it is a soundless, soft december evening. the quietly falling flakes are cloaking in thin white the streets and roofs of norfolk. off shore, a cable’s length, an english sloop of war, eighteen guns, lies tugging at her anchors. in shore from the sloop of war rides the peaceful twenty-ton sloop of planter paul jones. the sailor-planter, loitering homeward from a cruise to charleston and the coast towns of the carolinas, is calling on friends in norfolk. both the war sloop and the peace sloop seem almost deserted in the falling snow. aside from the harbor light burning high in the rigging, and an anchor watch of two sailors muffled to the ears, the decks of neither craft show signs of life.

norfolk’s public hall is candle-lighted to a pitch of unusual brilliancy; the waxed floors are thronged with the beauty and gentility of the old dominion, as the same find norfolk expression. it is indeed a mighty social occasion; for the local élite have seized upon the officers of the sloop of war, and are giving a ball in their honor. the honored ones attend to a man—which accounts for the deserted look of their sloop—and their gold lace blazes bravely by the light of the candles, and with tremendous gala effect.

planter paul jones is also among the guests. since he is in town, his coming to the ball becomes the thing most natural. already he is regarded as the admirable crichton, of tide-water virginia, and the function wanting his presence would go down to history as incomplete.

paul jones, planter for two years, has made himself a foremost figure in virginia. twenty-eight, cultured, travelled, gallant, brilliant, and a bachelor, he is welcome in every drawing-room. besides, is there not the jones plantation, with its mile of river front, its noble mansion house, its tobacco teeming acres, its well-trained slaves, and all turning in those yearly one thousand yellow guineas under the heedful managing thumb of canny duncan macbean? planter paul jones is a prince for hospitality, too; and the high colonial dames, taking pity on his wifeless state, preside at his table, or chaperone the water parties which he gives on his great sloop. also—still considering his wifelessness—they seek to marry him to one of their colonial daughters.

in this latter dulcet intrigue, the high colonial dames fail wholly. the young planter-sailor is not a marrying man. there is in truth a blushing story which lasts throughout a fortnight in which he is quoted as about to yield. rumor gives it confidently forth that the jones mansion will have a mistress, and its master carry altar-ward betty parke, the pretty niece of madam martha washington. but pretty betty parke, in the very face of this roseate rumor, becomes mrs. tyler, and it will be one of her descendants who, seventy-five years later, is chosen president—a poor president, but still a president. planter paul jones rides to the wedding of pretty betty parke, and gives it his serene and satisfied countenance. from which sign it is supposed that dame rumor mounts by the wrong stirrup when she goes linking the name of pretty betty parke with that of planter paul jones; and no love-letter scrap, nor private journal note, will ever rise from the grave to disparage the assumption.

that planter paul jones has thus lived for two years, and moved and had his social being among the most beautiful of women, and escaped hand free and heart free to tell the tale, is strange to the brink of marvellous. it is the more strange since no one could be more than he the knight of dames. and he can charm, too—as witness a letter which two years farther on the unimpressionable doctor franklin will write to madam d’haudetot:

“no matter, my dear madam,” the cool philosopher will say, “what the faults of paul jones may be, i must warn your ladyship that when face to face with him neither man nor, so far as i learn, woman, can for a moment resist the strange magnetism of his presence, the indescribable charm of his manner; a commingling of the most compliant deference with the most perfect self-esteem that i have ever seen in a man; and above all the sweetness of his voice and the purity of his language.”

paul jones is not alone the darling of colonial drawing-rooms, he is also the admiration of the men. this is his description as given by one who knew him afloat and ashore:

“though of slender build, his neck, arms and shoulders were those of a heavy, powerful man. the strength of his arms and shoulders could hardly be believed. and he had equal use of both hands, even to writing with the left as well as with the right. he was a past master of the art of boxing. to this he added a quickness of motion that cannot be described. when roused he could strike more blows and cause more havoc in a second than any other could strike or cause in a minute. even when calm and unruffled his gait and all his bodily motions were those of the panther—noiseless, sleek, the perfection of grace.”

the above, by way of portrait: when one adds to it that planter paul jones rides like a prince rupert, fences like a crillon, gives blows with his fist that would stagger jack slack, and is death itself with either gun or pistol, it will be seen how he owns every quality that should pedestal him as a paragon in the best circles of his day.

it is towards the hour of midnight when planter paul jones, attired like a brummel, stands in quiet converse with his friend mr. hurst. their talk runs on the state of sentiment in the colonies, and the chance of trouble with the motherland.

