“Enter,” a familiar voice commanded from within. Richard might have been entering the after cabin of Bonhomme Richard to report to his captain as officer of the watch, except that here there was no steward puttering in the pantry, no green-coated marine standing at ramrod attention outside with a musket held at his side.
Richard clicked open the door, and there sat John Paul Jones on a high-backed chair of pastel blue and yellow, turned partly toward the entryway. Nearby was a second chair of similar pattern and design, and, between the chairs, a rectangular library table. Richard’s gaze quickly took in Jones and a room reminiscent of the one where they had first met back in ’77 in the Hingham residence of Benjamin Lincoln. It had the same crowded bookshelves, the same sort of rug and couch and hearth and writing desk, the same snug feeling of home. So sharp was the remembrance that Richard half-expected Lincoln’s faithful servant, Caleb, in whose honor Richard’s brother had been named, to materialize behind him to take his coat and hat.
“Richard, my boy!” Jones boomed. Instantly he was assailed by a hacking cough. When the coughing subsided he said, in a voice much subdued and raspy, “It gives me great joy to see you this day.”
As Jones struggled to rise, Richard noted with concern the swelling in his legs and the yellow hue of his skin. Such signs of affliction would have seemed foreign to the intrepid sea captain who had saluted him farewell from the quarterdeck of the captured British frigate Serapis, hove to in enemy waters off the cliffs of Dover until Richard had been delivered ashore. Yet evidence of the officer and gentleman remained: his reddish brown hair might be streaked with gray, but it was neatly combed back and tied at the nape with a perfectly formed black bow. And he was impeccably dressed, from the white silk of his neck stock to the dark green cotton of his waistcoat and knee-breeches to the finely polished silver buckles on his black leather shoes. He still appeared to Richard every bit the naval officer he had known those many years ago: a man born to command wherever duty and destiny required it of him.
“It brings me greater joy, Captain.” Without hesitation he walked up to Jones and embraced him as a son would his father, an act of open affection that took Jones momentarily aback. “Or should I address you as ‘Admiral’?”
He was referring to the rank of rear admiral bestowed upon Jones by Her Most Catholic Majesty Catherine the Second, Tsarina of Russia. Three years ago, fed up with the U.S. government’s reluctance to invest in a navy, Jones had accepted the invitation from Empress Catherine to join her Black Sea fleet in an attack against the crumbling Ottoman Empire. That fleet, under the titular command of a Romanov prince, Admiral Potemkin, was vested with wresting Constantinople away from the Muslim Turks who had occupied the city for three centuries. Having liberated the Christians there, the empress expected to receive, as just compensation for doing God’s work, a warm-water port for her navy and an outlet to the Mediterranean Sea.
Once aboard the Russian flagship, Jones had quickly concluded that Potemkin had no future as a naval commander. It took considerable effort and tact to convince Potemkin that Russia would be better served were he to hand over the reins of commander in chief to Jones, advice the reluctant prince finally accepted. At the Battle of Liman, having secretly reconnoitered the enemy fleet the night before from a rowboat, Jones destroyed fifteen enemy warships while killing three thousand Turks and taking sixteen hundred prisoners—all at the cost of one Russian frigate and eighteen Russian sailors. When reports of the stunning victory reached the capital, all Russia rejoiced except for one man, Prince Potemkin, who, stung by what he deemed a usurpation of glory rightfully his, publicly accused Jones of molesting a ten-year-old girl in Saint Petersburg. Disgusted and disillusioned, Jones left Russia as soon as the charges were dropped and returned to Paris, where details of his heroic adventures were widely published.
Jones shot Richard a mock frown. “Then it would be Kontradmiral Pavel Ivanovich Jones, if you please, Lieutenant.”
As Richard bowed low in mock deference to such grandeur, Jones slapped him on the shoulder and laughed out loud, an act that set off another round of harsh coughing. He groped for the arms of his wingback chair and sat down, motioning to Richard to do the same. He removed a white handkerchief from a waistcoat pocket and held it against his mouth until the coughing had quieted.
