the relations between the
devoted little cabin boy, and the sturdy quartermaster. “Come on, then,”
cried he, “and I have something here to decorate my ship with, that will
make her shine indeed.”
In a little while they reached the ship, Danny red and proud with the
honor of carrying the captain’s luggage. Sure enough, there stood Bill
Green at the gangway, and he took his hat off as soon as he caught sight
of Paul Jones. For his part, Paul Jones was delighted to know that he
could count upon such a reliable petty officer as Bill, and greeted him
warmly. Bill immediately snatched the luggage from Danny, who was left
disconsolate, without even the Captain’s portmanteau to comfort him. The
first lieutenant was on deck, and as soon as Paul Jones had greeted his
officers he went aft, and, unrolling his parcel, shook out a large and
handsome silk flag, the “Uncle Sam’s gridiron,” which he was destined,
as he himself expressed it, “to attend with veneration on the ocean.”
Bill Green fastened the flag to the halyards, but Paul Jones himself
drew it up to the peak, amid the cheers of officers and men. Thus had he
hoisted with his own hands the Stars and Stripes for the first time on
an American ship of war, as he had been the first man to hoist the
original flag of freedom.
From the day he stepped on board the Ranger, matters went on as they
only can under the direction of a perfect sailor. The officers were
enthusiastic and the crew made up of excellent material. Bill Green had
long ago proved himself a very valuable man. He continued, however, to
harass Danny Dixon with foks’l wit. But Danny had discovered that Bill’s
magnificent promises of promotion and assurances of Captain Jones’s
favor, were merely “pullin’ a leg,” in sailor language. Danny was now a
tall, stout boy of fourteen, and very active aloft. Therefore, a day or
two after Paul Jones got on board he said to the boy:
“Dixon, I think you can be classed as a seaman apprentice, and thereby
raise your rating.”
“I’d ruther wait on you, sir,” promptly answered Danny.
“But your share of prize money would be larger if you were rated as a
seaman apprentice, instead of merely a ship’s boy.”
“I’d ruther wait on you, sir—”
“And then you’d stand a chance of being rated as an able seaman in two
or three years.”
“I’d ruther wait on you, sir,” doggedly answered Danny.
Paul Jones smiled, and said no more.
This all occurred in July, but it was not until November that the ship
was ready to sail. She was by that time well manned, but owing to the
poverty and lack of resource of the struggling Government she was poorly
equipped. She had only one suit of sails, and those very indifferent,
and not a single spare sail in case any mishap should befall her canvas
in a wintry passage across the stormy Atlantic. There was likewise
another deficiency, which gave the men much disquietude, especially Bill
Green—there was only a single barrel of rum on board.
“I tell you what it is, youngster,” said Bill solemnly to Danny, it
being a favorite amusement of his to tell the most grewsome yarns he
could invent to the boy, “this ’ere’s a ornlucky ship—mark my words.”
“Why, Mr. Green,” answered Danny earnestly, “ain’t Cap’n Paul Jones
commandin’ of her?”
“W’y, yes, boy, but you know there’s lucky ships and ornlucky ships.
There ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen to _we_—’cause Cap’n Paul Jones is
commandin’, as you say—but we ain’t goin’ to git no prize money to speak
of. Likely as not, we won’t capture nothin’ wuth havin’. We ain’t got
but one barrel o’ rum aboard, and that’s the ornluckiest thing that ever
was. It’s worse nor a black cat aboard ship. I’d ruther have ten black
cats and sail on a Friday, and meet all the pirates afloat, than to
start on a short ’lowance o’ rum. It’s dreadful ornlucky, boy, and it’s
dreadful tryin’ besides.”
Danny fully believed him, as Bill, with a huge sigh, cut a quid of
tobacco and began to chew dolefully.
Bill’s prediction was carried out to the letter, for from the cheerless
day the Ranger sailed out of Portsmouth harbor until she made the coast
of France no prize was taken.
