  The repute of Paul Jones was now great, and the American Congress intended sending him abroad to take command of a splendid frigate, then building in Holland. But owing to the representations of the British Government to Holland, and also to France, which had not then openly joined the American cause, the frigate was handed over to the French Government instead of to the American commissioners at Paris. These commissioners were Benjamin Franklin, Silas Deane, and Arthur Lee. The next best thing to be done for Captain Jones was to give him command of the Ranger, sloop of war. She was then fitting out at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The Congress had adopted, on the 14th of July, 1777, the present national ensign of the stars and stripes, and on the same day Paul Jones received his orders to command the Ranger. He at once started for Portsmouth, carrying with him one of the new flags, and as he had before hoisted for the first time the original flag of the colonies, so he had the honor of raising the new ensign upon the Ranger the first time the Stars and Stripes ever floated over an American man-of-war. There never was any trouble about manning Paul Jones’s ships, and neither Bill Green nor little Danny Dixon could have been kept off with a stick. Therefore, on the fair, bright summer day that Paul Jones arrived at Portsmouth the very first creature he put his eyes on was Danny. “Why, how are you, my lad?” cried Paul Jones, as he sprang out of the lumbering stagecoach, and saw Danny standing by the door of the inn where it stopped. “Quite well, sir,” answered Danny with shining eyes, and stepping up to take Paul Jones’s luggage. He shouldered two portmanteaus manfully, but Paul Jones held on to a large parcel that he carried under his arm. “No, no,” he cried, “this is too precious to be trusted out of my own hand. And how did you know I would be here to-day?” “I didn’t know it for certain, sir, but Mr. Green and me, we has stood watch and watch for two days lookin’ for you, and Mr. Green says, if he ain’t the fust man aboard the Ranger to know you has come as how he’ll take it out on my hide, certain. But that’s only Mr. Green’s way o’ jokin’, sir.” Danny went through with this very respectfully, and Paul Jones’s smiling eyes showed that he knew perfectly well the relations between the devoted little cabin boy, and the sturdy quartermaster. “Come on, then,” cried he, “and I have something here to decorate my ship with, that will make her shine indeed.” In a little while they reached the ship, Danny red and proud with the honor of carrying the captain’s luggage. Sure enough, there stood Bill Green at the gangway, and he took his hat off as soon as he caught sight of Paul Jones. For his part, Paul Jones was delighted to know that he could count upon such a reliable petty officer as Bill, and greeted him warmly. Bill immediately snatched the luggage from Danny, who was left disconsolate, without even the Captain’s portmanteau to comfort him. The first lieutenant was on deck, and as soon as Paul Jones had greeted his officers he went aft, and, unrolling his parcel, shook out a large and handsome silk flag, the “Uncle Sam’s gridiron,” which he was destined, as he himself expressed it, “to attend with veneration on the ocean.” Bill Green fastened the flag to the halyards, but Paul Jones himself drew it up to the peak, amid the cheers of officers and men. Thus had he hoisted with his own hands the Stars and Stripes for the first time on an American ship of war, as he had been the first man to hoist the original flag of freedom. From the day he stepped on board the Ranger, matters went on as they only can under the direction of a perfect sailor. The officers were enthusiastic and the crew made up of excellent material. Bill Green had long ago proved himself a very valuable man. He continued, however, to harass Danny Dixon with foks’l wit. But Danny had discovered that Bill’s magnificent promises of promotion and assurances of Captain Jones’s favor, were merely “pullin’ a leg,” in sailor language. Danny was now a tall, stout boy of fourteen, and very active aloft. Therefore, a day or two after Paul Jones got on board he said to the boy: “Dixon, I think you can be classed as a seaman apprentice, and thereby raise your rating.” “I’d ruther wait on you, sir,” promptly answered Danny. “But your share of prize money would be larger if you were rated as a seaman apprentice, instead of merely a ship’s boy.” “I’d ruther wait on you, sir—” “And then you’d stand a chance of being rated as an able seaman in two or three years.” “I’d ruther wait on you, sir,” doggedly answered Danny. Paul Jones smiled, and said no more. This all occurred in July, but it was not until November that the ship was ready to sail. She was by that time well manned, but owing to the poverty and lack of resource of the struggling Government she was poorly equipped. She had only one suit of sails, and those very indifferent, and not a single spare sail in case any mishap should befall her canvas in a wintry passage across the stormy Atlantic. There was likewise another deficiency, which gave the men much disquietude, especially Bill