“Forgive me, Richard,” he said weakly. “I can’t seem to shake this illness, try as I may. I am disciplining myself not to get overagitated or to talk too loudly. I do better if I keep calm—which as you know better than anyone is a type of behavior that does not come naturally to me.” He cleared his throat and spat into the kerchief. “Now, then, to answer your question, ‘Captain Jones’ will do just fine, thank you. While I may admire the courage of Russian sailors, I am most proud of my service to our country. On that service may my life be judged.” He glanced at what he had coughed up, which Richard could see was flecked with blood, then folded the handkerchief and replaced it in its pocket.
“Have you seen a doctor, Captain?” Richard asked, certain that he already knew the answer.
Jones shook his head. “I’d sooner face a mosque full of fanatic Muslim imams babbling to Allah than the ministrations of one French doctor.”
“Even so,” Richard persisted, “that doctor might be able to prescribe something to help you recover.”
Jones waved that idea away, and with it the entire French medical profession. “Speaking of fanatical Arabs,” he said, “we’ve something to discuss along those lines, do we not? But first, catch me up a little. What mischief have you been up to these past few years? Sailing the high seas, I presume, and making babies with that lovely wife of yours. Talk about piracy, sir,” he chuckled, “snatching her away from Captain Horatio Nelson himself, one of the most esteemed officers in the Royal Navy, whilst he was on his way to the altar. What a feat!”
Richard grinned. “It wasn’t quite like that, sir,” he said. “As Fate would have it, I had occasion to visit Captain Nelson in Antigua not long ago. I hope that someday you two will have the opportunity to meet. You have a lot in common. As to my married life, Katherine and I now have three children: two sons, Will and Jamie, and a daughter, Diana.”
“Congratulations. Will was the name of your older brother, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Jamie was Katherine’s brother, the midshipman who saved your life on the deck of Serapis.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that explains why you didn’t name one of your sons ‘John Paul.’ I was about to be offended. British newspapers gave that story quite a run. I read about it in Holland, after I saw you off at Dover. A very moving account, I must say. The British press made both you and Jamie out to be heroes. That account fueled considerable antiwar sentiment in England, in Parliament especially.”
“So I understand.”
Jones coughed lightly into his fist and was about to offer a further comment when there came a light rap on the door. Jones checked his waistcoat watch. “Enter,” he called out.
The door opened and an elderly woman dressed in a simple ankle-length brown dress, olive-colored shoulder wrap, and white apron walked into the room. The white mobcap on her head covered all but fringes of her silver hair, and she stood before them slightly stooped as she gently wrung her long, gnarled fingers and flashed inquisitive eyes about the room, settling them on Richard for several awkward moments.
“Bonjour, Carlotta,” Jones greeted her. Ponctuelle comme d’habitude, n’est-ce pas? Richard, this is my housekeeper, Carlotta. She cleans and cooks and darns for me four mornings a week. I’d be hard-pressed without her, though she speaks little English and my French, I regret to say, is not much better today than it was yesterday.”
“Bonjour, madame,” Richard greeted her cordially.
She inclined her head at him but offered no word in reply.
“Merci, Carlotta,” Jones added, dismissing her to her duties when she seemed to hesitate.
Richard watc
hed as she disappeared off to the left into the kitchen. “Did you see the way she looked at me?” he whispered. “I don’t think she trusts me.”
Jones shrugged and smiled. “Take no offense, Richard. She means nothing by it. No one trusts anyone in Paris these days. Not since the fall of the Bastille.” He gave Richard a contemplative look and let it linger there, as though he were weighing the pros and cons of something. “No doubt you have heard what happened at the Bastille?”
“A little, yes. I arrived outside Paris on the fourteenth, and I was fortunate to come across General Lafayette. He offered me transport to the American consulate two days later.”
“I’m not surprised. General Lafayette was always very fond of you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” Richard glanced toward the kitchen. “What is going to happen in Paris, Captain?” he asked sotto voce, still feeling the eyes of the city upon him.
