Scarborough Fair (14 page)

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” Without waiting for a reply he strode through the gathering toward the door that would lead to a table in the sun where three men waited to hear their fate.

All eyes swiveled as the officers filed onto the main deck to take their places behind the table. Not one member of the crew spoke. When they were seated, Paul Jones wasted no time.

“It is the considered opinion of this court-martial that the 100 Englishmen of
Bonhomme
Richard
's crew be discharged and put ashore to prevent further confrontations between different nationalities on board this ship. They will be disembarked at dusk tomorrow evening.” He paused and surveyed the company, allowing his gaze to linger here and there. “William Laurence Sturgis. Step forward.”

One of the prisoners shuffled his feet, head hung low.

“Sturgis, you alone of the prisoners, cannot have been a prime motivator in the act of mutiny as you had already been confined to the brig for the previous six weeks. It is apparent you were released only after the mutiny began. You have, however, been found guilty of disobedience for refusing to surrender when ordered to do so by your superiors. You will be put ashore with the rest.”

The commodore shifted his gaze to the smallest of the three prisoners, a thin weasel-faced man with dark restless eyes. “Jean Rousseau. You are French but allied yourself with the Englishmen. This has not been conclusively proved, but you have been found guilty of the theft of a cutlass belonging to the American Navy, appropriated from the ship's armory. For this you will receive thirty-three lashes. The punishment will be given tomorrow.”

“You,” he indicated the main offender, “
Quartermaster
Towers
, have been found guilty of acting as ringleader of the mutiny, the main cause and inciter of those among the crew too ignorant to know better. In an interview previous to this court-martial you asked for justice, and justice you will get. It is well known that justice in the case of mutiny means hanging from the yardarm until you are dead. Being English, you will know that in His Britannic Majesty's Navy you could expect no less.” He paused for effect. During the first two sentences voices had risen in whispers; now breath was held. The commodore glanced down at his papers for long seconds, then up at the pale face of the accused. “However, Mr. Towers, you are in the American Navy, and we have own justice.

“For your heinous and despicable crime, this court-martial decrees that at this hour tomorrow you will suffer two hundred and fifty strokes of the lash on your bare back at the gangway. All hands will be present to witness the punishment. You will then be sent ashore with the remainder of your compatriots.”

There was an audible gasp from the crew. True, Paul Jones had not ordered him hanged, but hanging would have been a blessing compared to the whipping. There was very little chance Towers would still be alive when he left
Bonhomme
Richard
.

***

The cat-o'-nine-tails whispered with the deadly hiss of an angry cobra. With a flicker like lightning in a summer sky, the nine leather thongs cracked then sank their teeth into the prisoner's flesh. On the first strike
Quartermaster
Towers
's body jerked rigid, suspended by his wrists between the gangway timbers. Hands knotted into fists, the muscles in his arms contracted, his collection of tattoos dancing. His head was thrown back, mouth soundlessly agape, eyes squeezed shut. The petty officer unwrapped the cat-o'-nine-tails from around Towers's back then drew back his arm for the next stroke. And the next. He quickly gained a rhythm, until after thirty lashes he stopped, the cat's knots flailing briefly on the deck as they came to rest.

Towers's back had been flayed to pulp before their eyes. The entire ship's company, drawn up in ranks, watched silently. Even those who had been against the mutiny and had no liking for Towers at all, watched with pity. Each one of them knew the prisoner could so easily have been himself.

Towers was already broken. Soon after the first welts had risen to be cut open by the next crack of the lash, he had screamed. Only once, it was the howl of an animal. Unable to clench his jaws any longer under the onslaught of the beating, the whip-cord tension of his body had snapped and now he hung from the ropes between the two posts, bleeding where the hemp sliced into his wrists. His face was drenched in sweat, his curls limp and shining. Agony scarred his face, lips trembling. A single stream of saliva dribbled down his chin.

The petty officer's whip hand hung loosely at his side, the cat's leather, stained dark with blood, curled about his feet. He used his left wrist to wipe his forehead, then spat into his right hand and rubbed it down his trouser leg before gripping the cat again.

Paul Jones stood with shoulders braced, eyes cold as they stared into the distance. Richard Dale glanced at the commodore's dissatisfaction, then leaned forward.

“Lieutenant Stack! Continue the punishment!”

The young lieutenant standing behind the petty officer stiffened, eyes shifting to the row of officers on the bridge. He loosened his jaws and bellowed. “Mr. Beaumont! If you please!”

The petty officer's head dipped. “Aye aye, sir.” He drew a deep breath and swung. What had been a crack when the cat bit flesh had become a soggy thud. He swung again and again. Lt. Stack, aware the commodore's eyes were on him, called the count loudly. When there was a lull between lashes he shouted: “Lay on there, Mr. Beaumont!”

“Aye aye, sir.” There was no enthusiasm in the reply. Gritting his teeth he drew back his arm in a concentrated effort to throw his weight behind the next blow.

“Fifty! Fifty-one! Fifty-two!”

Towers was whimpering now. Tears blended with sweat where his face had taken on the texture of melted wax. No more damage could be inflicted on his ruined flesh. Carved open to the backbone, blood poured down over the waistband of his filthy trousers to stain them scarlet, droplets flying each time the cat's vicious tails struck.

“One hundred! One hundred and one! One hundred and two!”

Richard Dale felt sick. He looked away from the spectacle, in his opinion more in keeping with the barbarity of ancient
Rome
than the modern navy. He had witnessed floggings before, and no doubt would again, but this had gone beyond comprehension. Further along the row of attending officers he could see the ship's surgeon, Dr. Brooke, red-faced as he stared down from the bridge. Lt. Dale shuffled.

