Scarborough Fair (11 page)

The hell with him.

A hammering startled the sailing master. He turned to see Landais staring wild-eyed at the English men-o'-war, fists pummeling the rail. The master glanced at the captain's knuckles where a splinter had gouged a furrow. It had quickly flooded, blood dripping unnoticed to the deck.

“They are getting away! We must catch them! I will show them how French steel tastes rammed down their gullets!” Landais laughed, a cackle to match the curious light in his eyes.

The sailing master looked away, back to the three frigates outdistancing them. Thank God we are not going to haul up on them, he thought. This fool would run us in under their broadsides. Inwardly he shuddered as he imagined the combined firepower of the three English men-o'-war, all cannon brought to bear on
Alliance
, her pretty hull smashed to pieces by bar and chain. God knows, the fool had already made them lose their mizzenmast that first night out of
Lorient
when they had collided with
Bonhomme
Richard
. This maniac Landais had to learn you fought the English with your head, not bravado. One wrong move and they would have you cold.

Cannon fire broke out astern.

The master glanced aloft. “Tighten that brace!” Then he leaned on the taffrail where his captain was already staring astern at the merchant fleet. A little to the east of the main body of ships smoke lay heavy on the water. As they watched, cannon flashes sparked orange, smoke billowing as they heard the sound from the last salvoes. Three ships were fighting, tacking, and coming about.

“It's
Le
Cerf
,” the sailing master said.

Landais's voice rose to a shriek. “Those English pigs have tricked us, casting a decoy. Now their other ships have run in behind us like jackals to snap at our heels! And that fool Jones did not see it!”

Neither had Landais, the master thought.

“Signals, sir!” the lieutenant called.

“Well, call them down, you buffoon!” Landais snapped.

“Aye aye, sir,” the nervous officer replied. “All ships to rejoin the fleet and engage the enemy, sir.”

“As I thought, as I thought. Now we'll get them.” He glowered at the master. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Pierre Landais stared at the battle in the distance. Behind him the master bellowed, “Prepare to go about!” The seconds were long and the minutes longer as the crews of the pursuit vessels swarmed across yards while those on deck hauled under the threats and curses of the petty officers to wheel the ships back in a circle to stand back toward the fleet. Sighted, they labored against the wind to reach
Le Cerf
before she was battered into submission by the Englishmen. The enemy timed it perfectly. Bare minutes before the first of the returning ships came within range, the two frigates broke off their action and set a course that would take them speedily out of reach of
Bonhomme Richard
's eager cannon and those of her consorts.

Landais watched it all, thoughts churning, anger seething. No, he had underestimated Commodore Paul Jones. The damned American or Scotsman or whatever he was, had known all along what was going to happen. That was why he had ordered
Alliance
to sail with the flagship in pursuit of the decoy ships. It had been deliberate so that he, Pierre Landais, the rightful commodore, would be deprived of gaining glory by engaging the enemy and proving his superiority beyond all doubt.

The Frenchman spat over the rail. That damned American, he would pay for this. One day he would be cornered like a rat and would hold out his hand to Pierre Landais for help.

And Pierre Landais would spit on him.

***

The scratching of the quill was arrested by a splash for'ard as
Richard
's bow anchors plunged into the sea. Paul Jones cast a tired eye over the log entry he was completing, trying to concentrate. Painstakingly, he recaptured his train of thought, dipped the quill into the inkwell, and began to write again. The entry was terse, showing to the practiced eye his disappointment over the voyage. Not one positive engagement but for
Le
Cerf
's fight against the two English frigates. He had covered that topic fully in his report to the French Ministry, praising
Le
Cerf
's commander for his gallant stand against the English men-o'-war until they sheered away. The report was on his desk, sealed, the odor of freshly melted wax hanging in the cabin. Only the daily entry in the log remained incomplete.

He placed the quill in its stand then sat back, turning a little so he could see the sunlight sparkling on the water of
Lorient
's harbor. The moment he ceased to work the weariness deep in his bones surfaced. Even the shining sea hurt his eyes, forcing him to turn away in the hope of easing the pulsating in his temples. It was a moment before he realized someone was knocking at the door.

“Enter!”

Richard Dale stood in the doorway. Jones raised his eyes to the ruddy face but found the effort draining. He waved a hand. “Sit down, will you.”

Lt. Dale read the strain on the commodore's face. “Thank you, sir.” He stepped to a chair and sank into the velvet cushion. “A boat put out from the quay to meet us.” He held out a sheaf of dispatches and envelopes. “The boatman gave me these.”

Paul Jones idly sifted through the bundle. One letter bore Benjamin Franklin's handwriting. Another was a missive from Therese de Chaumont, scented, while a third was from her husband, the squadron's paymaster. He fingered the dispatches, wondering how long they had been waiting at
Lorient
. Perhaps he was at last to join the French Navy and army in a bid to conquer
England
. He opened the waterproof bags one after another, breaking seals and scanning contents. After reading the last one, disbelieving, he read it again, then dropped the document on his desk and sighed.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but do we join the fleet?”

“What?” Jones refocused his gaze. “No, we are not to be part of that. I think perhaps M'sieur Sartine intends to keep all the glory for that particular enterprise solely in the hands of his beloved French Navy. We are ordered to sail about
Ireland
and
Scotland
, before making landfall at
Texel
in
Holland
. If we sailed today as he would have us do, the voyage would last six weeks if we were to anchor at the
Texel
on 15 August.”

“But sir, what about provisions and repairs?”

Jones smiled ironically. “Exactly.” He fell into a brooding silence, dissatisfaction over their fruitless encounters with the enemy weighing on his mind. A rapping at the door broke into his thoughts. “Enter!”

