Scarborough Fair (18 page)

“You were going to say he is a madman,” Jones prompted quietly, his eyes sharp, steely.

Mease contemplated his superior, then hesitantly nodded. “If you could have heard him, sir. He ranted and raved like a man…I've only seen the like once before, a man dying of black water fever. Landais accused you of the most dreadful things.”

Jones pursed his lips. “Such as?”

“Gibberish mostly. Nonsense. Pure ravings.”

“You won't upset me, Matthew. Tell me.”

“Frankly, I did not understand most of it, but he said you always stationed his ship where it appeared fighting was going to occur, but you planned it so it would actually happen elsewhere. He said it was a plot to discredit him, and that he only captured
Betsy
because he had gone out on his own. That…that he should have been in command of the squadron, not you…” He stumbled into silence, eyes wary.

“Please continue. I know you are only repeating what you heard.”

Mease spoke up. “M'sieur de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert both heard him, sir. When he began ranting they insisted on being present throughout the interview. All of his comments about you were highly disrespectful and insolent, and he blurted out that he would see you on shore where one of you must kill the other…” The purser took refuge in his glass, averting his eyes.

Paul Jones's anger rose. He had expected impudence, but this? The man was stark staring mad. Frenchmen! Every one of them in authority he had encountered since delivering
Ranger
to
France
had proved cantankerous in one way or other. Were they always like that, or did they just hate Americans? Or did they despise anyone but another Frenchman? He wished to God he didn't need Landais, but he did. At least he needed
Alliance
's firepower. He could always relieve him of command and replace him with an American, perhaps Dale, but that would bring the politicians into the matter and necessitate a barrage of red tape and paperwork when he returned to
Lorient
. He had learned all too well that what occurred at sea could look entirely different when back on dry land. Even with his own American government. They had given Landais his commission, and that in itself seemed politic to enlist French aid.

Damn Landais. The whole thing was a mess. He wanted rid of the man, yet could not afford the luxury. It had taken long enough to secure
Richard
and the squadron. A move like replacing Landais could lose him the squadron if the French decided to withdraw their support. In which case he would likely find himself transferred to command a bucket on the
Missouri river
. Jones shuffled his papers and refocused his gaze on the purser who was discreetly plumbing the depths of his empty glass, teeth clenched to stop them chattering.

“Would you like another?”

Mease was startled. He pushed the glass away. “My thanks, sir, but no.”

“Thank you for your report, Matthew. You best get yourself into some dry clothes before you catch a chill.”

“Aye aye, sir.” He rose to leave.

The commodore waved a hand. “One last thing. Would you write down everything you told me tonight? Leave nothing out. And ask M'sieur de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert to oblige me also.” He nodded. “A good night to you, Matthew.”

When the purser had left, Paul Jones helped himself to another brandy, sipping as he reflected on his position. It was best to be prepared. Three accounts of the meeting tonight would provide insurance should there be further trouble with M'sieur Landais.

And Paul Jones was sure there would be.

***

There was only the cold wind and the sea. Predominantly gray, the sky closed over the thin line of the horizon, the squall from the previous night still churning the leaden waters, whitecaps showing teeth of seething anger as
Bonhomme Richard
labored. Aloft, canvas slapped like pistol shots triggered by the eddying wind.

“Take in another reef on the main course,” Lt. Dale ordered of the sailing master. He watched the command relayed, the starboard watch climbing the ratlines under the scrutiny of a petty officer. Dale left the quarterdeck to stroll for'ard along the line of cannon, lashed down against heavy weather. By the manger he cast a professional farmer's eye over the remaining livestock in the pen. Two pigs, a goat, and a handful of chickens. They would be back on salted rations soon. He grimaced at the thought, then approached the figure hunched at the rail, staring at
Alliance
plowing the ugly sea a cable length away.

“Good morning, Matthew.”

The purser glanced over his shoulder, face haggard in the freshening breeze. “Ah, Richard. 'Morning to you.”

“Wardroom chatter has it you had a run-in with
Alliance
's skipper last night.”

Lines were etched deep in Purser Mease's cheeks. “The wardroom has it right for a change,” he commented dryly, “and a madder man I have yet to meet. You should have heard him, Richard, like a man possessed. You would have thought he had a fever…”

“Which is what you'll have if you stay up here in this wind,” another voice remarked, breaking into their conversation. It was the surgeon, Dr. Brooke, hat jammed on his head, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his frock coat. Silence fell between the three men.

“You were saying, Matthew?” Dale prompted.

“Ah, that Landais,” Mease continued, shaking his head, “the things he accused our commodore of…”

“I take it he thinks little of our John Paul Jones,” Dr. Brooke said. “And what do you make of our illustrious commander?”

Matthew Mease frowned. “Me? In what way?”

The surgeon pursed his lips. “As a man. As a leader of men?”

The purser was not sure if he had been asked to give testimony in defense, or whether he was supposed to confirm the surgeon's opinion. “I think he is a fine man. I've never served under a finer officer. He is a gentleman. I can truthfully say he has always been direct and honest in his dealings with me. And he has the ability to command. I don't think he would ever ask a man to do anything he would not readily do himself, and I think he is capable of getting the best than any man has to give.” He thought for a moment. “The best word, perhaps, for him is honorable.”

Brooke nodded as if he expected no less, then looked pointedly at Dale. “And you, Richard, do you not find him rash, sometimes arrogant? Do you think he is reckless and that all he thinks of is glory?”