This was partly due to Captain Jones’s desire to get to the other side
as quickly as possible. The weather was rough and the Ranger proved very
crank, and it was not until the 2d of December that the port of Nantes
was made. The guns were covered up, the portlids lowered, and everything
as far as possible done to conceal the warlike character of the ship.
Paul Jones immediately set out for Paris, and on the third day he
knocked at the door of a charming house at Passy, one of the most
beautiful suburbs of Paris. This was a house belonging to M. Ray de
Chaumont, a rich French gentleman whose sympathies with the American
cause were so strong that he offered the American commissioners the use
of his house until they could make permanent arrangements. Some instinct
had told Paul Jones that he should find a friend in Benjamin Franklin,
then at the zenith of his fame, and the most influential of the three
American commissioners at Paris. The first meeting of these two great
men, destined to be lifelong friends, was an event in history. Without
the confidence and support of Franklin, Paul Jones would probably never
had the means of achieving greatness, and this support and confidence
never wavered from the moment these two immortal men stood face to face
and looked through their eyes into each other’s souls. Franklin’s
venerable figure and grave, concentrated glance contrasted strongly with
Paul Jones’s lithe and active form and the piercing expression of his
clear-cut features. The two men grasped hands and so stood for a moment,
each fascinated by something in the aspect of the other.
“Welcome to France,” said Franklin. “I have heard of you, and every such
man as you is a mighty help to our cause.”
Paul Jones murmured some words expressive of the admiration he felt for
a man so truly eminent as Franklin, but his bold spirit was abashed in
the presence of so much greatness in this patriarchal old man. They
spent the whole of the short winter day in converse, each more and more
dazzled and charmed by the other. At twilight they said farewell at the
open door. As they clasped hands in parting, Paul Jones said:
“I had the honor of hoisting the flag of our country for the first time
upon the ocean, and I intend to claim for it all the honors that it
deserves. As soon as I am in the presence of the French fleet I shall
demand a salute; and I shall get it, mark my words.”
“I believe _you_, if any man can, will get it,” answered Franklin. “And
remember—if we can not secure you a ship worthy of you, and you are
still compelled to keep the Ranger, you shall at least have _carte
blanche_ for your cruise, for I do not believe in hampering spirits so
bold and enterprising as yours.”
As Paul Jones walked away in the dusk of twilight he glanced back and
saw Franklin still standing in the doorway, with the light from an
overhead lantern falling on his silvery hair. Paul Jones felt that the
day of his meeting with Franklin was a great, a memorable day for him.
The American commissioners were indeed unable to obtain a better ship
for him than the Ranger, and Paul Jones returned to his little vessel
sore-hearted from his disappointment, but with the authority to rank all
officers of American ships in European waters, and with perfect freedom
to make his cruise as he liked. He determined, as he always did, to make
the best of what he had. His first duty was to convoy a number of
American merchant vessels from Nantes into Quiberon Bay, where a large
French fleet, under Admiral La Motte Picquet, was to sail for America.
There was now no need for disguising the character of the Ranger, and
she sailed openly as a man-of-war. Paul Jones, with resistless energy,
had worked at his ship until he had remedied many of her defects. Her
lower masts were shortened; she was ballasted with lead; and she was
much improved, as every ship that he commanded was improved by him. He
also had, as a tender, the brig Independence.
It was on the 13th of February, 1778, that Paul Jones, flying the Stars
and Stripes for the first time in the presence of a foreign fleet,
anchored off the bay at Quiberon. He had a motive in not coming in the
bay, and this was, as he had told Franklin, to have the flag of the
United States saluted in open day by the French admiral. The treaty of
alliance between the United States and France was not then published,
and it required much address to obtain a salute.
As soon as the Ranger dropped her anchor Paul Jones sent his boat off to
the French admiral, desiring to know, if he saluted the admiral’s ship,
if the salute would be returned.
