Scarborough Fair (15 page)

On the poop Richard Dale scowled. He recognized that voice. It was the coxswain who had been flogged at Lorient for getting drunk and leaving the commodore's barge unattended. He turned to Paul Jones. “Excuse me a moment, sir.” The commodore nodded his permission as Dale moved for'ard to the rail. “A word here, Mr. Lunt! If you please!”

Cutting Lunt was leaning out over the gunwale by the head, watching the progress of the towing boat. He turned to acknowledge the lieutenant's call, then pushed away from the timbers to walk aft. They met by the mainmast, Lunt rubbing the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Sir?”

Dale had lost his color. “Is the coxswain in the barge the one who was flogged at
Lorient
?”

“Yes, sir. He's the commodore's coxswain. There were no orders to change that after he was punished.” He sniffed. “I think he learned his lesson.”

“What of the barge's crew?”

“They are the same, too, sir.”

“What nationality?”

Cutting Lunt shrugged. “I'm not sure. Irish, I think.” For a moment uncertainty clouded his eyes before they cleared and he smiled confidently. “I don't think there's any cause for worry, sir. At heart they're good lads. There's no liquor out there, sir.”

Richard Dale could not hide his agitation. “But there's liquor ashore, and it's their home country.”

Lunt shrugged it aside. “I'd count on them. They're sailors, sir. This is their ship. Their first duty is to her.”

***

Cutting Lunt was right. Their first duty was to the ship. But by
half past ten
, night had fallen and
Bonhomme
Richard
was clear of danger. It was then the towrope parted. In the light from the lantern on the barge nothing seemed amiss. When the lantern died, the alarm was raised.

“Ahoy there! We've lost the tow!” a voice called from the bows.

Cutting Lunt was sipping water from a ladle at the mainmast drinking butt. His head came up and he dropped the ladle with a clatter. He strode for'ard, his thick pigtail bouncing against the nape of his red neck. At the cathead, a seaman was holding the slack hawser. Lunt gave it a cursory glance then turned and waved men forward. “Haul it in! Look lively now!”

Moments later the coil of sodden hemp lay curled on the deck. Cutting Lunt held the end in his hand, his thumb rubbing over the break. “He's cut it, the bastard.” Indecision lasted a brief moment. “
Beaumont
! Launch the jolly boat! Nine men, yourself included, to crew it. Wait for me before you lower away. I'm coming too. All right, get to it.” He dropped the rope and hurried aft. On the poop Richard Dale listened white faced to Lunt's tale, cheeks drawn tight.

Paul Jones wasted no time. “Was this not foreseen?”

Cutting Lunt grimaced, embarrassed. “Mr. Dale warned me, sir, but I thought…”

Jones cut him short. “Save that for later. Launch a boat in pursuit. Take two midshipmen.”

Lunt nodded. “It's already being done. With your permission, sir, I should like to go too.”

“Out of the question. Your job is sailing
Richard
, not chasing about after…” Jones read the flashes in the sailing master's eyes, quickly understanding Lunt felt it his duty to rectify personally his error in judgment. Jones knew he would have felt the same. “Very well, you may go with them.”

Lunt's smile was a brilliant gleam in the lantern light. He flung a salute and turned away.

“Mr. Lunt,” the commodore said, his voice almost a whisper. The sailing master paused expectantly. “Mr. Lunt. Catch them. Whatever you do, catch those deserters.

***

Paul Jones hunched his shoulders, drawing his uniform jacket tighter about him. The fog seemed to soak through his clothes to hold his body in its damp embrace. His face felt as though a wet rag had been squeezed against his skin, and his hands felt clammy, the cold brass of the telescope like ice in his fingers. Five yards beyond the rail the leaden sea and sky were blanketed by the fog, the first smoky patches thickening into a gray wall that seemed to cover
Richard
like an impenetrable dome. It reminded him of a child's toy; one of those little glass things that when shaken produces a snow storm to swirl around a miniature ship. He glanced aloft to where the masts and rigging disappeared into the shifting grayness. Even snow would have been preferable. He hid his disappointment and turned to Richard Dale who was also staring bleakly at the shrouded sea.

