Scarborough Fair (21 page)

De Chamillard was a tall man with a weathered face. As a marine, he had spent his entire military career at sea, on board the smallest cutters to the hulking three-decker line-of-battle warships. He sat forward on his chair, elbows on thighs, hands dangling like a prizefighter's between his knees. Throughout the confrontation he had quietly studied Paul Jones as he had studied lieutenants, captains, and flag rank officers in many such conferences.

He had just about reached his conclusions about the American. Perhaps Jones was a little rough around the edges, like a freshly molded boy's lead soldier. But when the flashing was rubbed away, underneath lay a solid man. The marine had watched him work. He had an ability to draw men to him like a magnet with no visible effort, and once drawn they were his forever. De Chamillard had felt it himself. Only two meetings and he had fallen under Jones's spell. Another of his qualities was his capability to command without being arrogant or condescending. Bad tempered he may be, but in the Frenchman's experience men who were experts and who strove for elusive goals did not suffer fools and incompetents who hindered their pursuit. A man had to be strong willed, like Cottineau, to resist the commodore's charm.

When the right combination was achieved; ship, crew, the time, and place, de Chamillard was convinced Jones would prove lethal. Under pressure he was decisive, and if his means did not fail him, he would deliver a crushing blow to his adversaries.

“Do not take M'sieur Cottineau's refusal as a judgment of your leadership, Commodore,” he said. “His kind of insubordination is common enough in European fleets. If a commander is ready to attempt the unexpected, then captains like Cottineau become afraid for their men. To lose their men is to lose authority. Sadly, one day they will pay dearly for it.”

“You would think they did not like to fight the English,” Jones commented.

The colonel bit off a laugh. “A Frenchman is born to hate the English, M'sieur. We have made war against them from the beginning of history. And of course, with them shackling your country as a colony, you must hate them just as much.”

Jones's eyebrows raised. “Hate the English? Not blindly, only when I fight them as I hate everyone I fight in the heat of battle.”

De Chamillard smiled. “My own thoughts. Not so much who you fight against, but that you win. It is really all that matters.” Jones eyed him, wondering at the truth of it. The Frenchman shrugged, smiling as he spoke again. “On land, objectives and how to achieve them are more clearly seen. As Cottineau pointed out, at sea things are different.”

Paul Jones nodded as he opened the door. “Steward! Ask Mr. Dale to come below at once!” He glanced at de Chamillard. “Keep your men ready. In the meantime we'll stand off the coast.”

Only an hour after the squadron had stood out to sea, the first of the shipping slipped out of the
Tyne
. Before they could run, the
Bonhomme
Richard
squadron came about and was down among them like hawks stooping into a flock of sparrows. A brig and two small sloops fell prey within an hour of the chase. Their capture was small consolation for the loss of
Newcastle
, but proved a boost to the morale of
Richard
's crew. On reflection, perhaps Cottineau had been right. If
Newcastle
could not be held for at least three months, sacrificing their ships was futile.

“Mr. Dale,” he said, “We will sail south. If the English come looking for us here, we'll surprise them. We'll nip at their heels and run, then come back and nip again until they know how sharp our teeth can be.”

***

“
Are you going to
Scarborough
fair?

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

Remember me to one who lives there,

She once was a true love of mine…”

Jackie's melancholy voice drifted out over the calm sea. He was thinking how different Rose and Dorry were. With all he felt for Rose, he wondered how she could have been driven from his mind so easily by the first touch of Dorry's warm lips. And now, afterwards, why did he feel no guilt? It was as if one thing had nothing at all to do with the other.

The moonless night hung about the boat like a curtain. He sat amidships, staring at his slack line where it dipped into the sea. The two fish laid on
Speedwell
's deck beside him had long since ceased their death throes and lay still. Fishing was slow. None of the men in the sloop had caught much. Billy had most to show, only four. Without the excitement of a bite to erase his circling thoughts, Jackie had begun to feel cold and hungry. He started to sing again, hoping the effort would warm him and exorcise the hollowness in his stomach.

“Remember me to one who lives there…”

“You mean in
Whitby
, don't you?” Billy crowed from the bow. “Our Dorry with the hot kisses, eh, my Beauty?”

“Stow it, Billy,” Jackie muttered. “Besides, I thought you knew where the fish were round here. There's nothing running here but your mouth.”

“Hah, cousin. It's your howling that scaring them off.”

“God, I'm hungry,” Robin said from the stern. “Any of you got a butty left? I could eat a scabby cow.”

“Like Dorry, you mean?”

Jackie wound his line around the oar thole and rose, fists bunched. “I meant it. Stow it, Billy.” The sloop rocked, the mast lantern flickering as Jackie moved forward. Billy was hunched over his line when his cousin came up behind. Casually he swung back an arm. It chopped Jackie's legs out from under so he went down in a heap. Without a pause he was up on his feet, but before he could strike, Billy was standing, his eyes on his line.

“I've got a bite.” He hauled. “By God it's a big 'un. Lend a hand here, Jackie.” Their quarrel overshadowed by the prospect of a big fish, the two cousins laid hold, the line biting into their numb fingers.

“Can't see a damned thing,” Jackie complained.

“If he's as big as I think he is, I don't want to see him until he's gaffed and landed in this boat. If I see him and he gets away, I'll be crying in my beer down The Dolphin.” Billy grunted with effort, pulling in then letting the line go slack, fearing the fish would snap it or throw the hook. “Feels like a bloody shark.”

“Sure it ain't a whale?” Robin laughed from the stern.

Ian, who had been fishing amidships, his back to the scuffle in the bows, stiffened. He started to mutter. “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus.”

“What?” Billy frowned, sweat running down his face as he fought the line. A jerk broke his attention from Robin, his concentration back on the taut line.

