Philadelphia is experiencing a cool June, and in a sober, Quakerish way
shows grateful for it. The windows of General Washington’s apartments,
looking out into Chestnut Street, are raised to let in the weather and
the urbane sun, not too hot, not too cool, casts a slanting glance into
the room, as though moved of a solar curiosity concerning the mighty
one who inhabits them. The sun, doubtless, goes his way fully satisfied;
General Washington himself is there, in casual talk with the Marquis de
Lafayette.
There is a marked difference between the General and the Marquis;
the former tall, powerful, indomitable--the type American; the latter
nervous, optimistic, full of romantic heroisms--the type French. The
General is speaking; his manner a model of the courteous and the suave.
For the young Marquis is a peer of France, the head of a party, and may
be held as carrying at his heels a third of French sentiment and French
influence. It is not what he brings, but what he leaves behind him, that
makes the young Marquis important.
The talk between the General and the Marquis is running on Captain Paul
Jones.
“It surprises me,” the General is saying, “it surprises me, my dear
Marquis, to learn that you know Captain Jones.”
“We meet--Captaine Jones and I,” responds Lafayette, in a choppy,
fervent fashion of English, that carries something more than a mere
flavor of Paris, “we meet, my dear General, in Alexandria by the
Potomac, when I come North from the Carolina, where I disbark. Captaine
Jones he assist in Alexandria to find horses to bring me here.”
“And you believe, as does he, that a best use that can be made of him is
to give him a ship, and send him to Europe?”
“Certaine, General, certaine! Give him a good ship, and let him hawk
at England with it. It should be a quick, smart ship, that they may
not catch him. Give him such a vessel, General, and he will keep five
hundred English boats at home to guard the British coasts.”
“You think, Marquis, that he would make a good impression in France?”
“The best, General; the best! Captaine Jones has--what you call?--the
aplomb, yes, and the grace, the charm, the dash to captivate the fancy
of my countrymen--ever brave, the French, they love a brave man like
Captaine Jones! More, General, he speaks the French language, and that
is most important.”
General Washington stalks up and down the polished, hardwood floor,
wearing a thoughtful face. As he turns to speak, he is interrupted by an
obsequious black attendant--one of those body slaves brought from Mount
Vernon.
“Pardon, Gin’ral,” says the grizzled old darky, as he pokes his grinning
head in at the door; “Cap’n Jones presents his comp’ments, sare; an’ can
he come up?”
General Washington makes a sign of assent, and the grizzled old servitor
smirks and smiles and bows himself backward into the hall.
There are two pairs of feet heard climbing the stair; the elastic step
belongs to Captain Paul Jones, the more stolid is that of Mr. Morris,
who, using the familiarity of a closest friendship, walks in on General
Washington unannounced.
“The Marquis was just saying,” observes General Washington to Captain
Paul Jones, when greetings are over and conversation, to employ a
nautical phrase, has settled to its lines, “that he met you in Virginia
as he came up.”
“Yes, General; I had been having a look at my plantation, which Lord
Dunmore did me the honor to lay waste.”
“Was the destruction great?”
“The torch had been everywhere. The work could not have been more
complete had his Lordship been a professional incendiary.” Captain Paul
Jones shrugs his wide shoulders, as though dismissing a disagreeable
subject, one not to be helped by talk: “You received my letter, General?
I was so rash as to think you might aid me in getting the new frigate
_Trumbull_.”
“Captain,” returns General Washington, “you will understand that my
connection with the army makes any interference on my part in naval
affairs a most delicate business. I must give my counsel in that quarter
cautiously. As for the _Trumbull_; it is, I fear, already claimed by Mr.
Adams for Captain Saltonstall.”
“Captain Saltonstall!” cries Captain Paul Jones in a fervor of
bitterness. “General, hear me! I sailed lieutenant in the _Alfred_ with
Captain Saltonstall. I know him, and do not scruple to say that he is
an incompetent coward. Since he went ashore in New London after that
disgraceful cruise, he hasn’t shown his face aboard ship. He was ashamed
to do so. Only Mr. Adams could have protected him from the court-martial
he had earned. On my side--if I must plead my own cause--I’ve made two
cruises since then, one in the _Providence_, one in the _Alfred_. I’ve
taken twenty-four prizes; some of them by no means unimportant to the
American cause.”
