It is Christmas day. Out of the furious southwest blows a storm. The
English ships, guarding the mouth of the Helder, are driven from their
stations, and carried far out to sea. Tired of the Texel, with its
French and English and Dutch, Commodore Paul Jones, taking advantage
of the English scudding seaward before the gale, runs out with the
_Alliance_, and lays her nose for the English coast, in the very face of
the weather.
Being Christmas day, when Commodore Paul Jones puts the Dutch coast
astern, there is plum duff and double grog aboard the _Alliance_. These,
and the blue water beneath their fore-foot, mightily cheer the hearts
of the crew. The exuberance takes shape in a way grateful to the soul
of Commodore Paul Jones. A missive, borne by the tarry hand of Boatswain
Jack Robinson, finds him during the larboard watch. As Boatswain
Robinson rolls aft, the whole crew follow him, a respectable distance in
the rear.
“It’s a deppytation,” explains Boatswain Robinson, pulling his
forelock--“a deppytation of the entire ship’s company down to cooks an’
cabin-boys, an’ be dammed to ‘em! They sets forth their views in a round
robin, which I hereby tenders.”
Boatswain Robinson holds out a square of dingy bown paper. It is signed
by every member of the crew, beginning with the redoubtable Robinson.
Commodore Paul Jones reads the round robin, which is written in black
sprawling characters, while Lieutenant Dale who comes up holds a ship’s
lantern. Thus runs the document, the compilation whereof has exhausted
the forecastle.
“We respectfully request you, sir, to lay us alongside any single-decked
English ship to be found in these seas, or any double-decked ship under
a fifty.”
“My lads,” says Commodore Paul Jones, when he finished reading the round
robin, “this is what I like. Our ship is a thirty-six, our biggest gun a
twelve-pounder. You say ‘lay her alongside a fifty gun ship, with her
lower tier of eighteen-pounders. I promise that I’ll do my best. I’ll
cruise between St. George’s Channel and the Bay of Biscay two full
weeks, looking for what you ask. Still, I must tell you that, while I’ve
plenty of hope, I’ve little expectation. This is winter weather, lads,
and the chances of our finding a fight are slim. If we find one,
however, I shall, by way of compliment, take you over the Englishman’s
hammock nettings myself; for I hold you, man and boy, to be as stout a
crew as ever primed pistol or laid cutlass to grindstone, and one that
it’s an honor to lead. Mr. Bo’sen, pipe the men for’ard. Mr. Dale will
give orders for another ration of grog all’round. And so, shipmates, I
give you a Merry Christmas!”
The _Alliance_ goes looking for a British fifty. But nothing comes of
it. Between wind and snow and biting weather, the ships have deserted
the open ocean, like wild fowl, for the friendly sheltering warmth of
the ports. When the two weeks are up, four weeks more are added to
the cruise by common consent. Stores, however, are running low, and
following six weeks futile looking about, Commodore Paul Jones stands in
for the Isle au Grroaix, and anchors in the harbor of l’Orient.
It is February fourteenth, the day of sweet St. Valentine. Also, it is
among the coy and blushing possibilities, that sweet Saint Valentine has
been lying in wait for him; for our sailor, home from sea, finds in the
hands of his agent a pretty note, which in its sequence is to carry him
into the midst of much tenderness and flowery happiness.
The note is from his good friend, the Marchioness de Marsan. The
Marchioness asks Commodore Paul Jones, when he is next in l’Orient and
can spare himself from his ship, to visit her at her palace. Weary with
the sea, sore from the loss of the _Serapis_, the summons falls in with
his tired humor. He leaves the _Alliance_ in charge of Lieutenant Dale,
and goes with what haste he may to his friend the Marchioness. That good
noblewoman kisses him on both cheeks.
“It is for your victory!” she says. “France is a-quiver with it!”
As Commodore Paul Jones is about to reply, a girl of twenty enters the
room.
“Aimee de Telison, Commodore,” says the Marchioness, presenting him.
Then aside: “She is my ward--my godchild! Is she not beautiful?”
“Beautiful! Skin pink and white! Teeth like pearls or rice! Damask lips,
eyes deep and lustrous and large! Hair a flood of red gold! In form a
little rounded goddess! Beautiful!”
Thus run the thoughts of the sailor, as the sweetness and witchery of
the vision carries his senses along.
“Aimee de Telison!” he repeats in a whisper. “Who is she?”
The Marchioness hesitates; then she returns in the same guarded tones:
“Who is she? She is the daughter of a King.”