“News?”

“None, sir.”

“None? It's almost two days. What of
Le
Cerf
?”

Dale shook his head. “Since you dispatched her to search for the two boats yesterday, nothing has been heard from her.” He stared back at the sea.

“Is it my eyes, or do you think it's clearing?”

“I would like to agree, sir.” As they watched, the fog began to move, thinning into patches before thickening again. It was solid for a moment then broke into tendrils waving like a squid before being spirited away. Above their heads canvas slapped.
Richard
moved restlessly beneath their feet as though ready to dance to the tune of the coming wind. Ropes and spars began to creak like the bones of an old man waking to greet the coming day. Suddenly out of the gloom, vessels materialized.
Alliance
,
Pallas
, and
Vengeance
appeared like ghost ships, still and eerie. The two officers could see their sails slowly rippling, catching the wind as the fog blew slowly away, rolling across the water.

“Wind at last!” Dale exclaimed.

Paul Jones had his telescope to his eye, raking the hulls of the squadron. “Hoist a signal for all ships to follow the flag, then set a northerly course away from this accursed shore. We'll leave
Cerf
to search for Mr. Lunt's boat and that of the deserters.” He lowered the telescope and peered at the threatening sky. “Well, we wanted wind. If I'm not mistaken it looks like we're going to get more than we prayed for. A real blow. When darkness falls, burn a lamp at the masthead and fire a gun on the stroke of every hour. Perhaps that way these Frenchmen might not lose us.”

Aloft, the canvas was full, the hard over helm forcing
Richard
to come about, holding her station while the signaling midshipmen ran up an array of color-coded flags that snapped open gaily in the growing breeze.
Bonhomme Richard
pitched, the mounting seas piling against her transom, eager to speed her away.

Lt. Dale passed the new course to the helmsman and the junior lieutenant who had taken over the sailing master's duties. He felt uncomfortable without Cutting Lunt's capable hands in charge of
Richard
. Glancing astern, he wondered how the sailing master was faring in the jolly boat on the open sea.

***

Le
Cerf
plowed blindly through the gloom. Lieutenant Varage stood in her bows, frowning at the solid wall of fog ahead. Trust him to have to go out and pick up the pieces. In this filth too. The deserters would long since have made landfall, and if the commodore's sailing master had any sense, he would have beached to wait for a break in the fog. Varage was worried. He was close inshore and although
Le
Cerf
drew a shallow draught, his charts were old and not too well drawn. Besides, he wasn't exactly sure where he was anyway. There was nothing to take a sighting from. Nothing but fog and dark water. He didn't like either.

“Mark!” he called.

The seaman at the opposite gunwale swung the lead plumb over the side and dropped it into the sea. The wet rope uncoiled by his feet to squeak through the cleat. It did not run long. Only two knots went through. “Two fathoms!” he called before hauling in.

Lieutenant Varage scowled. Twelve feet and getting shallower. He was about to order another sounding when the sailor leaned out over the rail, peering.

“On the starboard quarter!”

Varage strode across, hands reaching for the clammy gunwale. He squinted out. “Where?”

“There!” He followed the sailor's outstretched arm. A long shadow lay against the sea, motionless. Varage waved back at the helmsman so that
Cerf
began to heel, heading toward it. They closed steadily, then when only twenty feet away, a long plume of water fountained from the shadow. Flukes flicked upward and the big fish was swallowed by the sea.

“A whale,” the sailor said, disappointed.

Varage grimaced, turning away to return to his own lookout post. “Mark! And keep looking!”

***

“Hold your stroke. Rest a moment.”