“hostilities are certain, my dear hurst,” says planter paul jones. “i hear it from colonel washington, mr. jefferson and mr. henry. they make no secret of it in williamsburg about the house of burgesses.”

“but the other colonies’?”

“mr. morris of philadelphia, as well as mr. pynckney of charleston, agrees with the gentlemen i’ve quoted. they say, sir, there will soon be an outbreak in boston.”

“in boston!” repeats mr. hurst doubtfully.

“have the massachusetts men the courage, think you?”

“courage, ay! and the strength, my friend! both colonel washington and mr. jefferson assured me that, although slow to anger, they are true sons of cromwell’s ironsides.

“and what shall be our attitude?”

“we must sustain them at all hazards, sir—sustain them to the death!”

it is now that a knot of english officers drift up—a little flushed of wine, are these guests of honor. they, too, have been talking, albeit thickly, of a possible future full of trouble for the colonies.

“i was observing,” says lieutenant parker, addressing planter paul jones and mr. hurst, “that the insolence of the americans, which is more or less in exhibition all the way from boston to savannah, will never get beyond words. there will be no blows struck.”

“and why are you so confident?” asks planter paul jones, eye agate, voice purringly soft. “now i should say that, given provocation, the colonies would strike a blow, and a heavy one.”

“when do you sail?” interrupts mr. hurst, speaking to lieutenant parker. mr. hurst would shift conversation to less perilous ground. as a mover of the ball, he is in sort host to the officers, as well as to planter paul jones, and for the white credit of the town desires a peaceful evening. “i hear,” he concludes, “that your sloop is for a cruise off the french coast.”

“she and the fleet she belongs to,” responds lieutenant parker, utterance somewhat blurred, “will remain on this station while a word of rebel talk continues.”

“now, instead of keeping you here,” breaks in planter paul jones, vivaciously, “to hector peaceful colonies, if i were your king i should send you to wrest cape good hope from the dutch.”

“cape good hope from the dutch?”

“or the isles of france and bourbon from the french—lying, as they do, like lions in the pathway to our indian possessions. if i were your king, i say, those would be the tasks i’d set you.”

“and why do you say ‘your king?’ is he not also your king?”

“why, sir, i might be pleasantly willing,” observes planter paul jones airily, “to give you my share in king george. in any event, i do not propose that you shall examine into my allegiance. and i say again that, if i were your king, sir, i’d find you better english work to do than an irritating and foolish patrol of these coasts.”

“you spoke of the americans striking a blow,” says lieutenant parker, who is gifted of that pertinacity of memory common to half-drunken men; “you spoke but a moment back of the americans striking a blow, and a heavy one.”

“ay, sir! a blow—given provocation.”

lieutenant parker wags his head with an air of sagacity both bibulous and supercilious. he smiles victoriously, as a fortunate comparison bobs up to his mind.

“a blow!” he murmurs. then, fixing planter paul jones with an eye of bleary scorn: “the americans would be quickly lashed into their kennels again. the more easily, if the courage of the american men, as i think’s the case, is no more firmly founded than the chastity of the american women.”

0006

planter paul jones deals lieutenant parker a blow with his clenched fist, the like of which was never before seen even in the violent port of norfolk. lieutenant parker’s nose is crushed flat with his face; he falls like some pole-axed ox. his fellow-officers lift him to his feet, bleeding, stunned beyond words.

“you shall hear from us!” is the fierce cry from his comrades, as they hurry the stricken parker from the ballroom.

“i shall be pleased to hear from any or all of you,” replies planter paul jones; “or from what other dogs in king’s coats shall question the honor of american women.” then, turning to mr. hurst: “you, sir, shall act for me! accept every challenge they send! make it pistols, ten paces, with craney island for the place; and fix the time to suit their english convenience.”