Green—there was only a single barrel of rum on board. “I tell you what it is, youngster,” said Bill solemnly to Danny, it being a favorite amusement of his to tell the most grewsome yarns he could invent to the boy, “this ’ere’s a ornlucky ship—mark my words.” “Why, Mr. Green,” answered Danny earnestly, “ain’t Cap’n Paul Jones commandin’ of her?” “W’y, yes, boy, but you know there’s lucky ships and ornlucky ships. There ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen to we—’cause Cap’n Paul Jones is commandin’, as you say—but we ain’t goin’ to git no prize money to speak of. Likely as not, we won’t capture nothin’ wuth havin’. We ain’t got but one barrel o’ rum aboard, and that’s the ornluckiest thing that ever was. It’s worse nor a black cat aboard ship. I’d ruther have ten black cats and sail on a Friday, and meet all the pirates afloat, than to start on a short ’lowance o’ rum. It’s dreadful ornlucky, boy, and it’s dreadful tryin’ besides.” Danny fully believed him, as Bill, with a huge sigh, cut a quid of tobacco and began to chew dolefully. Bill’s prediction was carried out to the letter, for from the cheerless day the Ranger sailed out of Portsmouth harbor until she made the coast of France no prize was taken. This was partly due to Captain Jones’s desire to get to the other side as quickly as possible. The weather was rough and the Ranger proved very crank, and it was not until the 2d of December that the port of Nantes was made. The guns were covered up, the portlids lowered, and everything as far as possible done to conceal the warlike character of the ship. Paul Jones immediately set out for Paris, and on the third day he knocked at the door of a charming house at Passy, one of the most beautiful suburbs of Paris. This was a house belonging to M. Ray de Chaumont, a rich French gentleman whose sympathies with the American cause were so strong that he offered the American commissioners the use of his house until they could make permanent arrangements. Some instinct had told Paul Jones that he should find a friend in Benjamin Franklin, then at the zenith of his fame, and the most influential of the three American commissioners at Paris. The first meeting of these two great men, destined to be lifelong friends, was an event in history. Without the confidence and support of Franklin, Paul Jones would probably never had the means of achieving greatness, and this support and confidence never wavered from the moment these two immortal men stood face to face and looked through their eyes into each other’s souls. Franklin’s venerable figure and grave, concentrated glance contrasted strongly with Paul Jones’s lithe and active form and the piercing expression of his clear-cut features. The two men grasped hands and so stood for a moment, each fascinated by something in the aspect of the other. “Welcome to France,” said Franklin. “I have heard of you, and every such man as you is a mighty help to our cause.” Paul Jones murmured some words expressive of the admiration he felt for a man so truly eminent as Franklin, but his bold spirit was abashed in the presence of so much greatness in this patriarchal old man. They spent the whole of the short winter day in converse, each more and more dazzled and charmed by the other. At twilight they said farewell at the open door. As they clasped hands in parting, Paul Jones said: “I had the honor of hoisting the flag of our country for the first time upon the ocean, and I intend to claim for it all the honors that it deserves. As soon as I am in the presence of the French fleet I shall demand a salute; and I shall get it, mark my words.” “I believe you, if any man can, will get it,” answered Franklin. “And remember—if we can not secure you a ship worthy of you, and you are still compelled to keep the Ranger, you shall at least have carte blanche for your cruise, for I do not believe in hampering spirits so bold and enterprising as yours.” As Paul Jones walked away in the dusk of twilight he glanced back and saw Franklin still standing in the doorway, with the light from an overhead lantern falling on his silvery hair. Paul Jones felt that the day of his meeting with Franklin was a great, a memorable day for him. The American commissioners were indeed unable to obtain a better ship for him than the Ranger, and Paul Jones returned to his little vessel sore-hearted from his disappointment, but with the authority to rank all officers of American ships in European waters, and with perfect freedom to make his cruise as he liked. He determined, as he always did, to make the best of what he had. His first duty was to convoy a number of American merchant vessels from Nantes into Quiberon Bay, where a large French fleet, under Admiral La Motte Picquet, was to sail for America. There was now no need for disguising the character of the Ranger, and she sailed openly as a man-of-war. Paul Jones, with resistless energy, had worked at his ship until he had remedied many of her defects. Her lower masts were shortened; she was ballasted with lead; and she was much improved, as every ship that he commanded was improved by him. He also had, as a tender, the brig Independence. It was on