Cutting Lunt's head was cocked as he listened for any sound in the thinning fog. He sat in the jolly boat's stern sheets, a midshipman on either side. Both the junior officers looked miserable. Every man of the crew was exhausted. They had been together now for thirty-six hours chasing the deserters without hot food. The boat's meager supply of biscuit and water had run out twelve hours previously. While the oarsmen rested, heads fell forward, the men slipping into sleep at their posts. Only Cutting Lunt's anger at himself kept him alert. He would catch those damned deserters if it was the last thing he did.

“Will they be looking for us, do you think?” asked one of the shivering midshipmen. Not even duck down on his cheeks yet, thought Cutting Lunt. And what could he say to the boy? That there was not a chance in hell
Bonhomme
Richard
would find them in this fog? Besides, they were too far inshore where the seabed climbed too steeply for
Richard
. Too much shoaling water and too many jagged little reefs hungry to sink their teeth into a ship's keel.

“Of course they'll be looking for us, lad. How do you think that ship would sail without me? Now be quiet and listen.”

There was nothing to hear but the sea lapping against the boat's hull and the whisper of distant breakers. A reef or the shore, he wondered. He turned in his seat, trying to penetrate the fog with his raw eyeballs in an attempt to forget the hopelessness of their situation and the hunger that gnawed like a starved rat in his belly.

Hours passed. The fog did not let up. They were cold, hungry, tired. Each minute of misery sapped even Cutting Lunt's determination. At last he decided to end it. One way or the other.

“All right! Wake up you scavengers! All oars. At the ready!” The men roused themselves, sniffing and coughing in the chill air. “It'll warm you up. All oars! Stroke!” With the boat facing the sound of the distant breakers, they dipped and pulled. After a few ragged strokes they found a rhythm where before had only been weariness, and they discovered a strength they thought long drained from aching muscles. The volume of the crashing breakers increased. “I hope to God it's not a reef,” Cutting Lunt muttered under his breath.

Ten minutes later they glided in, the keel crunching as it drove up the shingle beach. The sailing master was on his feet. “Port oars, and every man out!” He leaned down to one of the midshipmen. “Then we'll try and find out where in this godforsaken land of leprechauns we are.” They went over the side, the freezing waves soaking the canvas trousers of the oarsmen and the officers' white stockings. With a concentrated effort, they ran the jolly boat up the beach where she would be safe from the fingers of the rising tide. The men sank down on the pebbles, panting while Lunt drew out his chart. He studied it for some minutes, before walking a few yards until he was drawn up short against a rock face. He retraced his steps back to the boat.

“Where are we, then?” one of the midshipmen asked through chattering teeth.

“Truth to tell, I'm not exactly sure,” he replied, head bowed over the map.

Someone laughed behind him, a rich throaty chuckle. He swiveled, a sneering rebuke ready on his tongue to quell the insolence, but the faces of his exhausted boat crew stared back silently. Then he saw them. Twenty figures emerged from the wall of fog. All were armed. Some carried pistols, others muskets, and all had a hangar or cutlass tucked in their belts.

A man stepped forward, redhaired and bearded, his face split by a toothy grin. “Lost, are you? Well, I'll be telling you this is
Ballingskelligs
Bay
.”

“And who are you?” demanded Cutting Lunt, rising to his feet, a hand reaching toward his pistol.

“Oh, I wouldn't be touching that now,” the leader said, motioning that his pistol wasn't for show. When Cutting Lunt dropped his hand away, the man laughed, rocking back on his heels, the same mocking laugh that had risen from the fog. “And who are we, you're asking? Oh well, I can tell you are strangers here. We'll be being the Kerry Rangers, and I think you'll be being our prisoners.” He raised his eyebrows. “Now, will that be answering your question?”

***

Bonhomme
Richard
sailed on northward. The gale Paul Jones had feared materialized, and although his men kept a lamp burning at the masthead and fired a minute gun, by morning only
Vengeance
was to be seen. He had expected no less of the fiery Landais commanding
Alliance
, but he was surprised
Pallas
was absent. When the gale blew itself out, the wind remained brisk enough for
Richard
and
Vengeance
to log 450 miles in the next four days, a journey that took them up the Irish coast and up the west coast of
Scotland
.