  The first enterprise determined upon was an expedition to the island of New Providence, in the West Indies. On the 17th of February the squadron had set sail from the Delaware, and on the morning of the 1st of March it appeared off the harbor of New Providence. There were two forts to protect the town, but at that moment there was not a soldier on the island. When the American squadron was sighted, though, an alarm gun was fired, and the inhabitants manned the forts and turned the guns on the American vessels just outside the bar. The little American squadron carried only two hundred marines, and it was determined to land them under the fire of the ships; but owing to the bar at the mouth of the harbor the Alfred and the Columbus could not pass in; only the smaller vessels could get in with any prospect of coming out at low tide. From the lack of charts, the Americans had to take great risks in finding safe anchorages. But the pilot taken on board the Alfred declared that he knew of an anchorage, under a key three leagues to windward of the harbor, where the larger vessels might safely await the result of the attack on the town. This news was carried to Commodore Hopkins as he restlessly paced the Alfred’s deck, looking at the white-walled town lying before him in the warm March sunshine. “But, Mr. Jones,” said he to Paul Jones, who had brought the pilot aboard, “how can we answer for the faithfulness of these pilots? They may cheerfully take the risk of being lost along with us rather than put us in a position to take the town.” “Quite true, sir,” answered Paul Jones, “but if you will give me leave, I will undertake, with this pilot, to carry the ship to a safe anchorage, and I will answer for it with my commission if I do not take her safely.” “Very well, then,” replied the commodore; “if you will assume the responsibility, I will trust the ship.” It had then fallen dead calm, and all through the long spring day they waited for a puff of wind. The short twilight of the tropics was upon them before the wind sprang up again. At the first breeze the Alfred set every sail that would draw, and, followed by the Columbus, headed for the key. The sky was a deep rose-red in the west, and overhead of a pale and luminous green. The full moon was rising, round and yellow, over the town, and a few solitary stars twinkled in the vast expanse of the sky. Paul Jones, followed by the pilot, went aloft to the foretopmast head, where a clear view of everything was to be had. In the deep and breathless silence every occasional sound could be heard, and scarcely a word was uttered except the orders, as the ship ran down the chain of islands, with a fair wind, in the moonlit night. Bill Green was at the wheel, while three or four officers, stationed at various points along the deck, repeated the orders called out in Paul Jones’s clear and penetrating voice, so that no mistake might be made. A man on the port side and another on the starboard kept the lead going constantly. Commodore Hopkins and Captain Saltonstall paced the deck together. At intervals Paul Jones’s voice would be heard calling out: “Port a little—hard aport—steady!” While the man with the lead on the starboard side would sing musically, in the peculiar cadence used in sounding: “And a quarter—less—six.” This meant they were in five and three quarter fathoms—plenty of water for the ship. The sailor sounding on the port side would sing in the same key: “And a quarter—less—six.” Paul Jones, with every nerve strained, listened to the soundings, the sweet call ringing softly in the half darkness as the ship glided through the purple night. Sometimes she was in the full light of the moon, and then a shadow would descend upon the sea, and she would slip through it like a phantom ship. Two cables’ length off, the Columbus followed in her wake. Once the man sang out: “And a quarter—past—three!” Every soul on board gave a gasp—the water was getting shoal; and Paul Jones shouted quickly from the fore-topmast, “Starboard—starboard your helm!” The next sounding was four and a half fathoms, and at last, just as the moon emerged in splendor from a thin white cloud, the Alfred rounded the key, and the cable rattled out noisily as the anchor was dropped in six fathoms of water. Paul Jones felt as if a hand clutching his heart had been suddenly loosed. He had piloted the ship safely, and had anchored her; his commission was safe; and he was from that moment the best known junior officer in the squadron. Next morning the marines were landed, a large quantity of arms and stores were captured and embarked, and the squadron set sail for home. |
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