Scarborough Fair (16 page)

When the sun rose on 31 August, they were standing off the entrance of
North Minch
in the
Outer Hebrides
. Paul Jones was on the main deck when the lookout called down from the crosstrees.

“Two sails to leeward!”

The commodore grunted his dissatisfaction when the glass revealed the two vessels were making speedy headway. There was no possibility of out sailing them for they were too close inshore and would run for the nearest harbor. He pushed the telescope back under his arm and resumed his inspection of the cannon. At the last twelve-pounder he rubbed his fingers inside the bore. They came away dirty. The gun captain saw his expression and steeled himself for the tirade to come.

“Sail to windward!” the lookout called.

Paul Jones froze. Beside him Lt. Dale faced the horizon.

“Belay that! Three sail to windward!” the lookout corrected.

The dirty cannon was forgotten. The gun captain relaxed as the commodore cut across the main deck, pulling out his telescope. Dale and the two midshipmen trailed in his wake, ready to relay any orders. They waited impatiently, unable to make out any detail beyond the mere fact three small white dots lay where the sky met the sea. The commodore studied the craft for long seconds, then spoke out of lips compressed with excitement.

“Give chase,” he ordered.

Dale grinned while the gun crews standing at their posts broke into a volley of cheers before he could shout.

“Go about and make all sail!”

The duty watch who had been idling in the waist during the cannon inspection ran for the ratlines as the petty officers jumped to follow the sailing master's stream of orders. They scaled the rigging with the agility of a troop of baboons, laughing and joking while the port watch turned out of the foc'sle to man the braces.

Lt. Amiel stood with hands on hips, head tilted back as he watched the activity on the yards. “Don't make a donkey's breakfast of it! Silence in the rigging! Stand to, or I'll flog you myself, you muttonheads!”

Bonhomme Richard
came out of her tack, swinging her head west. The deck listed as she faced up to the wind, then her bow fell to leeward, filling the main and mizzen sails. Grunts and bellows were heard as the headsails were hauled around by the lines of men stamping backward, heaving on the braces. The canvas blossomed again, swollen on a feast of wind and
Richard
began the pursuit, bowsprit rising and dipping, pointing the way.

Midshipman Fanning had run to the flag locker to hoist the signals. Astern,
Vengeance
acknowledged and maneuvered to take up her new station. While Paul Jones watched the performance aloft, quietly pleased at the competence of his crew, Richard Dale strode back and forth chivying the bos'n and petty officers in a bid to speed the chase. While the seamen worked the ship, the gun crews clustered about the gunwales, speculating on their quarry, issuing threats and promises about what they would do when they caught up. With
Richard
on her new course, Lieutenant Dale turned his attention back on them.

“Stand by your guns! We may be giving chase but this inspection is not over!”

Paul Jones could not resist a smile. “I'm going below. Carry on.”

Dale gestured to the midshipman beside him to follow, then crossed to the starboard side where the commodore had noticed the ill-cleaned bore. The gun captain's face fell when he realized his reprieve had been in vain.

“Take that man's name!” the lieutenant barked, scowling at the smudge on his fingertips, mimicking the commodore's example. He completed the inspection, aware of the midshipman's shuffling behind him. They were moving along the starboard battery, the fleeing craft invisible from their position. Even as he stooped over each weapon, studying the fall of the tackle, he could detect the gun crew's eyes wandering to the port side, hoping for a glimpse. When he was satisfied there was no more to be seen or criticized, he called up one of the junior lieutenants.

“Mr. Stack, you will supervise gun drill.” He glanced about the deck, smiling at the crestfallen expressions of the men.

While
Richard
tacked steadily against the wind, going about to leave a trail on the map like a series of doglegs, she was shadowed the day long by
Vengeance
. The corvette skipped and danced across the wave tops like a colt held on a tight rein, rattling the bit impatiently between her teeth, forced to travel at the more sedate pace of her sister ship. On her decks, as on
Richard
, the gun crews practiced running out their weapons while the red-jacketed marines formed squares and lines abreast, one rank kneeling to take aim while the second rank reloaded, ready to step forward before moving on to more specialized maneuvers necessary for shipboard combat hampered by gear and rigging that blocked fields of fire.

As the minutes dragged into hours, glances at the horizon told of
Richard
's reluctance to overhaul her quarry. The distant scraps of white canvas seemed no closer. The morning sun climbed to its zenith then began the afternoon descent. Only at twilight did they seem to have made any headway and nightfall stole the distant ships from the telescope's reach. The dark hours held frustration, eyes strained into the blanket of night, searching for a glimpse of a riding light or the faint calling of an order carried across the water. Men slept uneasily below, while on the weather deck the duty watch paced restlessly, fingers fretfully knotting and splicing ropes before pulling the fraying ends apart once more.

The eagerly awaited dawn found men lingering by the rails, eyes to windward. Two of the ships had vanished under the cloak of night but the third was still ahead. Muttered voices urged
Richard
to skim the waves with every ounce of speed.

They were closing.

Faces turned to the quarterdeck when the commodore and his first lieutenant appeared to stand at the weather rail, eyeglasses and sextant in hand to take the morning sighting. The commodore's lips were pressed into a thin line, blood drained, eyes dark ringed after a restless night. He looked long and hard at the horizon, then aloft to the spread of the ship's glutted canvas. His voice, although low, carried to the ears of the nearest crewman.

