  The morning of the 9th of April dawned clear and lovely. The American squadron, on its return from New Providence, was making its way cautiously along the New England coast, and although every part of it was swarming with British vessels, it was determined to take the squadron into Long Island Sound by the way of Narragansett Bay. Paul Jones went about his arduous duties as first lieutenant with his usual steady determination, but at heart he cherished a secret dissatisfaction. His bold and enterprising spirit was not adapted to submission. He could obey, but his destiny was to command. Commodore Hopkins was a brave man, but he was not above the average in either enterprise or intelligence. Several strategic mistakes that he made during the affair at New Providence had not escaped the searching eye of Paul Jones, and he felt a dread of encountering the British then, for fear that the American commodore would not be equal to so great an occasion. He knew that they would have to run the gauntlet of Commodore Wallace’s fleet off Newport, and his brave heart trembled at the idea that all of glory possible would not be reaped. The day passed, though, without any adventures. Numerous white sails were seen, but the squadron, sailing well together, was not molested. Although not disposed to decline a fight, the value of the arms and ammunition on board to the Continental army made Commodore Hopkins quite willing to “let sleeping dogs lie.” But this was contrary to the temperament of Paul Jones. He realized instinctively his capacity for meeting extraordinary dangers with extraordinary resources of mind and courage, and he could not but despise the risks that other men shunned. Toward night they entered the blue waters of Narragansett Bay. A young moon hung trembling in the heavens, the sky was cloudless, and the stars shone brilliantly. Although Paul Jones, being first lieutenant, had no watch on deck, he remained above. About midnight the lookout on the quarter made out Block Island, and almost at the same moment a cry was heard from the Cabot, known as “the black brig,” of “Sail, ho!” “What do you think it is, Mr. Jones?” asked Commodore Hopkins, with night glass in hand, examining the shadowy form of a ship under light canvas about half a mile off. “I think it is a British frigate, sir,” replied Paul Jones, after looking intently at her. “She is too small for a ship of the line, and she does not carry sail enough for a merchant vessel with a good wind. She is simply cruising about, and probably looking for us.” The Cabot being in the lead, night signals were made to her to engage the attention of the stranger, which had tacked, and was now making straight for the American squadron. Paul Jones then, as first lieutenant, saw the captain’s orders carried out to clear the Alfred for action as quietly as possible. No drums were beat, and the men went silently to their quarters. The batteries were lighted up, but by keeping the ports closed as little was shown as possible. A string of battle lanterns was laid in a row on the gun deck by little Danny Dixon, who wagged his head knowingly at Bill Green, who happened to be passing, and remarked: “I say, Mr. Green, there will be some prize money for we arter this.” “No, there won’t,” answered Bill, gruffly. “This ’ere commodore, he ain’t got a very good appetite for fightin’. Now, if Mr. Jones was commandin’—” Just as the words were out of his mouth the quartermaster turned suddenly and saw Paul Jones’s stern eyes fixed on him. The first lieutenant, on making his last round, had come unexpectedly upon Bill, who knew better than to express such opinions about the commodore. A dead silence followed. Paul Jones did not speak, but the look in his eye commanded discretion to Bill, who immediately began fumbling about the lanterns and instructing Danny in his duty. The incident, though, made a deep impression upon Paul Jones. “If that is the feeling among the men, there is little hope of capturing the British ship,” he thought bitterly to himself. He then went above, and just as his foot touched the deck he heard the frigate, which was now close upon them, hail the black brig. “Who are you, and where are you bound?” The black brig answered: “This is the Betsy, from Plymouth. Who are you?” Every ear was strained to catch the answer. It came ringing over the smooth water: “This is His Majesty’s ship Glasgow, of twenty-four guns.” It was now about half past two o’clock in the morning. The moon had gone down, and in the darkness the Glasgow evidently was ignorant of the character of the five vessels strung out together. The Cabot had now got very close on the