Boatswain Robinson holds out a square of dingy bown paper. It is signed by every member of the crew, beginning with the redoubtable Robinson. Commodore Paul Jones reads the round robin, which is written in black sprawling characters, while Lieutenant Dale who comes up holds a ship’s lantern. Thus runs the document, the compilation whereof has exhausted the forecastle.
“We respectfully request you, sir, to lay us alongside any single-decked English ship to be found in these seas, or any double-decked ship under a fifty.”
“My lads,” says Commodore Paul Jones, when he finished reading the round robin, “this is what I like. Our ship is a thirty-six, our biggest gun a twelve-pounder. You say ‘lay her alongside a fifty gun ship, with her lower tier of eighteen-pounders. I promise that I’ll do my best. I’ll cruise between St. George’s Channel and the Bay of Biscay two full weeks, looking for what you ask. Still, I must tell you that, while I’ve plenty of hope, I’ve little expectation. This is winter weather, lads, and the chances of our finding a fight are slim. If we find one, however, I shall, by way of compliment, take you over the Englishman’s hammock nettings myself; for I hold you, man and boy, to be as stout a crew as ever primed pistol or laid cutlass to grindstone, and one that it’s an honor to lead. Mr. Bo’sen, pipe the men for’ard. Mr. Dale will give orders for another ration of grog all’round. And so, shipmates, I give you a Merry Christmas!”
The Alliance goes looking for a British fifty. But nothing comes of it. Between wind and snow and biting weather, the ships have deserted the open ocean, like wild fowl, for the friendly sheltering warmth of the ports. When the two weeks are up, four weeks more are added to the cruise by common consent. Stores, however, are running low, and following six weeks futile looking about, Commodore Paul Jones stands in for the Isle au Grroaix, and anchors in the harbor of l’Orient.
It is February fourteenth, the day of sweet St. Valentine. Also, it is among the coy and blushing possibilities, that sweet Saint Valentine has been lying in wait for him; for our sailor, home from sea, finds in the hands of his agent a pretty note, which in its sequence is to carry him into the midst of much tenderness and flowery happiness.
The note is from his good friend, the Marchioness de Marsan. The Marchioness asks Commodore Paul Jones, when he is next in l’Orient and can spare himself from his ship, to visit her at her palace. Weary with the sea, sore from the loss of the Serapis, the summons falls in with his tired humor. He leaves the Alliance in charge of Lieutenant Dale, and goes with what haste he may to his friend the Marchioness. That good noblewoman kisses him on both cheeks.
“It is for your victory!” she says. “France is a-quiver with it!”
As Commodore Paul Jones is about to reply, a girl of twenty enters the room.
“Aimee de Telison, Commodore,” says the Marchioness, presenting him. Then aside: “She is my ward—my godchild! Is she not beautiful?”
“Beautiful! Skin pink and white! Teeth like pearls or rice! Damask lips, eyes deep and lustrous and large! Hair a flood of red gold! In form a little rounded goddess! Beautiful!”