Scarborough Fair (10 page)

“Sir…sir…it says to maintain station with the fleet at all costs until further orders.”

Landais swiveled to stare at
Bonhomme
Richard
's stern then slapped the book from the officer's hands. “Incompetent youth!” he spat, striding toward the ladder and his cabin. Below, his back to the stern lights and the spectacle of the
Atlantic
, he pulled the stopper from a decanter and splashed brandy into a glass. He gulped hastily, refilling the crystal while the fire warmed his belly. The decanter's stopper spun in slow motion on his desk as
Alliance
rolled with the swell.

That accursed American. Truth be told he wasn't even an American at all, but a Scot, and in Pierre Landais's book they were almost worse than the English. How could Jones fight the English when he was really one of them himself? Just as cocky as the English too. Arrogant, as if the whole world belonged to them by right of birth. The Americans showed every sign of turning out much the same way. Landais hated them for it. God knows, he had only gone to
America
to secure a command. After his refusal to become Lieutenant of The Port Of Brest, he knew there was little alternative to being dismissed. Either that or a posting to some backwater where he would have decayed into senility. The move to
America
had worked too. Here he was, captain of a brand new frigate fresh off the stocks. But that damned Benjamin Franklin and his dithering committee had placed him under Jones's command when the fleet by right should have belonged to him. He knew the waters around
France
as surely as if he had swum them all, and he very nearly had done, some of the buckets he had served on. And now Paul Jones was going to get all the credit. Damn his eyes.

Pierre Landais poured himself another stiff brandy. Nobody was going to get in his way. Pierre Landais was going to become the most famous French mariner ever to hoist his flag on a ship.

Even if it was an American ship.

***

“Clear for action!”

Paul Jones said it quietly in a voice that meant business. His eyes were on the two English ships, sails fat with wind as they bore down on the merchant fleet. He watched them impatiently while behind him,
Pallas
commanded by Cottineau, hung off the weather quarter, ready to give support. The commodore noted her trim handling, idly wishing
Alliance
were sailed so competently. As he ruminated,
Richard
's crew worked. Nets were placed to protect the gun crews from falling spars and rigging should English gunfire prove accurate. All spare gear was stowed while the powder monkeys began to ferry cartridges from the magazines. The gun captains readied their teams, making sure each man knew his place and what was expected of him. Fingers restlessly rechecked knots and pulleys on the cannon harness, eyes roving to the horizon and the threat the wind carried toward them.

Heads pivoted sharply as a ladle slipped from a bos'n's hand to clatter on the deck, abnormally loud against the backdrop of the wind sighing in the rigging and the swish of the ocean. Ignoring pallid faces and stares, the bos'n snarled at a boy to retrieve the object and rehang it by the freshwater butt.

The sails grew nearer.

Paul Jones walked the length of the deck's blind side, eyes sliding over the gun crews and their charges, offering words of encouragement. He determinedly kept his gaze from the skyline to present an assured air to still the men's growing edginess. He stretched his stroll as long as possible, occasionally casting a withering glance at the midshipman who danced at his heels like a puppy eager to run. By the foc'sle he crossed to the weather rail where Lt. Amiel stood. The young officer's eyes were welded at the point where sea met sky.

The two men-o'-war were almost within range.

“Run out the guns,” Paul Jones ordered.

Lt. Amiel's eyes swiveled to the commodore who pointedly ignored him. There was silence for a long second before the lieutenant drew breath, then bellowed: “Run out the guns!”

The tension was broken. Gun ports creaked open as the officers passed the order. A deep rumble vibrated through the hull as carriages trundled forward to hit the topsides. Hands and eyes checked that recoil tackle had flaked neatly on the deck. From the sea
Bonhomme
Richard
's smooth hull now bristled with bronze cannon mouths, hungry to feed.

“Load one and two with heavy ball.”

The bow gunners had already placed wads and powder charges. Now, a heavy ball was lifted and rolled into the maw of each weapon. The long-handled rammers drew grunts from pigtailed gunners as they made certain the ball was firm against the cartridge. When they stood back, the gun captains ordered: “Prime.”

