On August 18, 1789, Paul Jones left St. Petersburg, never to return, and never again to fight a battle. He was only forty-two years old, but although his ambition was as intense as ever, his health had through unremitting exertions and exposure become undermined. For many years the active man had not known what it was to sleep four hours at a time, and now his left lung was badly affected, and he had only a few years more to live. After an extended tour, devoted mainly to business and society,—during the course of which he met Kosciusko at Warsaw, visited, among other cities, Vienna, Munich, Strassburg, and London,—Jones reached Paris, where AimÉe de Thelison and his true home were, on May 30, 1790. He resigned from his position in the Russian navy, and remained most of the time until his death in the French capital.

The great French Revolution had taken place; and Paul Jones occupied the position, unusual for him, of a passive spectator of great events. Acquainted with men of all parties, with Bertrand BarÈre, Carnot, Robespierre, and Danton, as well as with the more conservative men with whom his own past had led him to sympathize,—Lafayette, Mirabeau, and Malesherbes,—Jones's last days were not lacking in picturesque opportunity for observation. He felt great sympathy for the king, with whom he had been acquainted, and who had bestowed upon him the title of chevalier and the gold sword. For Mirabeau, as for other really great men Jones knew,—Franklin, Washington, and Suwarrow,—he had extreme admiration, and on the occasion of the famous Frenchman's death wrote: "I have never seen or read of a man capable of such mastery over the passions and the follies of such a mob. There is no one to take the place of Mirabeau." Of the mob Jones wrote with aristocratic hatred: "There have been many moments when my heart turned to stone towards those who call themselves 'the people' in France. More than once have I harbored the wish that I might be intrusted by Lafayette with the command of the Palace, with carte blanche to defend the constitution; and that I might have once more with me, if only for one day, my old crews of the Ranger, the Richard, and the Alliance! I surely would have made the thirty cannon of the courtyard teach to that mad rabble the lesson that grapeshot has its uses in struggles for the rights of man!"

Jones always had much to say on the organization of navies and the principles of naval warfare. About this time he wrote a letter to Admiral Kersaint, of the French navy, in which he criticised fearlessly and trenchantly the naval tactics of the French. Their policy, he explained, was to "neutralize the power of their adversaries, if possible, by grand manoeuvres rather than to destroy it by grand attack;" and objecting to this policy, the dashing Jones, who always desired to "get alongside the enemy," wrote: "Their (the French) combinations have been superb; but as I look at them, they have not been harmful enough; they have not been calculated to do as much capturing or sinking of ships, and as much crippling or killing of seamen, as true and lasting success in naval warfare seems to me to demand.... Should France thus honor me [with a command] it must be with the unqualified understanding that I am not to be restricted by the traditions of her naval tactics; but with full consent that I may, on suitable occasion, to be decreed by my judgment on the spot, try conclusions with her foes to the bitter end or to death, at shorter range and at closer quarters than have hitherto been sanctioned by her tactical authorities."

Paul Jones, although in these last years he was forced, more than was agreeable to him, to play the rÔle of an intelligent commentator, remained a man of action to the end. He sought, this time in vain, to extract from the French government wages still due the crew of the old Bonhomme Richard. His failure brought out an unusually bitter letter, in which he again recounted his services and the wrongs done him by the various ministers of marine. As he grew older and more disappointed the deeds he had done seemed mountain high to him. "My fortitude and self-denial alone dragged Holland into the war, a service of the greatest importance to this nation; for without that great event, no calculation can ascertain when the war would have ended.... Would you suppose that I was driven out of the Texel in a single frigate belonging to the United States, in the face of forty-two English ships and vessels posted to cut off my retreat?"

With equal energy the failing commodore never ceased to hope and strive for an important command. To head an expedition against the Barbary pirates had long been with him a favorite scheme, and now he looked forward eagerly to a position in the French navy.

By the irony of fate a letter came from Mr. Jefferson announcing Jones's appointment as commissioner for treating with the Dey and government of Algiers. But it was too late, for before the letter arrived in Paris Paul Jones was dead. On July 11, 1792, a week before he died, he had attended a session of the French Assembly and had made a felicitous speech. He expressed his love for America, for France, and for the cause of liberty, and regretted his failing health as interfering with his activity in their service. He closed with the pathetic words:—

"But ill as I am, there is yet something left of the man—not the admiral, not the chevalier—but the plain, simple man whom it delights me to hear you call 'Paul Jones,' without any rank but that of fellowship, and without any title but that of comrade. So now I say to you that whatever is left of that man, be it never so faint or feeble, will be laid, if necessary, upon the altar of French Liberty as cheerfully as a child lies down to pleasant dreams! My friends, I would love to pursue this theme, but, as you see, my voice is failing and my lower limbs become swollen when I stand up too long. At any rate I have said enough. I am now ready to act whenever and wheresoever bidden by the voice of France."

Jones's cough and the swelling in his legs continued; a few days later jaundice and dropsy set in, and it was clear to his friends that the end was near. AimÉe de Thelison, Gouverneur Morris, and some of the distinguished revolutionists were about him during the last few days of his life. On the afternoon of July 18, 1792, his will was witnessed, and about seven o'clock in the evening he was found in his room, lying with his clothes on, face down across the middle of the bed, dead.

The next day the National Assembly passed a resolution decreeing "that twelve of its members shall assist at the funeral of a man who has so well served the cause of liberty."

True or not, the words attributed to Napoleon after Trafalgar, in 1805, are no more than justice to Paul Jones.

"How old," Napoleon asked, "was Paul Jones when he died?"

On being told that Jones was forty-five years old at the time of his death, Napoleon said:—

"Then he did not fulfill his destiny. Had he lived to this time, France might have had an admiral."

Paul Jones has been called by his friends patriot, and by his enemies pirate. In reality he was neither. He was not one of those deeply ethical natures that subordinate personal glory and success to the common good. As an American he cannot be ranked with his great contemporaries, for his patriotism consisted merely in being fair and devoted to the side he had for the time espoused rather than in quiet work as a citizen after the spectacular opportunity had passed. He was ready to serve wherever he saw the best chance for himself, whether it was with the United States, Russia, or France. In no unworthy sense of the word, however, was he an adventurer. The deepest thing in his soul, the love of glory, rendered him incapable at once of meanness and of true patriotism. In search for fame he gave up family, friends, and religion. In these relations of life he would have been and was, as far as he went, tolerant and kind; but in them he was not interested. Love of glory made him a lonely figure. It rendered him a poseur, vain and snobbish, but it also spurred him on to contend, with phenomenal energy, against almost innumerable difficulties.

As far as his deeds are concerned, Paul Jones appears in the popular consciousness as he really was,—a bolt of effectiveness, a desperate, successful fighter, a sea captain whose habit was to appear unexpectedly to confound his enemies, and then to disappear, no one knew where, only to reappear with telling effect. He has been the hero of the novelists, who, expressing the popular idea, have pictured him with essential truth. A popular hero, indeed, he was, and will remain so, justly, in the memory of men.

The Riverside Press
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