Читать книгу Paul Jones - Molly Elliot Seawell - Страница 5

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On a bright day in January, 1776, a lithe, handsome young man, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the Continental navy, stood on the dock at Philadelphia gazing keenly down the river. His eyes were peculiarly black and beautiful, and had an expression of command in them that is seldom absent from those of a man born to lead other men. His figure was slight, and he was not above medium height; but he was both graceful and muscular.

The river was frozen, except a tortuous channel cut through the ice and kept open with difficulty. Innumerable masts and spars made a network against the dull blue of the winter sky, and fringed the docks and wharves; while far down the glittering sea of ice lay a small squadron of five armed vessels, which was the beginning of the glorious navy of the United States.

This young lieutenant, Paul Jones by name, looked about for a boat to take him down the river to the squadron; and seeing a ragged, bright-eyed boy about twelve years old sitting in a rickety skiff from which a passenger had just been landed, he called the boy, and, jumping lightly into the boat, said:

“Take me to that ship over yonder with ‘Alfred’ painted on her stern.”

The boy pulled away with a will, but kept his eyes fixed on Paul Jones’s uniform and the sword which lay across his knee.

“Them ships is to fight the British, ain’t they?” he asked presently, jerking his head toward the ships then just collected in the river, whose crews and armaments were yet to be provided.

“Yes,” answered Paul Jones, smiling. “If you were a man I would enlist you.”

The boy said nothing more, but pulled steadily toward the Alfred. When they reached the side of the ship her decks were heaped with coils of rope, piles of shot, some unmounted guns, and all the litter of a merchant vessel being converted into a man-of-war. But the Alfred, although not built for fighting, was yet a stanch little ship, and when armed and manned had no cause to run away from any vessel of her class.

Paul Jones studied her with the eye of a seaman, as they approached. Meanwhile a crowd of strange thoughts rushed upon him. “At last,” he thought to himself, “I am at the beginning of my career. A poor Scotch gardener’s son, shipping as a common sailor boy because there were so many mouths to feed at home—coming, at thirteen, to this new country that I have learned to love so well—left a modest fortune, and rising to the command of a ship before I was twenty, I determined to cast my fate with these people, to whom I owe all the kindness I ever knew, and I was proud to be among the first to raise my arm in the defense of these colonies against tyranny. All those I loved as a child in Scotland are dead, and all that is now dear to me is in my adopted country. The cause of these colonies is a just one, and I could no more refuse to fight for that cause than any man born here. The chances for success and promotion are all with the army; our few small vessels can hope for but little in contests with England, the Mistress of the Seas; but I think I was born a sailor, and my heart turns ever toward blue water. The day that I received my commission as a lieutenant in the Continental navy was surely the most blessed and fortunate of my life, and my adopted country shall never have cause to regret giving it me.” Deep in his heart Paul Jones had a strange feeling that glory awaited him; for those destined to immortality have mysterious foreknowledge of it.

Occupied with these thoughts, Paul Jones did not come out of his daydream until the boat’s nose touched the accommodation ladder over the Alfred’s side. He rose with a start, and held out a piece of money to the boy, who blushed, and shook his head.

“I don’t want no money,” he said diffidently, “for helpin’ my country.”

Paul Jones paused and looked steadily at the ragged lad, who looked back steadfastly at him.

“You seem to be rather an odd sort of boy—and, by my life, I like such boys,” said he. The quartermaster had then come down the ladder, and stood ready to salute as soon as he caught the young lieutenant’s eye. This man, Bill Green, was a remarkably handsome, bluff sailor of about forty-five, with a fine figure, and was dressed with as much care and neatness as if he were a quarter-deck officer. Paul Jones was instantly struck by his admirable appearance, and more so when he spoke. His voice was full and musical, and his manner extremely polite and respectful, without being in the least cringing. The lad, too, seemed taken by the quartermaster’s pleasant looks, and spoke again, after a moment, looking alternately from him to Paul Jones:

“I’m a very strong boy—and I allus thought I’d like to be a sailor. Won’t you take me now, sir, and let me fight the British?”

The quartermaster grinned broadly at this, but Paul Jones did not smile.

“What is your name, my lad?—and have you parents?”

“My name’s Danny Dixon, sir, and I ain’t got any father or mother or brothers or sisters; and I’d ruther be a sailor, sir, nor anything.”

Paul Jones looked hard at the boy, and then turned to the quartermaster.

“We’ll see if his story is true, and if it is—why, we shall have use for powder boys on this ship, and we might do worse than take this lad.”

“In course, sir,” responded Green. “I’ll find out something about him, and I’m thinkin’ he’d make a good, strong powder monkey and maybe he’s old enough to be helper to the jack-o’-the-dust.”

Danny’s eyes gleamed.

“I’ll go ashore now, sir, and bring you back some one to prove who I am,” he cried eagerly; and Paul Jones had to step hurriedly out of the boat to keep from being carried back to the dock, so keen was the boy to put off. And in two hours he was back again on the Alfred, and regularly entered on the ship’s books.

“Because,” said Bill Green, who was a foks’l wag, “when we comes to fightin’ the British, most likely the cap’n will call you up and make you a quarter gunner, or sumpin’ on the spot, boy; and you can’t git your share of the prize money if you ain’t entered on the ship’s books, reg’lar.”