A second sailor stepped forward with a powder horn to prime the touchhole.

Below decks, the summer heat sucked out sweat that glistened on the naked shoulders of the gun crews clustered about their charges in the dim light admitted by the open ports. By each cannon, only one man could see the ocean, only then by squeezing sideways, bare back against cold bronze, feet awkwardly placed between carriage and tackle.

“What can you see, man?”

“Come on, tell us!”

“I told you. Two English frigates. Coming up fast.”

“How soon, for God's sake?”

“We've loaded, haven't we? Any time now.”

“We'll show the bastards.”

“STOP TALKING THERE! STAND TO YOUR GUNS!”

On deck Paul Jones glanced along his line of cannon then across at
Pallas
, her slim hull spiked with ready muzzles. The advancing ships were ready too, open lower gun ports barely escaping the cat's paws of the choppy sea hissing below them.

“Fire one and two when you come to bear!”

The gun captains nodded. “Aye aye, sir.” The cannoneer stepped forward. Under his directions the crew aimed the cannon, elevating and shifting the carriage until the top sight drew a bead on the first of the advancing frigates.

The gunner turned. “Ready, sir.”

“On the uproll –
FIRE
!”

The first cannon thundered. The second fired before the explosion from the first had died away. Smoke rolled across the water as the two guns bucked back against their tackle.

“Sponge!” the gun captains ordered in unison.

A wet sponge affixed to the end of a stave was plunged into the hot bore of each weapon, twisted to kill any sparks or scraps of cartridge still alight. While the crews fell into the routine of reloading, the gunners peered through the smoke smearing the blue sea. A fountain appeared near the bows of the first English frigate.

“Short fall,” the gunner cursed, snatching away his words as the second ball howled over the Englishman's bowsprit, carrying away rigging. Her outer jib was cut loose to flap in the wind.

“Good shot, that man!” Paul Jones called, turning to head for the poop where Richard Dale held a telescope to his eye. Jones used his own glass to survey the activity on the English man-o'-war. He swept the decks then caught sight of movement aloft.

“She's altering her trim,” he commented.

“Aye, sir. What does she plan?”

Jones's chuckle was drowned as
Richard
's cannon barked again. A hole appeared in the enemy's mainsail while the other ball passed harmlessly through the rigging to make a water spout on the far side.

“She's going to run, I think,” Jones mused aloud. “She came to test our mettle and now she knows we mean business, she's going to cut and run. Her cannon cannot have the range of ours or she would engage.”

Almost before he finished speaking, four puffs of smoke clouded the frigate's hull. The balls fell short, sending up plumes of seawater too distant to even wet
Richard
's deck. The detonations rolled toward them while Jones's crew jeered.

“Hoist all sail. If they are going to run I want to find out how fast our
Richard
can fly.”

“Make all sail!” Dale shouted, leaning over the companion rail, eyes raking the upturned faces below. Cutting Lunt glanced up, made the barest of nods, and then began to bawl a steady stream of orders. While the gun crews stood by their charges, looking aloft, the maintop men swarmed outwards across the yardarms to free the stun'sails on either side of the main canvas. They fell open, snapping as the wind rushed to feed them, the fresh canvas coral white in the sun.
Richard
seemed to stagger as the surge of power pushed down her prow to furrow eagerly into the sea. After the first pile driver,
Richard
found her sea legs, her shattered bowsprit lifting as she gulped and spat out brine in her rush at the enemy.

Ahead, the English frigates possessed the grace of dancers as they halted their advance and swung broadside, only a moment wasted as they poised to flee. Spars swung under the guidance of expert hands, braces taut as their sails gorged on the wind. In that moment of stillness, smoke poured from the gun ports as both men-o'-war loosed broadsides. Cannonballs whirred overhead, a hole smacking through a foresail before the sound of cannon was audible to
Richard
's crew.