Jones cleared his throat, coughing after he did so. “I can’t predict the future any better than you can,” he responded. “But of this I am certain: the monarchy cannot survive as it is currently constituted. King Louis may defend the divine right of kings, but I assure you there is nothing divine about the man or his rule, or even much that is admirable. About the only thing he does these days with any sort of proficiency is stuff his gullet. Did you happen to see him at the Hôtel de Ville? No? I didn’t either, but from what I hear he’s become so fat it’s a wonder his pants don’t split. But as bad as he might be, his queen is far worse. Versailles is a grand bateau of pomp and ceremony, Richard, floating upon a sea of misery and despair. This country is bankrupt in every sense of the word, and Marie Antoinette is first in line to claim responsibility. The people still seem to abide their king. But they despise their queen. They call her ‘Madame Deficit’ in addition to other, less flattering epithets.”
“Will the monarchy fall?”
“In my opinion, yes, it will. And I say good riddance to it. One would think that the nobles would be doing everything they can to save it, did they find it worth saving. Apparently they don’t. They are on the run, like rats from a sinking ship. Except that these rats once ruled from the quarterdeck. Even the comte d’Artois, the king’s brother, has fled to Holland. That should tell you something.”
“What happens to a nobleman caught trying to flee?”
Jones shrugged. “There are rumors that certain aristocrats have been arrested and never seen again. Other rumors insist that aristocrats have a new method of execution awaiting them, a machine of death designed by a member of the National Assembly, a doctor named Guillotin. True or not, these rumors offer a rather gruesome picture of just how much the French people have come to hate their nobles and clergy.”
“What about the army? Are its soldiers still loyal to the king?”
“Some are; some aren’t. The fact is, French soldiers will do whatever Lafayette commands them to do. They’ll follow him against any general in France, and that includes Marshal Broglie, the king’s commander in chief. Since you met with Lafayette, you are no doubt aware that he favors a constitutional monarchy. That’s a giant step down from royal absolutism, and less of a step up from republicanism. In any event, you may be assured that Lafayette would never wage war against his own people. He loves his country too much. And he certainly would not fight to save the dainty white derrière of an Austrian-born queen.”
Richard asked, going to what for him was a critical issue, “If that’s true, Captain, are you not in danger yourself? I understand from Mr. Jefferson that you have been awarded the status of chevalier.”
“I have. And I have the sword King Louis presented to me to prove it.” He pointed toward the wall where a finely polished, gold-hilted ceremonial sword hung horizontally above the writing desk. “She’s a beauty, eh? Have a closer look if you’d like. You can test your Latin on the phrase engraved on the blade. I had to have it translated for me.”
Richard gave the sword an appreciative glance. “But that makes you a nobleman, does it not?”
Jones smiled condescendingly as he held out his arms. “Look around you, Richard. Does this look like the grand salon of a château? Am I a lord overseeing his estates?” He chuckled at the very thought of it. “No, to the French people I am simply Captain Jones of the Continental Navy, defender of the faith and slayer of the British lion. The French people may hate their nobles, but they hate the British more. Nothing will change that, no matter what form of government may emerge from the mists. May it ever be so. It’s my best protection.
“Now, then,” he said, “I want to hear about Algiers. Later, we’ll return to the Bastille. I suspect something is missing from the accounts you’ve heard thus far, and I feel it my duty to tell you what it is. But for now, may I suggest a mug of ale? You may be surprised to learn that I’ve developed quite a taste for it. It helps soothe my throat.”
He called out to Carlotta, who appeared shortly from the kitchen carrying a salver with two tall pewter mugs of ale. She placed the tray on the rectangular table and returned to whatever it was she had been doing. Jones took a healthy swig of the frothy liquid and settled back in his chair. “That’s better,” he sighed. “Right, Richard, go to it. I’ve done all the talking thus far. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about Algiers.”
