by Tim McGrath
The closer Fanning’s boat got to the Bonhomme Richard, the more he realized this dangerous errand was “a kind of forlorn Don Quixote undertaking.” The boat was being sucked towards the sinking ship when Jones called for them to return, but Fanning could not hear him. He did not need to: he ordered the men to man the sweeps and row for their lives. They did not need to be told twice. They rowed back furiously, shipping water all the way.92
Jones watched the death throes of the Bonhomme Richard from the quarterdeck of the Serapis. Those of his crew still standing lined themselves along the rails, from the waist to the bow. “It was enough to bring tears to the most unthinking man,” Kilby recalled. She lay with her head into the wind, her topsails backed against the masts, water running into her gun ports.
Fanning’s men were still rowing to safety when the Bonhomme Richard “fetched a heavy pitch into a sea and a heavy roll, and disappeared instantaneously.” Her bowsprit slid into the water, then her foremast, main, and finally the mizzen. At eleven a.m. on the twenty-fifth, Jones “saw with inexpressible Grief the last Glimpse of the Bonhomme Richard.” Her service ended; her legend just beginning.93
By the time the Bonhomme Richard went to her watery grave, London had learned of Jones’s victory. Eight of the king’s cruisers were dispatched to Flamborough Head. The panic Jones had inspired with the Ranger paled in comparison to this cruise. Already in a state of alarm over the appearance of the Franco-Spanish fleet in August, Jones’s latest exploits convinced the public that the Admiralty could not even keep order in her own yard, front or back. Jones’s victory elicited more letters to the Earl of Sandwich than any other event in the war. Nary a one complimented him on the fine job he was doing as First Lord of the Admiralty.94
And the press had a field day. While the conservative London Morning Packet and Advertiser assured readers that the Royal Navy would soon catch Jones (“three frigates of force are cruising off Yarmouth”), the Morning Post took a different tack: “Paul Jones resembles a Jack o’ Lantern, to mislead our mariners and terrify our coasts.” The story of his throwing a pistol at Gunnison was embellished into a Blackbeard-like tale—shooting seven of his own men during the battle, even firing at an imaginary nephew, “damn his eyes”—all fiction, but lapped up by the terrified subjects of King George.95
Thus inspired, one illustrator drew Jones as Blackbeard, while another depicted him as a cross between a buccaneer and Nosferatu. It fell to the London Evening Post to remind readers of the burning and sacking of American homes by British troops, to present a more Whig-inspired spin on the Terror of England: “It appears that Jones’s orders were not to burn any houses or towns. What an example of honour and greatness does America thus show to us!”96
Jones’s squadron reached the Texel Island (the island harbor off Amsterdam we last visited with Gustavus Conyngham) on October 3. Once docked, he wrote a voluminous report of his cruise to Franklin. It was honest, thoughtful, even pointing out his failed attempts to outmaneuver the Serapis at Flamborough Head. But it was also clear that he was out for Landais’s scalp. “Either Captain Landais or myself is highly Criminal and one or the other must be Punished.” Jones was sure who that would be. The Frenchman, of course, also made his report—a somewhat different account.97
Jones was becoming exasperated with Pearson’s disdain and snobbery. Since their departure from Flamborough Head, Pearson had shown no appreciation for Jones’s chivalrous treatment of him. Jones had given him back his sword, let Pearson keep his cabin, taking a lieutenant’s wardroom instead and, in a gesture that struck home for Jones after the Selkirk affair, made sure that Pearson’s silver plate and other valuables were all accounted for after Jones saw to Pearson’s comforts ashore. When Jones sent the trunks to his lodging, Pearson refused them, as they came from a rebel whom Pearson believed should have “a halter round his neck.” Again, Jones turned the other cheek, giving the trunks to Cottineau to deliver. This time, Pearson accepted.98
Over the next two weeks the two engaged in polite but strained correspondence until Jones snapped at Pearson’s overbearing pomposity. When Pearson pulled rank in one letter, Jones informed him there was no difference in “’Rank between your Service and Ours.” However, Jones supposed “the difference must be thought very great in England”; how else could Jones reconcile the kindnesses he showed Pearson in contrast to the treatment of Gustavus Conyngham, who, Jones reminded Pearson, “bears a Senior rank in the service of America” but “is now Confined at Plymouth in a Dungeon and in fetters!” Jones insisted to Franklin that Pearson should only be exchanged for Conyngham. As before, Jones wanted his prisoners, about five hundred total, exchanged for American captives in England.99
