  The wound in the head which Paul Jones had received, and which he had made light of, turned out to be more serious than he would at first acknowledge. He had had one or two other hurts, of which he had said nothing, and his labors and the mental strain to which he had been subjected seriously affected his health and particularly his eyes. The multitudes that lined the quays and streets of L’Orient to greet him when he came ashore for the first time, were touched to see that the great sea warrior’s eyes were bound with a white handkerchief, and he leaned upon the arm of his faithful Dale. Danny Dixon trotted close behind, and during the days of Paul Jones’s illness and partial blindness the boy became eyes and hands to him. Paul Jones took a lodging on shore, leaving the ship in Dale’s command, as she lay in the roads. Every day he walked out for exercise, Danny following sedately behind him and gazing at him with a peculiar expression of reverence that often made Paul Jones smile. But the intensity of the boy’s affection was sweet to him. He spent the early spring months at L’Orient very quietly, trying to regain his health. He had the society of his faithful young lieutenant, and whenever he appeared in public he was greeted with the utmost enthusiasm. Repeated messages were sent him from the French court to visit Paris; but not until he felt it necessary, in order to secure his gallant crew their prize money, did he determine to go. Dale was to be left in command of the Alliance; Danny Dixon was to go to wait on the captain, and was overwhelmed with delight at the idea of seeing the world under such distinguished auspices. When Paul Jones went on board the Alliance to say farewell before leaving for Paris, he received the applause dearest to him—that of his officers and crew. The men were piped aft, and, standing surrounded by his officers, he made them a short speech. He was still pale, and the wound in his head was not fully healed. “I go to Paris, my men,” said Paul Jones, “chiefly to secure the prize money that you have so gloriously earned. I shall not rest until I have got it for you. I leave in command my trusty Mr. Dale. Behave to him as you would to me. You have seen his gallantry in action, and you will now see his justice and probity in calmer times. I thank you all”—here Paul Jones’s voice broke, and it was a moment or two before he could proceed. “I thank you all, officers and men, for the courage that enabled us to capture the Serapis. The victory was as much yours as mine, and you have the word of Paul Jones that your just reward shall be secured. I shall return shortly, and, till then, farewell!” The sailors gave Paul Jones not only three cheers, but three times three, and the officers joined in the cheering with a will. Dale had been appointed to reply for the officers, and he stood with moist and glowing eyes as he spoke: “All that we have acquired of glory is through you. Can we ever forget that you commanded our ship in the unequal battle, fought the guns in person, lashed the ships together with your own hand, took up a pike like the humblest man on board to repel the enemy when they would have boarded us, and succeeded against water, fire, treachery, and valor? As long as ships traverse the ocean will your name be known; and as long as life lasts will we esteem it the highest honor that we can claim, to say, ‘We fought with Paul Jones on the Bon Homme Richard!’” Another round of cheers followed this, when Bill Green was put forth as the spokesman for the men. “’Tis said, sir,” began Bill, hitching up his trousers before starting in on his oratorical effort, “that there’s two things no sailor-man can do—one is, to make a speech, and t’other is, to ride a horse. ’Tain’t reasonable as a sailor could ride a horse, sir, ’cause horses is ornnateral beasts, that is always yawin’ about from side to side, no matter how straight you lay your course, nor what quarter the wind is from. But we don’t need to make no speech about our commodore. That ’ere British ensign we has got speaks loud enough; them two British ships you took agin the awfullest odds we ever see—they speaks; that gallant ship o’ ourn, the Bunnum Richard, that went to the bottom—that ship speaks; that ’ere cut acrost your forehead, sir—that speaks; and, as for we in the foks’l, give us the name o’ Paul Jones for our cap’n and we kin wallop anything afloat. The cap’n on the S’rapis, he nailed his flag to the mast and then he had to haul it down. But we don’t need for to nail our flag to the mast, sir, because we all knows that the man who touches that ’ere flag is a dead man, if Commodore Paul Jones is commandin’. And so we says, commodore, health and long life to you! and, as Mr. Dale has said, the proudest thing we kin ever say is, ‘We fought under Paul Jones on the Bunnum Richard, sir!’” Another tremendous round of cheers followed this. Paul Jones, with his eyes full of tears, shook hands silently with each of his officers, and then, with a profound bow to the men assembled, he stepped to the side. In an instant, as if by magic, every sailor sprang aloft, and in less time than it takes to tell it the yards were manned. Two fine French frigates that lay close by the Alliance also manned their yards, and thundered out a salute of thirteen guns to the commodore’s broad pennant, which was about to be hauled down. The Alliance responded with thirteen guns; and so, amid the applause and cheers of his men, the thunders of artillery, and all the honors that could be heaped upon him, Paul Jones left his ship. |
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