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
manœuvres 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 manœuvred 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:[2]
“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.