“They'll not have time for more,” Dale observed. Then the two Englishmen showed their heels, sterns swinging toward
Richard
as they shook free the reins to gallop away on the charger of the wind. It was soon apparent
Richard
could not catch them, even with the added power of her stun'sails. Lt. Dale took his eyes from the receding ships to look at his commodore.

Paul Jones's face was a mask of fury. He spoke in a bitter whisper. “It is not enough I have an old hulk as a flagship, but she drags enough weed to make her as sluggish as a collier.”

Dale pretended not to hear. “Shall I order
Pallas
to continue the pursuit?” It was obvious to them both by the activity on her yards
Pallas
was holding herself in check to maintain support for the flagship. In all fairness she was more evenly matched to the enemy frigates.

Jones shook his head. “No, let them run. No point in allowing them to lead
Pallas
a dance, and then box her in. The way those English captains sail, they would make short work of her. Our job is to protect the merchant fleet. By running them off we have executed our duty.”

Dale pursed his lips. What the commodore said made sense, but he had been ready enough himself to give chase and fight it out. For a moment Dale wondered if it was a case of jealousy. If Paul Jones could not fight them, then he would not allow anybody else the honor. The thought worried him for a moment before he pushed it aside. “Very good, sir. We return to the fleet?”

Paul Jones nodded as he glared at the English frigates, their grace and beauty taunting him, their fleet-footedness a thorn in the tender flesh of his pride. He forced himself to look away. There would be other days. Dale was shouting orders as Jones moved to the rail to look down at the main deck. The men seemed crestfallen as they began to coil the cannon handling tackle ready for stowage. Powder monkeys hefted the unused cartridges to return them to the hanging magazines below decks. M'sieur de Chamillard's French marines who had stood rigidly at attention throughout the all too brief encounter now stood at ease, talking in low voices. Above, the top men furled the stun'sails and altered the sail plan as the wheel went over and
Bonhomme Richard
came about onto a new course to run back on the wind and rejoin the fleet. Paul Jones watched silently until all the gear was stowed, tompions jammed in the cannon muzzles, carriages relashed to the deck, gun ports closed and secured. As the men started to drift away he gestured to Dale.

“Order the marines to beat to quarters and have the guns run out again.”

“Sir?”

Jones studied the lieutenant's quizzical expression. “We may not be able to match the enemy for speed, but when we catch them I want to know we will be ready to fight. The men were too slow. I want them ready for anything.”

Dale cleared his throat, his own disappointment equal to the commodore's. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought they did well.” When Paul Jones stared him down, he qualified his statement. “I admit there is always room for improvement, sir, but I thought they were tolerably quick.”

Paul Jones looked away. “I want them quicker.”

***

Two days later three English frigates were sighted approaching the fleet. The commodore again gave orders for pursuit.

Determined to engage the enemy,
Bonhomme Richard
spearheaded the chase with
Pallas
,
Vengeance
, and
Alliance
in her wake. Pierre Landais, almost dribbling with excitement, harried his crew, marching back and forth along
Alliance
's weather deck, cursing men and officers alike. Ignoring his lieutenants, he belayed their orders until the crew were confused and clumsy. His sailing master, a hard-bitten tar well used to his commander's tantrums, found himself in an awkward position. While he heard Landais's shrieks for all haste, he watched signal flags break out on the lanyard alongside
Bonhomme
Richard
's straining sails, the commodore's personal orders demanding
Alliance
keep correct formation with the squadron. Caught between the devil and Paul Jones, the sailing master turned a deaf ear and a blind eye, chewing stolidly on his tobacco wad. His only comment when Landais voiced some stupid demand was a gob of yellow juice. He was experienced enough to know even if they disobeyed the commodore,
Alliance
's crew was low on morale, governed as they were by a madman, and such a crew could not urge sufficient speed from their ship to overhaul the English men-o'-war that had turned to run. So what was the point of inducing the commodore's wrath when they could gain nothing by it? Besides, Landais may rant and rave, but underneath, the sailing master was sure, the French commander knew
Alliance
could give no more, certainly not enough to outrun the squadron and take the Englishmen single-handedly.