Paul Jones remained walking the quarter-deck of the Ranger until the
boat was seen pulling back. A letter was handed him from the French
admiral, which he eagerly opened.
The letter stated courteously that the salute would be returned, but
with four guns less than the American ship fired, as it was the custom
in the French navy to fire four guns less to a republic than the salute
offered.
Paul Jones immediately went below, where he wrote the following spirited
letter to the American agent at the port:
“I think the admiral’s answer requires some explanation. The haughty
English return gun for gun to foreign officers of equal rank, and two
less only by captains to flag officers. It is true my command is not
important, yet, as the senior American officer at present in Europe it
is my duty to claim an equal return of respect to the flag of the United
States _that would be shown to any other flag whatever_.
“I therefore take the liberty of inclosing an appointment[3] as
respectable as any the French admiral can produce. If, however, he
persists in refusing to return an equal salute, I will accept of two
guns less, as I have not the rank of an admiral.”
To this he added, that unless his flag should be properly saluted he
would certainly depart without coming into the bay.
Next day, however, he discovered that the French admiral was acting in
good faith, and could not, according to his regulations, return gun for
gun to the flag of a republic; and therefore Paul Jones determined to
accept of the salute offered.
The wind was blowing hard, and the sea very high, so that it was after
sunset before the Ranger could get near enough to the admiral’s ship to
salute. The brig Independence had been ordered to lay off the bay for a
particular purpose. Paul Jones was afraid that some advantage might be
taken of the salute being fired in semi-darkness—such as saying the flag
was mistaken for another—and he determined to have a salute also in
broad daylight.
The short February twilight was fast going, and the wind drove the
lowering clouds furiously across the sky, when the Ranger, under
close-reefed topsails, entered the bay and sailed close under the lee of
the admiral’s ship, where she hove to. Instantly her guns thundered out
thirteen times. The report echoed over the dark water, where the great
French fleet, looming up grandly in the half-darkness, lay majestically
at anchor. As soon as the last gun had been fired the admiral’s ship
promptly gave back nine guns. The Ranger then returned to the mouth of
the bay, where she anchored alongside of the Independence, the wind
having abated.
Next morning—a beautiful, bright day—Paul Jones sent word to the French
admiral that he intended sailing through the French fleet in the brig
and again saluting him, to which the admiral returned a courteous reply.
About ten o’clock in the morning Paul Jones went on board the
Independence, which then stood boldly in the harbor. She was a
beautiful, clipper-built brig, and as clean and fresh as hands could
make her. A splendid new American flag floated proudly from her mizzen
peak.
The French fleet was anchored in two great lines, rather wide apart,
with the flagship in the middle of the outer line. The Independence,
with all her canvas set, entered between the two rows of ships. Her guns
were manned, and Paul Jones, in full uniform, stood on the quarter-deck.
As the Independence came abreast of the flagship the brig fired thirteen
guns with the most beautiful precision and with exactly the same
interval between each report. The admiral paid the American the
compliment of having his guns already manned, and as the little
Independence passed gracefully down the line, enveloped like a veil in
the white smoke from her own guns, the flagship roared out nine guns
from her great thirty-six-pounders. Paul Jones’s satisfaction was seen
on his face, although he said no word; but as soon as he returned on
board the Ranger he wrote to Franklin a joyous letter, telling him of
the honor paid the American flag.
From this on the relations between the officers of the French fleet and
the two American vessels were most cordial. The Frenchmen had heard of
Paul Jones as an enterprising and promising officer, and his running
under the guns of the Solebay had become generally known in Europe, much
to the chagrin of the Solebay’s officers. The Count d’Orvilliers, one of
the highest officers in the service of France, thought that, as France
and America were bound to be shortly allied, that it would be well for
Paul Jones to hold a captain’s commission in the French navy as well as
an American commission. But this he declined. An American commission was
good enough for Paul Jones.