(Our First European Salute)

INSEPARABLY connected with the Stars and Stripes must ever be the name of John Paul Jones.

The “Untitled Knight of the Sea,” the Duchess de Chartres—mother of Louis Philippe, afterward King of France; and granddaughter of a high admiral of France—was fond of calling him. For albeit John Paul Jones was of Scotch peasant ancestry, his associates were people of the highest intellect and rank. In appearance he was handsome; in manner prepossessing; and in speech he was a linguist, having at easy command the English, French, and Spanish languages. His surname was Paul. The name Jones was inherited with a fine plantation in America.

The call of the sea was strong to the lad and of its dangers he had no fear. An old seaman one day watched him handle a fishing yawl in a heavy storm and thought he could never weather the squall. “That is my son, John,” said his father calmly. “He will fetch her in all right. It is not much of a squall for him.” The man complimented the boy and offered him a berth on his ship then bound for America, little dreaming that in so doing he would carry to the New World the Father of the American Navy.

Studious and ambitious, the boy devoted his leisure moments to acquiring the most intricate knowledge of his profession and soon held positions of command. When the news of the battle of Lexington reached him, he offered his services to Congress. He was made First Lieutenant of the Alfred, and over this ship hoisted the first emblem shown on an American naval vessel. The design of this flag was a pine tree with a rattlesnake coiled at the roots and the motto, “Don’t tread on me,” on a background of yellow silk.

June 14th, 1777, was made notable in American annals by the resolution passed by Congress for a new flag. Embodied in the resolution the name of John Paul Jones appears thus: —

“Resolved—That the flag of the Thirteen United States of America be Thirteen Stripes, alternate Red and White; that the Union be Thirteen Stars on a Blue Field; Representing a New Constellation:

“Resolved—That Captain John Paul Jones be appointed to command the ship Ranger.”

Paul Jones’ remarks upon the resolutions were significant: “The flag and I are twins; born the same hour from the same womb of destiny. We cannot be parted in life or in death. So long as we can float we shall float together. If we must sink, we shall go down as one.”

Before the Ranger was launched, Jones was informed that he was to be the bearer of most important news to France. This news was the daily expected surrender of Burgoyne, the surrender that was so powerfully to affect the result of the war for independence. As to his fitness for conveying such a message, Lafayette attested thus: “To captivate the French fancy, Captain Jones possesses, far beyond any other officer in your service, that peculiar aplomb, grace of manner, charm of person, and dash of char acter,” a compliment better understood when it is remembered that an alliance with France against Great Britain was then sought by Congress.

The Ranger lay in the harbor of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, ready for sailing, and Jones with his own hands raised the flag to the masthead, the first American flag to fly over a man-of-war. Jones had already brought credit to the American navy by the capture of prizes in American waters; now he was to serve his country’s interests off the coast of England.

The tang of autumn was in the air when he set sail for France. Fulfilling his mission at Nantes, Jones set out for Brest, where the fleet of France was anchored. Would the Stars and Stripes, the symbol of the New Republic across the sea, be recognized by salute? The question was in every mind aboard ships, and the answer eagerly awaited in the United States. A note couched in the diplomatic and elegant terms of which Paul Jones was master, was sent by him to the admiral of the French fleet, inquiring whether or not the flag would receive recognition. “It will,” came back the answer. With that the Ranger glided gracefully through the fleet of ships; and Old Glory, in all the radiance of her new birth and coloring, waved response from the masthead to her first salute from European powers. We, even after the long lapse of intervening years, feel still the thrill of her exultation.

Two months later the alliance between America and France was signed. The Duchess de Chartres became greatly interested in the young naval officer; and, having it in her power to advance his interests, she one day at a dinner presented him with a fine Louis Quintze watch that had belonged to her grandfather, saying, “He hated the English; and I love the Americans.”

Paul Jones’ response to the gift was as graceful as had been the presentation. “May it please your Royal Highness, if fortune should favor me at sea, I will some day lay an English frigate at your feet.” Two years later he did this and more.