Paul Jones turned a jaundiced eye on him, noting his ashen face. “Pay attention to the punishment. You may find it disturbing, but it will continue until he has received his sentence.”

“But…” Dale faltered.

The commodore's voice was cold. “What you are watching, Mr. Dale, is punishment for mutiny, the worst offence that can take place on any ship, whether at war or not. However cruel it appears, perhaps he will live afterwards. If so, he should consider himself fortunate. It is necessary for every man on this ship to realize the consequences of mutiny. I want that word never to enter the brain, never mind reach the lips of any man who serves under me.” He glanced down at the broken body hanging at the gangway. Already it seemed to carry the stench of death. Two seamen were sluicing the unconscious Towers with buckets of seawater to bring him around so the punishment could continue. “Do you think he would have thought twice about taking your life if he had succeeded in gaining command of
Richard
?”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Dale offered timidly, “but he knows no better.”

The commodore was grim. “But you do.” He gestured to the horrified faces of the crew. “And now they do too.”

***

Perhaps they knew better about mutiny, but the crew still learned the hard way, Paul Jones reflected as he leaned against the weather rail, watching men stream across the yards above the main deck to reef slack sails. Barely days after
Quartermaster
Towers
had been flogged to within an inch of his life before being put ashore into a French prison, justice had again to be served. While the commodore was ashore attending to business in
Lorient
, the coxswain and crew left his personal barge unguarded while they visited several local taverns and whorehouses. Paul Jones had been forced to hire a fishing boat to ferry him back to
Richard
. Another boat had to be lowered to round up the drunken barge crew. Any semblance of a court was unnecessary. In the cold light of the following dawn when the men were again sober, they were triced to the rigging and flogged in full view of the ship's company. If stomachs had been soured and morale lowered by the repetition of punishment, then at least discipline improved. The new men drafted in to replace the hundred English mutineers learned their new commodore was not a man to suffer breaches of duty lightly. Now when orders were called, they jumped.

“A curse on the wind, wherever it is,” Richard Dale mumbled as he climbed the companion ladder to the poop deck.

The commodore's gaze swept from the men aloft to the lieutenant's ruddy yeoman face. He echoed Dale's curse wholeheartedly. The sea all about
Richard
showed not a ripple, no whisper of breeze to ruffle the leaden waters. Eight days out from
Lorient
and this morning they had sighted land. By
noon
they were five miles south-south-west of Great Skellig which guarded the south entrance of
Dingle
Bay
, the gateway to southern
Ireland
.

“What time is it?” Paul Jones's eyes were fixed on the coast in the distance.

“
Four o'clock
, sir.”

The commodore glanced at the sun as though to check Dale's answer. “By my reckoning those outcrops are the Blaskets at the north entrance of
Dingle
Bay
. That's if I judged the wind right. What there was of it.” He extended his telescope and made a quick survey of his squadron. Every vessel was on station, each as motionless as
Richard
, all drifting with the tide. Canvas hung limp like wet sheets on washing day. Nothing as depressing as a hopeful spread of empty sails, he thought.

For a moment Paul Jones felt deflated. Even the deck was still beneath his feet. He compressed the telescope and tucked it under his arm. “I'm going below to study the charts. If we drift too far let me know.”

“Aye aye, sir.” As the commodore crossed the deck to the ladder, Dale saluted smartly, then turned his attention to the men of the port watch who were idling on deck. “Mr. Fanning!” he bellowed at the midshipman who was deep in conversation with a petty officer. His face swung to the bridge.

“Ah, Mr. Fanning, I have your attention! Find those men some chores before their hands grow too soft to work this ship!”

***

“What do you suggest, Mr. Dale?”

The lieutenant peered at the land closing on the starboard quarter, the breakers at the foot of the Skelligs clearly visible. There was still no wind but the sea was growing, the swell pushing
Bonhomme
Richard
inshore. It was now
eight o'clock
and there was the likelihood that unless checked, the tide would drive them ashore during the night. He looked back at Paul Jones who seemed to be repressing a smile.

“Well sir, I think we should put out a boat to tow us clear. We can't be too careful.”

Jones nodded. “A wise decision. Better make it my barge. It should suffice with this sea running. If it starts away, then there'll be wind to use.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Dale grinned, pleased to earn praise. In a second he was leaning over the rail, shouting orders. Cutting Lunt, the sailing master, moved to the topsides to supervise personally the launch, glad to have work for his men. A tarpaulin was removed and lashing freed. The rattles and squeaks of the pulleys mingled with the grunts of the sailors, strangely loud in the stillness of evening as the barge was lifted clear and swung out on its davits. A coxswain and six men climbed in. They pulled free the oars, propped them vertical to avoid contact with
Richard
's hull while the coxswain took a thick coil of spare cable should they need a longer tow.

“Clear those falls there! Right-o, lower away!” Blocks squealed, a line of hands easing the fall tackle. The barge sank slowly, jerking against the tension in the thick hemp. With a splash she was down. Over the side Richard Dale could see the tops of the sailors' heads as they stove off, their oars dipping a ragged line, churning white foam from the dark ocean. They rowed for'ard to catch the hawser by the bowsprit trailing from a bridle port. Deftly, the coxswain took hold and wound it around the stern cleats of the barge. He took his seat then waved.

“Haul away, boys! Stroke!”

The six oarsmen bent their backs, pulling in unison. Slowly, the barge built up momentum until it was cleaving the sea at a steady rate, the towing cable dragging behind. Ten yards ahead of
Richard
's bows the hawser began to ease out of the water in a lazy arc, the hemp already darkened, dripping. It grew taut until the barge crew found themselves straining against the full weight of the tide driven
Bonhomme
Richard
. It was as if they had rowed into a brick wall. The sound of the coxswain's voice carried over the water as he bawled crude encouragement.