“Ah, yes!” interrupts General Washington, his steady face lighting up
a trifle; “you mean the _Mellish_ and the _Bideford_. I heard how
you captured the winter equipment meant for Howe’s army--ten thousand
uniforms, eleven hundred fur overcoats, eleven thousand blankets,
besides a battery or two of field guns and six hundred cavalry
equipments. You did us a timely service, Captain Jones. Many an American
soldier was the warmer last winter, because of the _Mellish_ and the
_Bideford_.”
“I am glad,” says Captain Paul Jones, not without confusion, “to learn
that I so much pleased you. It gives me courage to hope that you
will come to my shoulder against Mr. Adams and his pet incompetent,
Saltonstall.”
General Washington again dons his manner of grave inscrutability, and
falls to his habit of striding up and down, hands locked beneath the
buff-and-blue flaps of his coat.
“Captain Jones,” he suddenly breaks forth, “you are a sailor: What do
you do afloat in case of a head wind!”
“A head wind?” repeats Captain Paul Jones. “Why, sir, if it’s no more
than just a gale, I fall to tacking, sta’board and port. If it should be
aught of a hurricane, now, I’d set a storm stays’l, heave to, and wait
for weather.”
“Quite so!” returns the General, soberly. “Well, Captain Jones, one
may find headwinds ashore as well as afloat. Now, in the matter of the
_Trumbull_, I should advise you to ‘heave to,’ as you say, ‘and wait for
weather.’ Mr. Adams insists on Captain Saltonstall; and it is not alone
inconvenient, it’s impossible, with the Marine Committee made up as it
is, to oppose him. Be patient, and you shall not in the end fare worse
than your deserts.”
Captain Paul Jones wheels on Mr. Morris, who, with Lafayette, has kept
silence, while giving interested ear to the conversation.
“You hear, Mr. Morris?” observes Captain Paul Jones, manner dogged and
aggressive. “As I warned you in my letter, I shall now prefer charges
against Captain Saltonstall--charge him with flat cowardice while in
command of the _Alfred_, and demand a court-martial. Under the
circumstances, I deem it my public duty so to do.”
Mr. Morris makes a gesture of dissent and repressive protest.
“My dear Captain,” expostulates Mr. Morris, his manner pleading, yet
full of authority; precisely the manner of one who deals with a
trained tiger which he is willing to coax, while firmly intending
to control--“my dear Captain, hear reason! Your charges would be
suppressed--pigeon-holed! The influence of Mr. Adams with the Marine
Committee is supreme. It could, let me tell you, accomplish much more
than merely silence your charges. It could go further, and force a
resolution of confidence in Captain Salton-stall.”
“Then,” retorts Captain Paul Jones, inveterate as iron, “I’ve still a
shot in my locker. I shall publish his cowardice over my own name;
I shall placard every street corner; for I think the American
people entitled to know the sort of servant they have had in Captain
Saltonstall. They shall not risk a good ship and a brave crew, with a
coward in the dark; and so I tell you!”
“Captain Jones,” observes General Washington, who, cool and unruffled,
is a contrast to the disturbed Mr. Morris, “Captain Jones, as a
gentleman, you realize what would be the result of a public charge of
cowardice against Captain Saltonstall?”
“He would challenge you instantly!” breaks in Mr. Morris.
“Precisely!” says Captain Paul Jones, with just the preliminary glimmer
of battle in his hard brown eyes. “As you say, sir, he would challenge
me. And having challenged me, I should take pleasure in doing my best to
kill him. I got a pair of Galway duelling pistols out of the _Bideford_;
they were coming to Lord Howe. If I can lure Captain Saltonstall to the
field, it shall go hard, but with one of those Irish sawhandles I rid
the American navy of him. Once I have him at ten paces, it will take
something more than the influence of Mr. Adams to bring him safely off.”
Mr. Morris’ brow colors; General Washington takes the situation more
at ease. He even gives way briefly to a shadowy smile; for the great
patriot, while not so inflammable, is quite as combative as any Captain
Paul Jones of them all.
