Paul Jones was greeted with the most intense enthusiasm among the naval men at Brest, and France rang with his exploits. Benjamin Franklin wrote him letters of affectionate praise, and the French Minister of Marine, M. de Sartine, requested the American commissioners to detain Captain Jones in Europe, as it was desired to employ him against the British, in conjunction with the French fleets. War between France and England was then imminent, and, in fact, was declared within a few weeks. Paul Jones therefore wrote to the Congress, saying he desired that no command be reserved for him, as he had been directed by the American commissioners to remain in France.
And now, in place of these bright anticipations came a long and torturing period of suspense for Paul Jones, mingled, it is true, with many compliments on his prowess, and sustained by the friendship of Franklin, of the King of France, of the Duke de Chartres, and the admiration of all the naval and military men of France. More than that was the gratitude and respect of the men who had fought under him, and of the two hundred prisoners from the Drake—for Paul Jones’s conduct at this time gained him the lasting good will of these men. The affairs of the American Government had then reached their most desperate state, and the French Government was a government by intrigue and corruption, which, not many years after, produced the bloodiest revolution the world ever saw. No money was forthcoming as the prize justly earned by the Ranger’s officers and crew, nor were they even paid their wages while waiting at Brest for a promised ship for Paul Jones. Worse still was the condition of the English prisoners, who would actually have starved but for Paul Jones himself paying out of his own pocket for food to keep them alive. It was his earnest desire to secure an exchange of prisoners, so that he could get a crew made up wholly of Americans, but with the general trickery, inefficiency, and jealousy of the French administration he could do nothing. One fine ship after another was promised him, through Benjamin Franklin, who looked to Paul Jones as the hope of the new nation upon the seas, but disappointment followed disappointment.
Paul Jones’s restless spirit was the last one to submit to this enforced idleness, and he complained in his letters that “this shameful inactivity is worse to me than a thousand deaths.” Every moment lost to the service of his country was, in Paul Jones’s esteem, “shameful.”
So months passed, Paul Jones in his small lodging at Brest vainly endeavoring, with Franklin’s earnest help, to get afloat once more in any sort of a ship. The King of France requested him to write a full account of the Ranger’s daring cruise, which Paul Jones did. But fighting, not writing, was his choice when his country needed every arm that could be raised in her defense.
Bill Green, the quartermaster, whose time was up, had elected to stay with Paul Jones until he had another ship, and little Danny Dixon followed him about like a dog. The two humble friends gave Paul Jones more real comfort than all the compliments showered upon him by people of rank and consequence. Danny was still “the captain’s boy,” and Bill Green had a humble sleeping place close by the captain’s lodgings. When successive disappointments had preyed upon Paul Jones’s bold spirit, and he would return home in the evening sad and dispirited, the sight of Danny’s affectionate eyes and anxiety to serve him would sometimes console him a little. Bill Green was always at hand to carry a letter or a message, and Paul Jones, in his temporary distress, did not lack for two devoted friends. Bill had quite adopted Danny by this time, but was always growling and grumbling about “ships’ boys as is more trouble than they’re wuth,” and “boys as oughter have the cat reg’lar along with their ’lowance.” He did not sing much, though; and when Danny would tease him to sing “Come, all ye tars that brave the sea,” or “I’m here and there a jolly dog,” Bill would shake his head and say dolefully: “No, boy. I can’t sing them songs without I can hear the water runnin’ against the ship’s side and the wind makin’ music through the riggin’, and the bo’s’n’s pipe once in a while. Them is sea songs, and the only land song I knows is ‘Land lubbers lie down below,’ and that ain’t no song to speak of. Landsmen ain’t got no music of no account; and as for their songs—Lord! they’re all about love and the moon, and that sort o’ loblolly that sailormen ain’t got no appetite for.” Danny, perforce, had to put up with this explanation, and do without Bill’s music.
Meanwhile, so great had been the alarm upon the coast of the United Kingdoms that the British Admiralty had issued a circular letter warning the people living on the coasts that a descent by Paul Jones might be expected. This further stung the daring sailor, who beheld the days go by fruitlessly while he lingered at Brest, unable to get a vessel. At one time it was thought a ship had been secured for him, and the young Lafayette, then on a visit from America, desired to sail with him in command of some troops that he was to carry. Afterward this design failed, and Lafayette wrote to Paul Jones: “I can not tell you, my good friend, how sorry I am not to be a witness of your success, abilities, and glory.” At last, nearly a year after his glorious cruise in the Ranger, Paul Jones, in despair of doing better, accepted the command of the Duc de Duras—the ship that, under the new name of the Bon Homme Richard, was to immortalize herself and the great man who became her captain. She was reported to be new and fast, but turned out, though, to be old and much decayed. She was a long ship, and carried twenty-four guns in broadside and eighteen smaller guns. She had a crew of three hundred and eighty men, of all nationalities under the sun. Not more than thirty of them were Americans, but among these Americans, besides Bill Green and two or three other men who had sailed with him in the Ranger, Paul Jones had Stacy, his old sailing master. He had the name of the ship changed from the Duc de Duras to the Bon Homme Richard, in compliment to Dr. Franklin, whose Poor Richard’s Almanac was then making a great stir in the world.
The Bon Homme Richard was to be the first ship in a motley squadron made up of the Alliance, a fine American frigate of thirty-six guns, with an American crew, but commanded by a French captain. Of this man—Captain Landais—it is proper to say in the beginning that he had a distinct tinge of madness in his composition, and it is generally agreed that he was not thoroughly sane at any time during the memorable cruise he made with Paul Jones. He had been compelled to leave the French navy upon the ground of an intolerable temper, which was the beginning of the insanity from which he undoubtedly suffered at one time during his life. He had been considered a brave and faithful officer under the old régime of the French navy, and therefore his subsequent conduct to Commodore Jones, as Paul Jones had now become, is entitled to the doubt that he was not responsible for what he did. Franklin, however, did not think this, and in a letter written afterward to the officers and men of the Bon Homme Richard, expressed the difference between Paul Jones and Landais thus: “For Captain Paul Jones ever loved close fighting, but Landais was skillful in keeping out of harm’s way.”
The third ship of the squadron, the Pallas, was frigate built, and carried thirty-two guns. Then there was the Vengeance, a brig carrying twelve guns, and a small but beautiful cutter of eighteen guns, the Cerf. Paul Jones was the commodore of this little squadron, but there seems to have been great uncertainty about his powers.
Not more than thirty Americans were available for the Bon Homme Richard at first, but Commodore Jones managed so that most of the petty officers were Americans. The rest of the crew were a motley set, of every nation under the sun. But along with his good luck in having Mr. Stacy and Bill Green, of his old company, he was to have a young lieutenant who was worthy to carry out the orders of such a man as Paul Jones.
The Bon Homme Richard was fitting out at L’Orient, when one day, as Paul Jones was standing on the dock looking at the ship, that resounded with the clamor of preparation, a handsome young fellow of twenty-three, wearing an American naval uniform, stepped up to him and spoke, saluting at the same time.