Leaving the Serapis in Dale’s capable hands, Jones took a coach to Amsterdam, where he was greeted like a conquering hero. Stepping out of the coach in his blue and white uniform, Jones was too mobbed to move. Charles-Guillaume-Frédéric Dumas, the agent for the American commissioners in Paris, watched as merchants, sailors, bankers, and artisans joined the rapturous throng of women and children in congratulating the little commodore. While Jones maintained his reserve on the surface, he was bursting with happiness. Months earlier he had told Sartine “my desire for fame is infinite”; Dumas wrote Franklin that the crowd would have gladly kissed Jones’s feet, had he asked them.100
Franklin replied, noting that Jones was not only the hero of the hour but the topic of practically every conversation at Versailles; a jealous John Adams wrote Abigail how the French “became as loud in favour of Monsieur Jones as of Monsieur Franklin.” From Massachusetts, Mrs. Adams rued “that we had not such a commander” at Penobscot.101
Ironically, the failures at Penobscot and of the Franco-Spanish fleet helped elevate Jones’s adventures to the heights of glory. One anonymous observer, thinking of the embarrassing tale of Jones and the gardener’s wife, extended “Congratulations to the commodore” who “screwed the lady who works in the garden at Passy, and who is now screwing the English so nicely.” Jones was feted and adored. Poems and ballads were written by friend and foe alike, while he, in turn, wrote a flattering ode (about himself) to Dumas’s smitten teenage daughter.102
Such high paeans are usually countered with envious ripostes, and Jones’s time in the sun was no different. Sir Joseph Yorke, the British ambassador to Holland, raised hackles with the Dutch government over Jones’s very presence. The daily cheering of Jones every time he made an appearance at the coffeehouses and exchanges added fuel to his seething anger. Picking up where Lord Stormont left off, he insisted that the Serapis and the Countess of Scarborough be returned to Britain and Jones be turned over to British authorities.
Dutch authorities soon tired of him as well. They were still neutral in this war, and looked for a way to rid themselves of the man. When they learned that Dumas had written Jones that “a high degree of dirtiness and infection reigns aboard the Serapis,” and heard rumors of rotting corpses still aboard the frigate, they began to pressure Jones to leave Holland.103
To complicate matters further, Jones was in an Amsterdam tavern when in walked Pierre Landais. The Frenchman repeated his earlier challenge, proposing a duel with “small swords.” Jones, a bear for nerve, was not a fool. Looking Landais straight in the eye, Jones told him the matter would not be settled at sword’s point but by a court of inquiry. Jones wanted Landais arrested, but the Frenchman slipped out of town and headed to Paris. Jones returned to Texel Island.104
He did not board the Serapis a happy man. After chastising Dale for his laxity, he put the men to work scrubbing the ship clean and airing out the hammocks. He had a harder time restoring his men’s faith in their captain. When he departed for Amsterdam they gave him three cheers. There were none for his return. The weather had turned colder, and most of the men were still wearing rags—the only clothes they had after Flamborough Head and the sinking of the Bonhomme Richard.
Many of the wounded were stil
l aboard and still suffering. Seeing no help coming from Jones for these warriors, Surgeon Brooke, like many officers before him, changed his opinion of Jones, and not for the better. Desertions from the Serapis became more frequent. Among them was the intrepid William Hamilton, whose grenade throwing had ended the battle.
Jones’s British prisoners went even further in their anger. Furious that his attempts to exchange them had failed thus far, they plotted to kill him on his return from Amsterdam. The plan was discovered and foiled, but the pressure put on the Dutch government by Sir Joseph Yorke was unrelenting. The squadron’s prizes remained unsold; Jones’s men received an “advance” of one ducat each—more insult than reward. British frigates lay off the Dutch coast, waiting for the day when Jones sailed. When the French ambassador, le Duc de la Vauguyon, informed Jones that the Pallas and the Vengeance would fly French flags instead of American colors—in an attempt to protect them from British threats of seizure—Jones knew he was finished at Texel Island.
