To all intents and purposes an American, the truth remains that Paul Jones was a Scotchman. His enthusiastic soul was wholly for the cause of liberty in his new country, but the men who envied him and wanted the offices for which his high capabilities fitted him so signally never let him and others forget that he was an alien. This was, of course, quite absurd; for what were they themselves? What had they been until a few months ago? The fact is, Paul Jones had served under three masters, until he was a far more competent officer than many of those in the established navies of Europe, where influence and patronage often made officers of men of long lineage and short experience.
Thus in the Journal of Congress, dated December 22, 1775, the name of Paul Jones heads the list of first-lieutenants, instead of the list of captains as it should. His friend Joseph Hewes, who championed the candidates from the southern colonies, had done his best to make the young planter a captain, but had failed at the antagonism of John Adams, who represented the candidates from the northern colonies, which demanded full control of naval affairs.
When affairs had at last been worked down to a point of action by sea, the nucleus of the first navy of the new country consisted of the Alfred, the Columbus, the Andrew Doria, the Providence, and the Cabot. Five little ships to face the finely-appointed scores of frigates and sloops-of-war in the service of the king!
VI
RAISING THE FIRST AMERICAN FLAG
That winter of 1776 was a cold one. Snow had lain heavy in the streets of Philadelphia since frigid blasts had brought the first downfall in December. In January, the Delaware River, like every other stream in the country, was locked in the grip of ice, ice a foot or more in thickness. It was only by the constant plying up and down stream of a couple of sturdy whaling-ships, equipped with steel-jacketed bows, that an open channel could be maintained in the Delaware for the passage of ordinary wooden-hulled craft.
Along the waterfront of the city innumerable masts and spars made a somber network against the dull blue of the winter sky. On board some of the larger of the vessels, despite the cold, men were at work repairing and overhauling. Well down the glittering sea of ice a group of five ships swung at anchor in the channel. Their decks, too, were a scene of action.
All of this was taken in with a few swift glances by a quick-stepping, stalwart young man who came down to the wharf and paused to look about him. He was a comely-looking fellow, with broad shoulders, and a face as bronzed as a South Sea Islander's.
It was the young Scotchman and planter, Paul Jones. But his immaculate linen had been discarded. In its place he appeared in the trim uniform of a Continental marine lieutenant—blue coat with red-bound button-holes, round-cuffed blue breeches, and black gaiters.