lee bow of the Glasgow, and suddenly poured a broadside into her. Instantly the British ship seemed to wake up to her danger. She bore up and ran off to clear for action, but within a quarter of an hour she came up gallantly to engage the whole American squadron. Paul Jones was in command of the gun deck. The Alfred was so heavily laden that she was down in the water almost to her portsills; the sea, however, being smooth, he was enabled to work his batteries whenever the manoeuvres of the ship made it possible. The two ships finally got into such a position that they kept up a furious cannonade until daybreak. The Glasgow was hulled a number of times, her mainmast was crippled, and her sails and rigging almost destroyed; she had fifty-two shot through her mizzen staysail, one hundred and ten through her mainsail, and eighty-eight through her foresail, besides having her royal yards carried away. But she had disabled the Cabot at the second broadside, and then, concentrating her fire on the Alfred, the wheel block and ropes of the American ship were carried away, and she came up into the wind, giving the Glasgow a chance to pour in several raking broadsides before the ship could be brought on the wind again. Daylight coming, the Glasgow made signals to the rest of the British fleet, then plainly in sight, and the American drew off. The action might be considered a draw, taking into account the damage done the British ship, and that she evidently had had enough of it. To the impetuous soul of Paul Jones though it seemed from the first to be what he afterward pronounced it—“the disgraceful affair with the Glasgow.” From that hour there was no longer any confidence possible between him and Commodore Hopkins. The commodore had acted according to his best judgment; but he was not a Paul Jones. As Bill Green expressed it in the foks’l: “When the Glasgow went off howlin’ like a broken-legged dog, there oughter been somebody to stop her; and, mates, if Mr. Paul Jones had ’a’ been in command, we’d ’a’ had some prize money sure, as well as savin’ our credit.” Although there was a subtile estrangement between Commodore Hopkins and Paul Jones, each respected the other’s character. But it was more agreeable to the commodore to have Paul Jones anywhere than on the Alfred, so that in a very short while he was placed in command of the sloop of war Providence. In manning the sloop, Commodore Hopkins gave Paul Jones the privilege of taking his petty officers from the crew of the Alfred. As soon as this was known Bill Green begged hard to be of the number, and so he was permitted to go. In the bustle and excitement of the change Paul Jones had quite forgotten Danny Dixon. While making his final preparations in his cabin to change his quarters to the Providence, Danny appeared at the door with his best clothes on and a bundle in his hand. “What is it, Danny?” asked Paul Jones kindly. “Nothin’, sir,” answered Danny, “’cep’ I’m ready to go, sir, whenever you are.” “What do you mean?” said Paul Jones, looking closely at the boy. “Why, sir, ain’t I a-goin’ with you on the Providence?” replied Danny, in a surprised voice. “When I heard you had done got your orders, I went and made up my kit. Mr. Green, the quartermaster, come along, sir, and he says you axed for him to go with you, and that you had said you was goin’ to make me a boatswain’s mate, and for me to git my kit. I wanted to go with you anyhow, sir, though I didn’t expect to be nothin’ but a ship’s boy; but when you axed for me—” The boy’s simplicity was so genuine that Paul Jones could not laugh at him. He only said, smiling a little: “Very well. Green is to be my quartermaster, and I’ll see the captain, and perhaps he may let me have you.” “Thankee, sir,” replied Danny gratefully, and sitting down outside the cabin door he kept his earnest eyes fixed on Paul Jones, like a dog on his master. Presently Paul Jones came out, and after a few words with the captain, Danny was told that he might go along with the new commander of the Providence. Paul Jones was touched by the boy’s devotion, and took him for the captain’s cabin boy. Paul Jones had good reason to be satisfied with all the people he had brought from the Alfred. Bill Green, besides being a first-class quartermaster, was such a pleasant, cheery, waggish fellow that he kept everything forward in a good humor. Moreover, he had a very valuable talent—he could sing beautifully, and had a store of sea songs, some of which he had picked up in the British navy, where he had served some time, and others were patriotic songs which were often composed and much sung in those days. But Bill had a weakness—he