“Begging your pardon, sir, “ said Midshipman Fanning, “but the ship's carpenter would be grateful if Mr. Dale could spare a few minutes for'ard.”

“Very well, Mr. Fanning. Carry on.”

The midshipman left and Dale stared for a moment at his superior's pale face. He ventured warily: “Excuse my impertinence, sir, but you look rather tired.”

Jones snorted. “I will not excuse your impertinence, but you are right.” He slapped a hand against
Bonhomme
Richard
's hull. “I am as tired as this old East Indiaman.” He turned away from his subordinate's scrutiny, taking refuge in the view of the silvered sea through the stern lights.

Behind him, Richard Dale's eyes skimmed over the commodore's meager frame, the hunched shoulders straining to hold up the weary head. If ever a man looked like he was sickening for something, the commodore did.

“Well Dale,” Jones's voice suddenly boomed. “Let's go and see what disaster the carpenter has unearthed.” He came to his feet and reached for his hat. As if he read the lieutenant's thoughts, he added: “I need the air.”

***

The carpenter sucked on his unlit clay pipe, one hand cupping the cold bowl while his other manipulated a tool, one thumb hooked in the pocket of his leather apron. He scowled, drawing the pipe from his mouth, and then used the back of his hand to rub at his cheek whiskers.

“Show me,” Paul Jones prompted, Richard Dale looking on.

“Aye, sir.” Obediently, the carpenter clamped his pipe between yellowed teeth, holding the bowsprit with one hand while the other plunged the dowelling drill into the wood. Almost three inches of blade disappeared. With a scowl, he twisted the handle then levered down. The drill's tip crunched upward before it emerged, pulling long splinters of timber away from the spar. Deftly, the carpenter dropped the drill back into his apron pocket. He pulled a shard away from the gouge and handed it wordlessly to the commodore. Paul Jones took it, working it between his fingers. It crumbled into a damp mess, one step removed from sawdust.

“Rotten, sir,” the carpenter said aloud, stating the obvious.

Neither of the officers commented, both well aware how important the bowsprit was to
Bonhomme
Richard
. A delicate balance was achieved in the rigging of a sailing vessel, the bowsprit practically the kingpin that held it all together.

“It will have to be replaced. How long?”

The carpenter shrugged. “We carry no spare. One will have to be bought ashore. Two, if we are to sail shortly.”

Paul Jones pursed his lips. “Attend to it, Mr. Dale. Another bill for M'sieur de Chaumont, I think. He will not quibble about this one. Without a bowsprit we cannot sail.

***

The mare's hooves thundered, positive, surefooted on the rich earth. Paul Jones gave her more rein, leaning forward so her mane almost lashed his face as he exulted in the wind's wild fingers tearing at his hair. It stung his eyes and tugged at his coat. He adjusted his knee grip slightly, simultaneously shortening the right rein. She knew her moves, danced to his tune, swinging in a wide arc toward the gap in the hedge spanned by a five-foot gate. Her stride never faltered, long and even. At the last moment he touched her with his heels, rising in the saddle. She left the earth. Fore hooves flying, she cleared the gate with inches to spare. Then she was down with a jar, his feet hard in the stirrups. Laughter bubbled in his throat, the joy of being alive.

He was happy as the mare slowed to walk, shaking out her mane, ribs heaving. He felt sure Richard Dale could handle any problems that might arise aboard
Bonhomme
Richard
for the next few days while repairs were under way. If not, they knew where to find him. Sick of the incessant motion and the groaning of the vessel's aged timbers as she rolled at her mooring, Paul Jones had felt the need to be free of his ancient charge and had taken a room at a hotel ashore. There he was able to turn his back on the sea if he chose, his direction unhampered by the length of a ship's deck, freed for a few moments from the eyes of his men. Here he was alone, no man looking to him for guidance and leadership. Fresh air and freedom had restored some of the color to his cheeks, rekindled some of the fire in his belly. He looked at the fields as he rode. If only it was
America
and not
France
. But before that day, there would be more voyages, more battles. If his dream of a plantation was not to be, at least for a while, and fate had chosen the sea as his career, he would make the best of it. If it had to be done, he would do it as well as he could.

The mare's hooves clattered into the yard as Paul Jones hauled back on the reins. The big bay rattled the bit between her teeth, mouth flecked with foam. Dark streaks were cut through the lather on her shoulders where his hands had worked. Slipping his feet from the stirrups, he swung a leg over to drop lightly onto the cobblestones. He held the bay's restless head, her warm breath washing over him as he stroked her velvet muzzle. She began to stamp, cramp's gnarled fingers snatching at her hind legs. For the barest of moments he felt a great kinship with the horse. They had both enjoyed the hard ride, each perhaps briefly escaping their fetters. The flood of emotion was momentary, Jones recognizing it for an illusion. We are all truly alone, he thought, no matter how much anybody thinks they know us, or we know them.

Footsteps restored reality. A groom emerged from the stable to take the bay mare. “
Demain, M'sieur
, Tomorrow, sir?” the lad asked, arm wrenched as the big bay tossed her head, eyes on her rider.

“
Oui, demain
, Yes, tomorrow,” the American replied, holding out a silver coin. As the groom palmed the tip and touched his cap in thanks, Paul Jones patted the horse's neck, then strode into the main building. Anticipating his breakfast, he cursorily returned the concierge's “Good-day” as he mounted the stairs. The early morning ride had sharpened his appetite, an edge to be deliciously blunted by warm croissants and steaming coffee.

His cheeks were still tingling from the bite of the wind when he walked along the landing gallery and opened the door of his room. He froze, riding crop dangling from his hand. He was staring down the maw of a loaded pistol.