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.