always professed to have composed all his songs himself, and to have written them out, when it was a well-known fact that he could not write a word. He had signed the ship’s books with a cross instead of his name, which he explained by saying: “The officer, he was in a hurry, and it was gittin’ on toward my watch, and I didn’t have no half hour to spend writin’ ‘Bill Green,’ so I jest made a cross mark, not thinkin’ as how nobody would suspicion I couldn’t write; and then, it takes so much o’ my time to write my songs, I ain’t got none for to write my name.” All this was received with many sly winks by the men, but they were willing to humor the handsome quartermaster in anything, he was such a favorite with them. Bill, also, like other artists, liked to be urged. This, too, was fully understood, and he always yielded to pressure. The Providence was a good sailer, but she carried only twelve small guns and seventy men. She was employed in transporting men and stores along the shores at the eastern entrance of Long Island Sound, and as this was done in the face of overwhelming British fleets, the address and seamanship of young Captain Jones was fully proved. So great was his success in eluding the British, that the Cerberus frigate made it an especial object to capture the little sloop. She got the Providence under her guns several times, but the sloop always managed to edge away. Once, while the Providence was convoying a brig loaded with military supplies for General Washington, the Cerberus caught sight of her and crowded on sail to overhaul her. Captain Jones signaled to the brig to get out of the way as fast as possible, while he manoeuvred with studied awkwardness in sight of the Cerberus. On came the powerful frigate to crush the little sloop, but as soon as Paul Jones saw the brig safe, he made for shoal water, where the frigate dared not follow him, and escaped as night came on. Early in August he was regularly commissioned as captain, and sailed for the Bermudas, on his first independent cruise. By that time the officers and men under him had come to know what manner of man he was, and looked forward to a glorious cruise with him. It was characteristic of Paul Jones to make the best of all his opportunities, and he managed out of a feeble sloop to make an efficient and fast-sailing cruiser. He trimmed the ship so that she sailed well both on and off the wind, and he was thus in condition either to fight or run away, whichever he chose. The officers and men were in fine spirits, and the very first evening out, as they sailed along with a spanking breeze, Bill Green piped up an inspiring song to his mates on the foks’l, which echoed even to the quarter-deck. The officers listened with pleasure, while Bill sung in his full, round, and musical baritone the following song: “When the anchor’s weighed and the ship’s unmoored, And landsmen lag behind, sir, The sailor joyfully skips on board, And, swearing, prays for wind, sir. Towing here, Yeoing there, Steadily, readily, Cheerily, merrily, Still from care and thinking free. Is a sailor’s life at sea. “When we sail with a freshening breeze, And landsmen all grow sick, sir, The sailor lolls with his mind at ease, And the song and the glass go quick, sir. Laughing here, Quaffing there, Steadily, readily, Cheerily, merrily, Still from care and thinking free, Is a sailor’s life at sea. “When the wind at night whistles over the deep, And sings to landsmen dreary, The sailor, fearless, goes to sleep, Or takes his watch most cheery. Boozing here, Snoozing there, Steadily, readily, Cheerily, merrily, Still from care and thinking free, Is a sailor’s life at sea. “When the sky grows black and the winds blow hard, And landsmen skulk below, sir, Jack mounts up to the topsail yard, And turns his quid as he goes, sir. Hauling here, Bawling there, Steadily, readily, Cheerily, merrily, Still from care and thinking free, Is a sailor’s life at sea. “When the foaming waves run mountain high, And landsmen cry, ‘All’s gone!’ sir, The sailor hangs ’twixt sea and sky, And jokes with Davy Jones, sir. Dashing here, Splashing there, Steadily, readily, Cheerily, merrily, Still from care and thinking free, Is a sailor’s life at sea. “When the ship, d’ye see, becomes a wreck, And landsmen hoist the boat, sir, The sailor scorns to quit the deck While there’s a single plank afloat, sir. Swearing here, Tearing there, Steadily, readily, Cheerily, merrily, Still from care and thinking free, Is a sailor’s life at sea.” A loud chorus of cheers greeted the song, and Bill retired, covered with glory and embarrassment. |
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