Dale rose to the bait angrily, missing the glint in the surgeon's eyes. “Mr. Brooke, a finer man I have yet to meet,” he stated emphatically. “A seeker of glory and self-advancement? No. Every man who has a brain has ambition in some degree or other, but Paul Jones is not a glory hunter who would crush the bones of another man to take it.” He stopped, looking lost for words, raising a hand to rub forefinger and thumb together to illustrate what his mind sought. “He has an essence, yes essence, that I have detected in no other man. There is no doubt in my mind he is special. Not just me, either. I have watched men when he has spoken to them. They may not understand it, just as I do not, but it is there, and they come under his power.”

He took a deep breath. “I have given it much thought. The nearest I can come is that Paul Jones personifies what
America
is all about. Untamed, yes, but capable of so many things. And his officers, I swear, would follow him to a man. Wherever he went.” Dale was flushed as he fell quiet, as though astonished he had made the speech. When he looked again at the surgeon, if was as if he was defying him to contradict his opinion.

Matthew Mease was nodding. “Richard, I could not have put it better myself.”

Dr. Brooke wore the smile of a teacher whose pupil has absorbed his lessons well before forming his own conclusion.

“I agree with Matthew. For a farmer, Richard, you have a good mind. And your tongue bears its first coat of silver. You'll make a politician someday.”

It was then Richard Dale realized it had been a test. His eyes sparked before he broke into a smile. “Thank you sir, but unlike a politician, I meant every word.”

***

Fifteen days later off the Inchcape Rock on the east coast of Scotland, Paul Jones derived little pleasure when he captured two colliers bound from Leith who had sailed blindly under
Bonhomme Richard
's guns. He was still smarting from Landais's outright disobedience. After the incident with Purser Mease and the two French marine officers, Landais had again parted from the squadron without permission. While the commodore sailed back and forth among the Shetland Isles, waiting for
Pallas
to catch up, Landais took
Alliance
out on his own initiative and returned with two small prizes. When ordered aboard the flagship for a conference he had flatly refused and again sailed off to hunt. In bad weather, the squadron made headway south. After taking the two colliers they found themselves at the mouth of the Firth of Forth.

The estuary was choppy, wind flicking the wave tops so they broke white like a million gulls flexing their wings. Paul Jones walked the length of
Richard
's deck, the wind coloring his cheeks. Listening with half an ear to his heels rattling on the quarterdeck, he glanced at the boats on the sea as they took prize crews to the two colliers. Their return journey would bring more prisoners to crowd
Richard
's 'tween decks. The loss of fighting men in a trade for worthless passengers annoyed him. And what for? Two little colliers probably infested by rats and with rotting timbers worth a bare few pounds. If only he could take a prize whose loss would be keenly felt by the enemy.

He paused to lean on the rail. If he didn't do something soon, he would have no men left to do it with; they'd all be crewing captured colliers and fishing boats. He wondered how the war was faring in
America
. He had received little news since his days in
Paris
when Benjamin Franklin had kept him informed. In
Lorient
there had been little to hear, and since setting sail, nothing. He wondered whether the Royal Navy had been plundering ports. His last news had been that Sir George Colliers had landed at
Chesapeake
in May, taking the war at sea to the land.

Why not? Why couldn't he do it too? The very audacity of it, the American Navy taking an English town and demanding ransom. By God, that would hurt them; cut them to the very heart. They valued nothing more highly than freedom. Weren't they always bragging they had never been invaded since 1066? Well, it would not be an invasion, certainly not by Norman standards, but the shock value would be tremendous. It would show them that the war could come to them too, threatening their homes and families.

The problem was to select a target where there would be minimum risk to his ships. He looked away into the distance where the mouth of the Firth offered a welcome. He smiled then abruptly turned aft. At the foot of the quarterdeck companion ladder, he beckoned the midshipman standing duty by the helmsman.

“Signal M'sieur Cottineau of
Pallas
and M'sieur Ricot of
Vengeance
to repair on board the flagship immediately. Pass the word for Mr. Dale and ask him to bring the French officers to my cabin when they arrive.”

While he waited for the captains to transfer, Paul Jones went over his maps and charts, dredging his memory for every detail he could remember about
Scotland
's east coast, and the Firth of Forth in particular. He was lost in speculation when Richard Dale knocked and entered. The commodore rose to greet his guests, the two Frenchmen in their best undress uniforms.

“Welcome gentlemen. Please sit down. I have news. We are going to effect a landing.” He stabbed a finger at the chart. “We are going to capture the town of
Leith
.”

Cottineau flashed a smile. “Well M'sieur, then why not take all
Scotland
?”

Paul Jones's eyes were cold as he studied Cottineau's face. “The French have always wanted to invade
England
. Well here is your chance. I'm giving it to you on a plate.”

Cottineau's breath hissed between his teeth. “But M'sieur, I wonder who will be doing the eating. Us or the English?”

“Boat off the starboard side!”

Richard Dale glanced aloft in acknowledgement of the lookout's cry then crossed to the rail. A thirty-foot sloop was closing, cleaving through the choppy firth, her sail plan capable of manipulating the wind quickly to her advantage. Dale was forced to catch his hat before it was whipped away over the whitecaps. Astern,
Vengeance
and
Pallas
wallowed in
Richard
's wake. Followed by prizes they had taken, the three warships beat against the wind, so fair at the mouth of the firth but now turned against them. Dale studied the closing sloop. It had all the appearance of a pleasure boat. No working tackle cluttered her decks and her paintwork was fresh.