Then he saw his big fish.

Billy's big fish was an oar tied with a muffle of rag. His line had drifted with the current and was tangled around the blade, the baited hook fast in the cloth. And holding on to the other end was a powerfully built sailor, face split by a grin. The closing boat appeared from the night then butted into
Speedwell
. An instant later men swarmed over the little sloop. Lanterns were lit and the four fishermen found themselves staring into the cavernous mouths of pistols. Every one of the boarders also held a wickedly sharp cutlass, the steel gleaming in the lamplight.

“Looks like we've got a nice little catch here,” a seaman remarked, looking from the prisoners to the few fish on the deck. “Which looks to be more than they got.” He gathered the dead fish, skewering them through the tail with a spike. “Well, somebody might as well eat 'em.” He glanced at his human captives with equal distaste. “Right lads, into the cutter with 'em. Johnson, Crawly, and Jacko, you sail this toy boat.”

The warship loomed out of the inky night like a ghost. Only the sea lapping at her topsides declared her reality. The cutter came alongside, oars rattling as they were righted and stowed while the bowman reached with his gaff to catch the trailing painter by the ship's main chains. Jackie stared up at the double row of gun ports aft of the ladder and then at the slack canvas spread on her yards, barely discernible. Apparently she had hove-to so a boat could be lowered away to take
Speedwell
. Why hadn't he and the others seen the ship? Only now, he realized why she had seemed to be a ghost, for lanterns were being lit on deck. They had run without lights. But why bother to capture a fishing boat? The only answer was the press gang.

“All right, boyos, up the ladder.” A coxswain prodded Jackie in the ribs with the muzzle of his pistol. “Get on with you.”

They scrambled upwards and through the gangway onto the warship's deck. With lanterns held aloft, sailors moved forward to examine the captives. Suddenly, marching feet parted the onlookers as a squad of marines arrived to form a circle about the four fishermen. Bayonets surrounded them.

Billy muttered. “These are Frenchies,”

“Jesus,” Robin groaned. “And I thought I was press-ganged. Now we're bloody prisoners of war.”

The sailors who heard him laughed. “You heard this one, shipmates? He thought we was his Britannic Majesty's Navy!” A fresh burst of laughter was silenced by Lt. Stack.

“Silence there! The commodore's coming!”

Paul Jones emerged from the officers' quarters flanked by Lt. Dale and a midshipman aide. “You've taken the sloop? Good, then get this ship under way.” He waited as Lt. Stack issued orders that scattered the sailors. Left only with the protection of the marines, Paul Jones moved forward, hands clasped behind his back. He inspected his prisoners. “Which is your home port?”

“What's it to you?” Billy Rudd demanded, thrusting out his chin.

Lt. Dale gestured. A marine stepped forward from the circle, swinging his musket high. He crashed the butt down. Billy crumpled to the deck. Dale gestured for Jackie and Robin to lift him back to his feet.

“Which port?” Lt. Dale repeated. Billy rubbed at his shoulder, glowering. Lt. Dale glanced at the marine again, prompting an answer.

“
Whitby
.”

“
Whitby
what?” Dale barked.

Billy frowned. “
Whitby
…sir.”

The lieutenant flashed a smile. “Better. Much better. You are being addressed by Commodore John Paul Jones of the American Navy, so please do not forget your manners again.” At the mention of the commodore's name, the little group of fishermen shrank closer. Dale smiled at the effect.

“
Whitby
,” Paul Jones repeated. “Are any of you familiar with the waters south of
Scarborough
?” When there was no sign of response, he shrugged. “Very well, not that I believe you. You have a choice. You are prisoners of war and as such will be chained below. Alternatively, you can join my crew and work for your keep. As crewmen you will be entitled to a share of prize money for any ship we may capture under the articles of war. What do you say? If you'd rather stay up here in the fresh air, then speak up.” He looked from one silent face to another. “Very well. If you please, Mr. Dale. Take them away.” Without further interest he stalked off.

Below decks the brig was already crowded with a harvest from the prize ships. Rows of men were chained wrist to wrist, sprawled in matted straw. Even Billy, well used to the
Whitby
oil factories, reeled from the stench. After the chill of fishing in the open
Speedwell
, the heat was almost unbearable as it rose from the crush of bodies, unwashed and surrounded by their own filth. The guards used belaying pins to force space for the new prisoners, bullying the wretched inmates who cowered away, struggling to make gaps.

“On your knees,” a petty officer ordered. “Smithy! Come on man, get to it. The stink of these pigs is going to bring up my supper.”

Jackie held out his hands onto a block for the manacles, rivets were slotted through, then hammered, closing them tight about his wrists. “Next!” the smith shouted, jerking his head so Jackie moved back against the hull timbers. The hammer rang again and again until the new prisoners were strung together like mackerel in a long line on a chain threaded through ringbolts bedded in the deck timbers.

“Reckon we won't find out what's in those pots off
Baytown
now,” Ian grunted, testing his chains as though they were fishing line.

“We're in our own bloody pot, now,” Billy Rudd replied, massaging his shoulder where the musket butt had felled him. “The bastards. Damn Frenchies and Americans. Foreigners sailing my
Speedwell
.”

Someone cackled mirthlessly in the gloom before a Scots voice asked: “What kind of boat?”

Pride swelled Billy's answer. “A sloop and a damned fine one.
Whitby
built and strong as a whaler, but swift as a bird.”

“I had a sloop once,” the Scot continued in a melancholy tone. “Till I was tricked into piloting for that pirate Paul Jones.” He snorted. “But my
Royal Charlotte
is home in
Scotland
. She got away. Yours'll be at the bottom by now.”