“You have taken advice on this?” asks General Washington, following
a pause, during which everybody has had time to more or less digest
Captain Paul Jones’ unique plan for improving the American navy. “I do
not suppose you have gone to this decision without counsel?”
“Sir; I am, as you know, both prudent and conservative--no one more
so. Certainly, I’ve taken counsel. I went to General Cadwalader; he
expresses himself as in hearty accord with me. Indeed, it is understood
between us that he shall act for me in any affair I may have with
Captain Saltonstall.”
At the mention of General Cadwalader, General Washington smiles openly,
while Mr. Morris groans and throws up his hands.
“Bless me! Cadwalader!” exclaims Mr. Morris, when he can command his
tongue. “The worst firebrand in the country! Cadwalader, forsooth!
who has ever had but one word of advice for every man--‘Fight!’” Then,
abruptly descending upon Captain Paul Jones with all the authority of
a father addressing a favorite but rebellious son: “Paul; listen! You
believe me your friend?”
“Indubitably! I have no better friend.”
“Then let me tell you, Paul: In the name of that friendship this thing
must end--absolutely end. If you’ve drawn up any accusation of cowardice
against Captain Saltonstall, you must burn it and forget the whole
affair. You must dismiss this subject from your mind. In Cadwalader you
have invited the wrong kind of advice. I now give you the right kind.
The General will tell you so; your friend, the Marquis, will tell you
so. And forasmuch as you value my friendship you must obey me.”
Mr. Morris in his earnestness lays a paternal hand on the shoulder of
Captain Paul Jones, his manner a composite of coax and command. Before
the latter, who is visibly shaken by the friendly determination of Mr.
Morris, can frame reply, Lafayette--who has been scrupulous to maintain
a polite silence from first to last--interferes.
“Our good friend, Mr. Morris,” interjects Lafayette, “has been so
generous as to refer to me. I could not have said a word without; since
what you discuss is private and personal to yourselves as Americans, and
of a character that forbids me, a Frenchman and an alien even though a
friend, voicing my views. However, since Mr. Morris has so complimented
me as to make his appeal in my name, I must--in all respect and
friendship for Captain Jones, whom I admire--unite my voice with his.
The more readily since I can take it upon myself to promise Captain
Jones that if he will cross to France, with a letter I shall give him
to my king, a fighting ship of frigate strength shall be his within the
month.”
As he concludes, Lafayette, a blush reddening his cheek--for he is only
a boy--extends two hands to Captain Paul Jones as though, fearful of
having said too much, he would mutely apologize. Captain Paul Jones
seizes the hands with a warmth equal to the other’s; and the incident,
capping as it does the fatherly opposition of Mr. Morris, puts an end to
that beautiful plan, so full of dire promise for Captain Saltonstall,
which in their mutual belligerencies Captain Paul Jones and the fire-fed
Cadwalader have formulated.
“Say that you will go to France, my friend!” urges the impulsive young
Frenchman; “say that you will go! I will exhaust Auvergne, and all of
France besides, but you shall have the promised ship.”
At this, General Washington interferes.
“Forbear, my dear Marquis!” says he. “Captain Jones shall go to France.
But he shall go with an American crew, in an American ship, flying the
American flag.” Then, to Captain Paul Jones: “Do me the honor, Captain,
to hold yourself in readiness to obey any summons I may send. Believe
me, I shall count myself as one without influence, if you do not hear
from me within the week.”
Let us glance ahead two years for the final word of Captain Saltonstall.
Captain Paul Jones, with his hard-won prize, the crippled _Serapis_,
creeps into the Texel, and the earliest story wherewith the Dutch
regale him is how Captain Saltonstall, weak, forceless, incompetent, has
surrendered the new, thirty-two-gun frigate, _Warren_, to the English
in Penobscot Bay. Captain Paul Jones hears the disgraceful news with set
and angry face.
“I have just learned the miserable fate of the _Warren_,” he writes to Mr.
Morris; “and hearing it I reproach myself. If I had obeyed the dictates
of my sense of duty on a Philadelphia day you will recall, instead of
yielding to the persuasions of the peacemakers, our flag might still be
flying on the _Warren!_”