Soon the fleur-de-lis was also flying over the Serapis and the Countess of Scarborough. As a sop to Jones, Vauguyon sent the Countess and the Vengeance to England as cartels, carrying 191 of Jones’s prisoners for exchange. All that remained under Jones’s command was the Alliance. His days as commodore were over.105
Late one night Jones led a gang of sailors aboard the Serapis and looted her of everything of value they could carry. Cutlasses, rum puncheons, hen coops, and all the leg irons (whether for future prisoners or mutinies Jones never disclosed) were carried to the Alliance. Cottineau took command of the Serapis the next day.106
Jones at least had a fine frigate to command—fine but filthy, thanks to Landais’s slackness. An offer from Sartine to sail the Alliance as a privateer under a French commission was spurned; Jones was fed up with French games. He also had had his fill of the rotten Dutch bread given his men, as well as the bullying of a Dutch captain whose ship-of-the-line was dispatched to Texel Island to coerce Jones into leaving. Jones icily let him know he would sail when his ship was ready.107
The transfer of Jones’s threadbare crew to the Alliance padded the frigate’s muster rolls but gave Jones a new headache. His men despised the Alliances, thanks to Landais’s firing at them (and killing several) weeks before. Fights broke out continually. Jones wrote to both Franklin and Morris, begging them for orders to return to America. He continued to refit the Alliance, getting her cleaned and supplied, and re-stepping her masts while playing referee between the warring crews.108
Looming over all this activity was the fact that British cruisers were waiting for him as soon as he sailed. The Earl of Sandwich promised the captains, “If you can take Paul Jones you will be as high in the estimation of the public as if you had beat the combined fleet.”109
One bright occurrence broke the tedium and tension: the arrival of another Continental officer, happy to find Jones still in Holland and eager to ship with him. “I have the pleasure to inform you,” an elated Jones wrote Franklin, “that Captain Cunningham [sic] is now here with me.”110
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“FRESH GALES AND DIRTY WEATHER”
We were bound to Philadelphia . . . but two revolts of the crew have prevented . . . Before God! . . . You will find them out.
—PIERRE LANDAIS1
While Benjamin Franklin knew that Gustavus Conyngham had escaped, he was overjoyed to learn the captain was safe in Holland with John Paul Jones. The commissioner had received an earlier letter from Thomas Digges, telling him that Conyngham had tunneled out of Mill Prison with fifty other prisoners confined to “the Black Hole.”
Once they were past the prison walls, Conyngham dispersed them in small groups to increase their chances of eluding British search parties. After ordering them to make their way to English ports on the east coast and hopefully find passage across the channel, he took three officers with him and made for London, where the risk of being caught was offset by the sheer size of the city. Conyngham had memorized Digges’s address on Villars Street, in the Strand section of central London. If anyone could get him off this island, it would be Franklin’s friend, the confidant of Yankee prisoners at the Mill.2
Hiding in woods, behind hedgerows, and under bridges during the day, they walked towards London at night. Each day one of the three slipped into the nearest village to buy food. (Conyngham stayed in hiding for fear of being recognized.) Remarkably, they reached London in less than a fortnight. On their way to Digges’s they saw broadsides about their escape in shop windows, depicting Conyngham, who was five feet eight, as a giant, dressed like a seventeenth-century pirate, brandishing a broadsword with several pistols stuffed in his canvas trousers. Eventually they found Digges’s house. They waited until darkness to knock on the door.3
Digges whisked them in and provided food, shelter, and new clothes. A grateful Conyngham told him that he was responsible for their escape, having given another American sympathizer, the Reverend Robert Heath of Plymouth, the money that Conyngham used to get his group of four this far. The next morning, Digges made the rounds of the London docks, looking for a ship heading to Europe that the Americans could steal away on. Eventually he found a Dutch captain who agreed to take them to Rotterdam.4
On the evening of November 10, Digges got his charges past the British sentries and smuggled them aboard the Dutch vessel. Once in Holland, Conyngham sent word to Franklin of his arrival. “Irons, dungeons, hunger, the hangman’s cart I have experienced,” he wrote. Conyngham originally planned to go to Dunkirk, but upon hearing that Jones was at Texel Island he changed his mind. “I should at this time go with Capt. Jones,” he continued, and “In a short time will be able to retaliate” against the “petty tyrants” of the British Empire.
