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.