Читать книгу Paul Jones онлайн

16 страница из 28

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.