The Duchess kisses Aimee, and the good Marsan drives back to her
palace with the blissful ones through the black midnight Paris streets.
Commodore Paul Jones is in a trance of happiness. Aimee creeps into
his arms and whispers “Mon Paul,” and the surrender of the _Serapis_ is
forgotten, as a thing trivial and transient, in the surrender of this
girl with the glorious red-gold hair.
Summer runs away into autumn, and the brown tints of October show in
the trees. The honeymoon has been one of secrecies and subterfuges,
and perhaps the tenderer and sweeter because _sub rosa_. Commodore Paul
Jones tears himself now and again from Aimee’s arms to urge the business
of the _Serapis_. He is seconded by Aimee, to whom his glory is as dear
as his love.
Doctor Franklin tells the king that he should give Commodore Paul Jones
the ship, and is referred to de Sartine. The oily minister slips away
from the proposal, and the king sends Commodore Paul Jones a “Sword of
Honor” and the title of “Chevalier.” The impatient sailor bites his lip,
and gives the plaything sword to Aimee.
“I asked for a ship, not a sword,” says he. “As for ‘Chevalier,’ since
I’m already a Commodore, it looks like promotion down-hill.”
“The king,” explains Doctor Franklin, “does not, I fear, forgive your
refusal of his captain’s commission when you lay at the Texel.”
“And I,” he returns, “continue to regard that offer of a commission as a
piece of royal impertinence.”
Commodore Paul Jones determines to bring the king to a decision. He
walks in the royal gardens with his ally, Genet, and comes upon the king
feeding his interminable squirrels. The king--for democracy is becoming
a fashion--greets Commodore Paul Jones with outstretched hands.
“But do not tell me,” concludes the king, “that you come for a ship.”
“It is to ask for the _Serapis_, sire.”
The poor king rubs his head, his vague lip twitches, while the unlocked
jaw multiplies the feebleness of his weak face.
“Chevalier, I cannot,” he returns. In a tone of pathos, he continues:
“Congratulate yourself, my friend, that you are not a king. You would be
compelled to have ministers, and they would make a slave of you--as they
have of me.”
“It is over,” says Commodore Paul Jones, to Doctor Franklin. “There is
no hope of the _Serapis_.”
“Take the _Ariel_, then, and return to Philadelphia,” replies the
Doctor. “There is the _America_, seventy-four guns, building on the
Portsmouth stocks. I’ve written the Marine Committee to give you that.”
Commodore Paul Jones holds Aimee close. He kisses her dear lips. “In the
spring I shall return, my love,” he promises. “Three little months, and
you are in my arms again.”
Aimee whispers something, and then buries her face in his breast. The
blush she is trying to hide spreads and spreads until it covers the back
of the fair neck, and the red of it is lost in the roots of the red-gold
hair.
“Good!” he cries in a burst of joy, holding her closer. “Good! Now I
shall have something to dream of and return to.”
It is a raw, flawy February day when Commodore Paul Jones lands in
Philadelphia. Arthur Lee, with his poisonous mendacities, has preceded
him. He is called before the Marine Committee, to reply to a list of
questions, that in miserable effect amount to charges. Anger eating
his heart like fire, he answers the questions, and is then voted a
resolution of thanks and confidence.
Knowing no other way, he seeks a quarrel with Arthur Lee, the fiery,
faithful Cadwalader at his elbow. Mad Anthony Wayne, acting for him,
meets Arthur Lee informally. The latter does not like the outlook.
“Who is he?” exclaims Arthur Lee, inventing a defensive sneer. “Either
the son of a Scotch peasant or worse, and a man who has changed
his name. By what right does such a person demand satisfaction of a
gentleman!”
“Permit me to suggest,” returns Mad Anthony, beginning to bristle, “that
I shall regard a refusal to fight, based on the ground you state, as
a personal affront to myself. More; let me tell you, sir, that he who
shall seek to bar Paul Jones from his plain rights, on an argument aimed
at his gentility, will get nothing by his pains but the name of coward.”
“You think so!” responds Arthur Lee, his sneer somewhat in eclipse at
the stark directness of Mad Anthony.
“I know so, sir. When you speak of Paul Jones, you speak of the
conqueror of the _Drake_ and the _Serapis_. Also, when you deal with me,
you deal with one who is the equal of any Lee of your family, sir.”
Mad Anthony blows through his warlike nose ferociously, and Arthur Lee
is silent. Meanwhile, the excellent Cadwalader, ever painstaking in
matters of bloodshed, prepares a challenge, which he intends shall be a
model for succeeding ages, when studying the literature of the duello.
It is at this pinch that the peace-loving Morris, helpless and a bit
desperate, brings the weight of General Washington to bear upon the
combative one. The “Father of his Country” succeeds where Mr. Morris
has failed, and silences all talk of a duel. As a reward for that
gentleman’s eleventh-hour docility, he prevails upon Congress to give
Commodore Paul Jones command of the half-built _America_, in accord with
the request of Doctor Franklin, already in its dilatory hands.
Commodore Paul Jones goes to Portsmouth to oversee the launching and
the equipment of his new seventy-four. Disappointment dogs him; for Lord
Cornwallis surrenders, and Congress, in a fit of foolish generosity,
presents the America to France, as a slight expression of its thanks for
the part she played in the capture of that English nobleman. Commodore
Paul Jones sees his just-completed seventy-four, over which he has
toiled like a poet over his verse, and wherein he was to presently sail
away to conquer fresh honors for himself and his Aimee, hoist the French
flag and receive a French captain on its quarter-deck. Steadying himself
under the blow, with a grim philosophy which he has begun to cultivate,
he goes back to Philadelphia. He finds letters from France awaiting him;
one is from his Aimee, written in a tremulous, wavering hand. It must
have borne wonderful news, for in his reply he says:
“Present my compliments to your sister. Tell her to exert her tenderest
care toward you and her sweet little godson. Also cover him with kisses
from me.”