“Sail her hard, Mr. Dale, and hoist the English ensign. We will have her before
noon
.”

***

Three hours brought them within hailing distance. The fleeing ship's stern cabins could be seen clearly, her name
Union
boldly painted and edged with gilt below the taffrail. A group of worried officers lined the rail, staring as
Richard
closed the gap with each minute, their gaze straying from the English flag at the yardarm to the lines of the old East Indiaman as they tried to decide who she was.
Vengeance
suffered the same scrutiny.

“Ahoy there!” Lt. Dale hailed. “Heave-to! Prepare to accept a boarding party!”

The officers on
Union
's quarterdeck looked at each other then back at
Richard
.

“Ahoy there! Heave-to!
Union
!”

A speaking trumpet was raised. “By whose order? What ship are you?”

“Heave-to!” Dale shouted back, ignoring their inquiry.

Beside him Paul Jones watched a stream of men appear on
Union
's weather deck, moving toward the shrouds.

“Run out the cannon. Chain shot at the lower rigging.”

Immediately, the gun ports were triced up.
Bonhomme
Richard
's topsides bristled with bronze snouts sniffing the salt air. The gun captains took their cue, a salvo rippling from half a dozen twelve-pounders like overlapping thunderclaps. The rolling smoke engulfed the horrified expressions on
Union
's bridge as the deadly charges tore into her rigging, forestalling any orders to modify her sail plan in a bid to break for leeward. As the gun smoke thinned the damage could be seen. The main and mizzenmast shrouds were in tatters where the chain links had screamed through. Ten feet lower would have spread carnage across the decks. For'ard, one charge had smashed into the bulwarks, ugly splinters of shattered timber protruding at all angles, sickly white in the sun.

Not a shot was fired in return. There had been no margin for retaliation. Victory was swift. Pride filled Paul Jones's chest. His first success of the voyage. He hoped it was merely the beginning.

In moments
Union
's ensign was struck, a terrified midshipman shaking as he hauled the flag down.

“Run up the colors and prepare to board,” Paul Jones said with a grim smile.
Bonhomme Richard
came alongside, grapples thrown to pull
Union
into a reluctant embrace. A lieutenant led the boarding party over the rail, the heavily armed men greeted by the stunned expressions of
Union
's crew, shocked into silence by the speed of their defeat. They stood with arms dangling helplessly at their sides, here and there a figure sprawled on the deck, victims of stray ricochets from the cannon fire. When the prisoners had been herded together by
Richard
's officers, Paul Jones and Richard Dale crossed over to stand on the rigging strewn deck.

“A letter-of-marque ship,” Dale observed, glancing around. “What is your cargo?”

“Army supplies,” the tight-lipped captain replied.

“What manner of supplies?”

The tousled head of the lieutenant who had led the boarding party appeared from below. “Uniforms, sir. English infantry uniforms, winter issue.”

Dale repressed a smile. “For
Canada
, no doubt. We may not have robbed the English of the means to fight, but at least they'll be cold when they do it.”

The commodore sniffed. Better than nothing. And one less ship to supply the enemy army. He accepted the English captain's sword as a token of surrender, then turned to Lt. Dale. “Detail the lieutenant and the boarding party to man her until we select a prize crew to sail her back to
France
.” As the commodore turned to go, the English captain made to step forward. Two marines quickly moved to intercept him. Paul Jones stopped, waved them back, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

The Englishman was stiffly formal. “May I ask to whom I surrendered my ship?”

A faint smile. “How remiss of me. Commodore John Paul Jones of the American Navy.”

The Englishman nodded, eyes slowly traveling over the American from head to foot as though committing every detail of his image to memory. Their eyes locked.

“I will remember you, sir, believe you me I will.”

1779

Scarborough
Fair

One whiff of the salt wind told Jackie Rudd everything.

The day was already wasted. He closed the cottage door quietly behind him as he looked up. Cloud smothered the horizon from east to west, long gray banks that bunched and exploded, scudding across a raw gunmetal sky. With a grimace he pushed his hands deep into his pockets then clumped along
Tutthill Street
, empty in the gray dawn, before turning down into
East Sandgate
where he caught his first glimpse of the
North Sea
. His prediction was correct, but knowing he would be unable to put out into the heavy swell robbed him of any satisfaction.

Down at the Posthouse there was already a gathering of fishermen. Dressed in dark blue guernseys and canvas trousers tucked into leather sea boots, they glowered at the rebellious waves from beneath their peaked caps. One or two sucked fruitlessly at cold pipes.

“Up in the morning's the game, lad,” one rumbled with a glance at Jackie.

“Not that there's owt to climb from your pit for today,” commented another, dragging his eyes away from the sea to peer up at
Scarborough
Castle
. High on the cliff under the glowering sky the battlements gazed immovably at the
North Sea
jostling the
Yorkshire
coast at their feet.

Jackie nodded acknowledgement of their welcome before leaning on the rail to look down into the harbor. The
Gin
fretted and chewed at her mooring like a tethered stallion eager to run free. Her gunwale fenders butted the stone pier then scraped up and down as she rolled with the tide. He squinted at the painters fore and aft that held her fast. Not trusting his eyes, he ambled down to check them with his fingers. Kneeling as he looked down into her, he reassured himself she had not made too much water during the night. But then she never did, tough and sure, clinker built like
Scarborough
cobbles had been for centuries. He ran his eyes over the gear to make sure it was all still stowed securely.