“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.