France had promised Jones a new ship better suited to his capabilities than the Ranger. But diplomatic affairs between nations move slowly, and in this case the waiting became tedious. Jones had exhausted the pleasures of court circles to which he had been admitted and he longed for the life of the sea. He finally preferred his request directly to the king and shortly afterward was given, not the great sea monster he had been led to expect, but an insignificant looking craft called Le Duras. In compliment to Dr. Franklin’s magazine of the name and in humorous comment of the ship’s appearance, he renamed it the Bon Homme Richard, meaning the Poor Richard. But with the Poor Richard, as with the human form, the spirit which animated it was the controlling power; and the valor of Paul Jones was to send the name of the Bon Homme Richard ringing down through the ages of all time.

As Captain Jones of the Ranger, he had captured the Drake, in a big sea fight, and surprised England; and now, as Commodore Jones, he was to win distinction as the greatest of naval heroes.

Off the English coast at Flamborough Head, he sighted an English fleet. The flagship was the Serapis, in command of Captain Pearson. As the Bon Homme Richard approached the Serapis, Captain Pearson raised his glass and remarked: “That is probably Paul Jones. If so, there is work ahead.”

The salute affectionate between the vessels, after the formal hail, was a broadside. Then they fought, fought like fiends incarnate, clinched in each other’s arms, in the death grapple, fought without flinching and, be it said, to the glory of the American navy and the credit of the English. The Bon Homme was on fire and sinking. Captain Pearson, noting the situation, called, “Have you struck your colors?”

Above the smoke and din of the conflict, Jones’ voice answered, “I have just begun to fight, Sir.”

He then lashed his ship to the Serapis, and stood, himself, at the guns.

“Shall we be quitting, Jamie?” he said in banter to a Scotchman at his side.

“There is still a shot in the locker, Sir,” replied the Scot.

“I thought,” said Captain Pearson afterward, “Jones’ answer to me meant mere bravado. But I soon perceived that it was the defiance of a man desperate enough, if he could not conquer, to sink with his ship.”

The Bon Homme Richard’s sides were shot away; her prisoners loose; her decks strewn with the dead and dying; the Alliance, her companion ship, had turned traitor and fired into her. When the fight seemed well-nigh lost, a well-directed blow brought disaster to the Serapis, and she hauled down her colors. As Captain Pearson surrendered his sword, Commodore Jones remarked, “You have fought heroically, Sir. I trust your sovereign may suitably reward you.” To this Captain Pearson returned no answer.

The wonderful combat on the sea became the talk of all Europe. Paul Jones’ name was honored wherever spoken. Contrary to court etiquette, he was invited to occupy apartments in the palace of the Duke and Duchess de Chartres. While he was there, a banquet was tendered him. During the progress of the dining, he called an attendant to bring from his apartment a leather case. This when it was opened disclosed a sword. Turning to the duchess, the commodore asked if she recalled his promise to lay a frigate at her feet one day? “Your Royal Highness perceives,” he went on, “the impossibility of keeping my promise in kind. The English frigate proved to be a 44 on two decks; the best I can do toward keeping my word of two years ago, is to place in your hands the sword of the brave officer who commanded the English 44. I have the honor to surrender to the loveliest woman the sword surrendered to me by one of the bravest of men,—the sword of Captain Richard Pearson, of his Britannic Majesty’s late ship the Serapis.”

The Royal Order of Military Merit with the title of Chevalier and the gift of a gold-mounted sword were conferred upon him by the king of France. Upon returning to America, he was given the rank of Head of the Navy.

Remarkable as was the career of Paul Jones, the winds did not always set in his favor. Many times was his life bark driven through the waters of bitter disappointment. But “all that he was, and all that he did, and all that he knew, was the result of self-help to a degree unexampled in the histories of great men. ”

The flag of the Ranger, saluted by the French fleet, was transferred by Jones to the Bon Homme Richard, and, says he, in his journal as given by Buell, “was left flying when we abandoned her; the very last vestige mortal ever saw of the Bon Homme Richard was the defiant waving of her unconquered and unstricken flag as she went down. And as I had given them the good old ship for their sepulcher, I now bequeathed to my immortal dead the Flag they had so desperately defended, for their winding sheet.” Here was: “the only flag,” says one, “flying at the bottom of the sea, over the only ship that ever sunk in victory.”[1]

Longfellow.