the 13th of February, 1778, that Paul Jones, flying the Stars and Stripes for the first time in the presence of a foreign fleet, anchored off the bay at Quiberon. He had a motive in not coming in the bay, and this was, as he had told Franklin, to have the flag of the United States saluted in open day by the French admiral. The treaty of alliance between the United States and France was not then published, and it required much address to obtain a salute. As soon as the Ranger dropped her anchor Paul Jones sent his boat off to the French admiral, desiring to know, if he saluted the admiral’s ship, if the salute would be returned. Paul Jones remained walking the quarter-deck of the Ranger until the boat was seen pulling back. A letter was handed him from the French admiral, which he eagerly opened. The letter stated courteously that the salute would be returned, but with four guns less than the American ship fired, as it was the custom in the French navy to fire four guns less to a republic than the salute offered. Paul Jones immediately went below, where he wrote the following spirited letter to the American agent at the port: “I think the admiral’s answer requires some explanation. The haughty English return gun for gun to foreign officers of equal rank, and two less only by captains to flag officers. It is true my command is not important, yet, as the senior American officer at present in Europe it is my duty to claim an equal return of respect to the flag of the United States that would be shown to any other flag whatever. “I therefore take the liberty of inclosing an appointment To this he added, that unless his flag should be properly saluted he would certainly depart without coming into the bay. Next day, however, he discovered that the French admiral was acting in good faith, and could not, according to his regulations, return gun for gun to the flag of a republic; and therefore Paul Jones determined to accept of the salute offered. The wind was blowing hard, and the sea very high, so that it was after sunset before the Ranger could get near enough to the admiral’s ship to salute. The brig Independence had been ordered to lay off the bay for a particular purpose. Paul Jones was afraid that some advantage might be taken of the salute being fired in semi-darkness—such as saying the flag was mistaken for another—and he determined to have a salute also in broad daylight. The short February twilight was fast going, and the wind drove the lowering clouds furiously across the sky, when the Ranger, under close-reefed topsails, entered the bay and sailed close under the lee of the admiral’s ship, where she hove to. Instantly her guns thundered out thirteen times. The report echoed over the dark water, where the great French fleet, looming up grandly in the half-darkness, lay majestically at anchor. As soon as the last gun had been fired the admiral’s ship promptly gave back nine guns. The Ranger then returned to the mouth of the bay, where she anchored alongside of the Independence, the wind having abated. Next morning—a beautiful, bright day—Paul Jones sent word to the French admiral that he intended sailing through the French fleet in the brig and again saluting him, to which the admiral returned a courteous reply. About ten o’clock in the morning Paul Jones went on board the Independence, which then stood boldly in the harbor. She was a beautiful, clipper-built brig, and as clean and fresh as hands could make her. A splendid new American flag floated proudly from her mizzen peak. The French fleet was anchored in two great lines, rather wide apart, with the flagship in the middle of the outer line. The Independence, with all her canvas set, entered between the two rows of ships. Her guns were manned, and Paul Jones, in full uniform, stood on the quarter-deck. As the Independence came abreast of the flagship the brig fired thirteen guns with the most beautiful precision and with exactly the same interval between each report. The admiral paid the American the compliment of having his guns already manned, and as the little Independence passed gracefully down the line, enveloped like a veil in the white smoke from her own guns, the flagship roared out nine guns from her great thirty-six-pounders. Paul Jones’s satisfaction was seen on his face, although he said no word; but as soon as he returned on board the Ranger he wrote to Franklin a joyous letter, telling him of the honor paid the American flag. From this on the relations between the officers of the French fleet and the two American vessels were most cordial. The Frenchmen had heard of Paul Jones as an enterprising and promising officer, and his running under the guns of the Solebay had become generally known in Europe, much to the chagrin of the Solebay’s officers. The Count d’Orvilliers, one of the highest officers in the service of France, thought that, as France and America were bound to be shortly allied, that it would be well for Paul Jones to hold a captain’s commission in the French navy as well as an American commission. But this he declined. An American commission was good enough for Paul Jones. |
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