Two hours later Richard had told Jones everything he could recall; most of it was also detailed in the written report he had brought with him: his conversations with Jeremy Hardcastle in Gibraltar, his audience with the dey of Algiers, his impressions of the city of Algiers and its defenses, the disturbing allegations related to him by Caleb and Captain Dickerson, his cruise northward across the Mediterranean, and what information he had gleaned from Captain Mercier and others in Toulon. Coughing only sporadically, Jones listened with rapt attention, especially to the details of the battle with the two xebecs and the destruction wreaked by the three fire-arrows. He sipped his ale, offering no comment until Richard had withdrawn some folded papers from his satchel. After transferring the tray from the table to the floor, he spread those sheets out between them. Each was an intricate depiction of Algiers drawn by the hand of Peter Chatfield.
“These are well done,” Jones said as he perused the drawings a second time. “Extremely well done. I should like to meet the artist.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Captain. He died in the naval hospital in Toulon of wounds he received in the battle.”
“I see.” Apparently Jones had caught the anguish in Richard’s voice, for his tone turned sympathetic. “I am sorry for your loss, Richard. And I’m sorry for mine. I had hoped I might persuade you to join me on my mission to Barbary. Now that is not possible. I doubt the dey of Algiers would want to negotiate peace terms with an American schooner captain who had the temerity to run out his guns and destroy two of Islam’s finest warships.” He said that not as a reprimand, but with the pride of a father who has witnessed his son’s mastery of a special skill he had taught him.
Richard nodded his understanding. “When do you expect to depart, sir?” he asked when Jones fell silent, seemingly preoccupied with the ramifications of Richard’s report.
Jones glanced up. “As soon as Jefferson is installed as secretary of state, which I think will be soon. A ship is sailing from America to Brest in mid-October to take my delegation to Morocco. From there we will sail to Algiers, where the real negotiations will take place. I have been informed that representatives from Tunis and Tripoli will be attending.”
“Can we send word of this to the prisoners in Algiers? It would boost their morale.”
“I think so, and so, apparently, does Mr. Jefferson. He has discussed this very issue with the Spanish ambassador, who has agreed to intervene with bin Osman on our behalf.”
“I am glad to hear it, Captain.” Richard was surprised by Jefferson’s cooperation in the matter, given his stand on peace negotiations. “Is there anything else I can tell you? Anything I might have omitted?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” Jones
said. “You have done a commendable job, and I thank you for your report. My only regret, aside from not having the pleasure of your company and your rather odd sense of humor on my cruise to Barbary, is not knowing what effect your little escapade at sea will have on our negotiations. Or on the prisoners, should bin Osman decide to exact his revenge on them. You have given that matter some thought, I presume?”
“I have indeed, Captain. Many times.”
“And what have you concluded?”
“Forgive me if I sound naïve, but I don’t believe the prisoners are in greater danger as a result of that battle. I believe the opposite is true, that they are in less danger. Bin Osman realizes that negotiations are imminent. Why would he jeopardize what he regards as an advantageous negotiating position by harming his captives? Are they not worth more to him in good physical condition? His interests are served by making it appear as though his prisoners have been well treated. The greater concern, as I see it, is that you will not be granted the funds you need to pay whatever ransoms you are able to negotiate. Mr. Jefferson is dead set against paying any sort of tribute to anyone, or even negotiating with the Arabs under these circumstances.”
“He has told me that himself,” Jones conceded. “And I must say that under normal circumstances I would agree with him. But these are not normal circumstances. In any case, he seems to be relenting a bit in private, whatever he might say in public. Political pressure from home,” Jones explained to Richard’s quizzical look. “Freedom for our sailors has become quite the issue in the American press. Citizens put pressure on Congress, Congress puts pressure on the president, Washington puts pressure on Jefferson, and around it goes. My prediction? These atrocities in the Mediterranean will finally persuade our government to invest in a navy. I’ve been pounding that drum for years, and people are beginning to listen—people who matter, people who can get things done.”
For Love of Country Page 24