Danny luckily did not mention his expectation of becoming a quarter gunner to Paul Jones, who, as first lieutenant, had charge of the ship in the absence of her captain. But he did ask that he might be put on the books so he could get his prize money; which the young lieutenant promised to do, laughing in spite of himself at Danny’s serious expectation of a considerable fortune in prize money.

Captain Saltonstall was to command the Alfred, but he had not yet arrived, and upon Paul Jones rested the duty of preparing the ship for sea. From the day his foot first touched the deck his active spirit pervaded everything, and the officers under him, as well as the men, felt the force of his commanding energy. Besides working all day, he and the other officers stood watch and watch on deck throughout the wintry nights, to prevent desertions; and although every other ship in the squadron had her crew lessened by desertion, not a single man was lost from the Alfred.

“And I’m a-thinkin’, mates,” remarked Bill Green, in the confidence of the foks’l, “as how we’ve got a leftenant as is a seaman; I seen it by the cut o’ his jib; and if he was the cap’n o’ this ’ere ship, he’d lock yardarms with a Britisher if he had half a chance.”

One day, in the midst of the bustle of fitting the ship out, Commodore Hopkins, who was to command the little squadron, came on board the Alfred. He was formally received at the gangway by Paul Jones and shown over the ship by him.

The commodore was a big, burly man, who had spent the best part of his life at sea. He examined the ship carefully, and his silence, as Paul Jones explained what he had done and was doing with the means at his command, made the young lieutenant fear that it had not met with the commodore’s approval. But, secure in the consciousness that he had done his duty, Paul Jones could afford to do without the praise of his superiors. He was not, however, destined to this mortification. Standing on the quarter-deck, surrounded by the officers, Commodore Hopkins turned to Paul Jones, and said:

“Your activity has pleased me extremely, and my confidence in you is such, that if Captain Saltonstall should be unable to reach here by the time the ships can get away, I shall hoist my flag on this ship, and give you the command of her.”

A flush rose in Paul Jones’s dark face, and he bowed with the graceful courtesy that always distinguished him.

“Thank you, commodore,” he said, “and may I be pardoned for hoping that Captain Saltonstall may not arrive in time? And when your flag is hoisted on the Alfred, there will be, I trust, a flag of the United Colonies to fly at the peak, and I aspire to be the first man to raise that flag upon the ocean.”

Commodore Hopkins smiled.

“If the Congress is as slow as I expect it to be, it will be some time yet in adopting a flag; and there will not be time to have one made for the ship before we sail.”

“I think there will, sir,” replied Paul Jones.

The young lieutenant had good reason for his expectation. The Congress had practically decided upon the flag, and Paul Jones, out of his own pocket, had bought the materials to make one. Bill Green was an expert with the needle, boasting that he could “hand, reef, and steer a needle like the best o’ them tailor men,” and was fully capable of making a flag.

On a stormy February day, when the channel had been freed from ice enough for the little squadron to get out, the Alfred was made ready to receive her flag officer. Captain Saltonstall had arrived some days before, to Paul Jones’s intense disappointment. But he was as ready to do his duty as first lieutenant as he had been that hoped-for duty as acting captain.

The commodore’s boat was seen approaching on the wind tossed water. The horizon was overcast, and dun clouds scurried wildly across the troubled sky, with which the pale and wintry sun struggled vainly. The boatswain’s call, “All hands to muster!” sounded through the ship, and in a wonderfully short time, owing to the careful drilling of Paul Jones, the three hundred men and one hundred marines were drawn up on deck. The sailors, a fine-looking body of American seamen, were formed in ranks on the port side of the quarter-deck, while abaft of them stood the marine guard, under arms. On the starboard side were the petty officers, and on the quarter-deck proper were the commissioned officers in full uniform with their swords, and Paul Jones headed the line.

When it was reported, “All hands up and aft!” Captain Saltonstall appeared out of the cabin. Paul Jones, having previously arranged it, called out, “Quartermaster!” and Bill Green, neat, handsome and sailorlike, stepped from the ranks of the petty officers.

From some unknown regions about his clothes Bill produced a flag, rolled up, and, following Paul Jones, stepped briskly aft to the flagstaff. He affixed the flag to the halyards, along with the broad pennant of a commodore, saw that they worked properly, and then stood by. The commodore’s boat was then at the ladder, and the commodore came over the side. Just as his foot touched the quarter-deck the flag with the pennant flew up on the staff like magic, under Paul Jones’s hands, the breeze caught it and flung it wide to the free air, and the sun, suddenly bursting out, bathed it in glory. Every officer, from the commodore down, instantly removed his cap, the drummer boys beat a double ruffle on the drums, and a tremendous cheer burst from the sailors and marines. As Paul Jones advanced, Commodore Hopkins said to him:

“I congratulate you upon your enterprise. The flag was only adopted in Congress yesterday, and this one is the very first to fly.”[1]

“Such was my hope, sir,” answered Paul Jones, modestly. “I wished the honor of hoisting the flag of freedom the first time it was ever displayed; and this man,” pointing to Bill Green, who stood smiling behind him, “sat up all last night in order to make this ensign for the ship—an ensign which will ever be attended with veneration upon the ocean.”

Bill Green came in for his share of congratulation too; and as if the appearance of the flag had bewitched the wind, it suddenly shifted to fair, the sun came out brilliantly, and within half an hour the squadron of five ships—the Columbus, the Andrew Doria, the Sebastian Cabot, and the Providence, led by the Alfred—had spread all their canvas, and were winging swiftly toward the free and open sea.