Conyngham hoped—as did Jones—that the Alliance would be ordered home to America, but Jones had not yet received orders. As usual, the Scotsman was busy refitting the frigate and taking on victuals, including a tierce of rum (about forty-two gallons) and a pipe of gin (three times that amount). By Christmas, the Alliance had been careened, but Franklin denied Jones’s request to have her bottom sheathed in copper. In the predawn hours of December 27, with a fresh breeze in her sails and a convoy of Dutch men-of-war and merchantmen for company, the Alliance left Texel Island. Jones would be on a cruise of his own initiative—once he eluded the British cruisers that had been waiting for him.5
He was in luck. A gale of sleet and snow had chased the British warships away. As the Alliance sped through the water, Jones forgot the travails of his last weeks in Holland, and the constant warring between Landais’s men and his own. The Alliance was the finest ship in the Continental Navy, and she was all his to command. He planned to cruise the English Channel, boldly flying American colors. What British squadrons he encountered he would leave in Alliance’s wake; what single cruisers he met he would fight and take. As always, he anticipated prizes and glory.
He did not know his best days were behind him.
Naval action stateside, so promising before Penobscot, now went in fits and starts. Captains entered new chapters in their careers. After John Barry spent a year of successful privateering, Congress summoned him back to the navy, sending him to Portsmouth to oversee completion of the navy’s most ambitious project, a seventy-four-gun ship-of-the-line, the America—the largest ship Congress would build for more than thirty years. After purchasing a horse for the commute to and from New Hampshire, Barry rode to Portsmouth.6
Barry’s appointment and mission constituted both a plum assignment and a fool’s errand. While the ship’s keel had been laid two years before, there were only twenty-four carpenters assigned to the ship, but no money for them or for the timber, canvas, rigging, and guns needed to finish her (the Eastern Navy Board estimated the cost to exceed $500,000). Just seeing what was completed so far, Barry could imagine what a huge, beautiful ship she would be. But with no funds or manpower to finish her, Barry returned to Philadelphia and urge
d Congress to find the money to complete the construction. Instead, Congress bounced back Barry’s request regarding compensation for his four-legged purchase (one legislator already bemoaned that “our Board and Horse keeping . . . cost us more than our pay”). Barry’s mount was requisitioned. With no immediate prospect for resuming the America’s construction, Barry obtained another leave of absence and went back to privateering, commanding a brig called the American.7
The handsome frigate Confederacy was still moored in the Delaware River, but Seth Harding had finally pressed enough sailors to man her. Congress ordered Harding to take Conrad Gérard, the French minister to the United States, back to France. As Harding made final preparations, he was informed that John Jay and his family would also be sailing, Jay having been appointed minister to Spain. King Charles III had entered the war on the side of his nephew, Louis XVI—but only as an ally of France, not the United States. Congress hoped Jay might persuade Charles otherwise. The Confederacy departed on October 26 for Cádiz.8
For two weeks the frigate hummed blissfully through the Atlantic under ideal conditions, making nine knots with ease. But smooth sailing ended at dawn on November 7. Sailors on the morning watch were attending to their duties, several up in the rigging and one at the masthead. Suddenly they heard a sharp crack from one of the masts, followed by another, then another. Within three minutes, the foremast, mainmast, and mizzenmast came crashing down like giant dominoes, taking the bowsprit with them. The deck and rails were littered with timber, canvas, and rope; injured sailors were hopelessly entangled in it. Every man aboard, from captain to cabin boy to diplomat, gazed slack-jawed upon the catastrophe.
