Scarborough Fair (22 page)

Billy glared. “Sunk? My
Speedwell
?”

“Aye laddie, he can't spare the crew to sail her. He's manned so many prizes that everything under eighty tons is scuppered, be they pretty or not, ye ken?”

Billy's head dropped between his forearms. “Sunk, my
Speedwell
.” He lifted his face, cheeks drawn tight, mouth grim. “And that American bastard asked us to crew for him. I'd rather swing.”

The Scot's voice was low. “There's time enough for that yet, laddie. You're in the middle of a war now.”

***

They hoisted a Union Jack at the fore-topgallant masthead, the English signal for a pilot, and two pilot cutters came dashing out of the Humber Estuary. It was as simple as that.

Since taking
Speedwell
off
Whitby
,
Bonhomme
Richard
had sailed south through the night, capturing a
Scarborough
collier before taking a brigantine within sight of
Scarborough
castle. Paul Jones and Richard Dale had watched the red flag—Enemy in Sight—raised above the battlements,
Richard
well out of range of the castle's battery. Now they were off Spurn point on the north flank of the
Humber
river mouth. Tacking under a light wind,
Pallas
sought permission from the flagship to give chase to sails bearing north. Paul Jones assented, standing off the estuary, the captured brigantine keeping company with
Richard
. He walked the quarterdeck, restless before ordering the signal for the pilot.

Lt. Dale frowned. “Sir?”

“A pilot will know what is going on in these waters and I want to know too.” Jones gestured to the prize brigantine. “Colliers and sloops and brigantines. Nothing of importance. For all the sail we have taken, not one that will hurt the English. Not a solitary one.” He peered off the port bow where several pilot cutters showed billowing sails above the estuary's choppy water. “Too much activity. Something is going on and I mean to know what. If one answers the signal, get him aboard and find out. When he discovers we are the enemy, he may need persuasion. You have my permission to use any means necessary.” He waited until the Union Jack fluttered from the halyard and a cutter responded, her bow cleaving toward
Richard
. “I'm going below. Call me when you know.” He glanced again at the approaching cutter. “I have a feeling, Mr. Dale.”

An hour passed before the commodore looked up from his papers to Richard Dale's smiling face. “Yes?”

“Sir, a convoy is expected from the Baltic, and by the pilot's description, a big one. He expects it to be escorted by at least two warships, perhaps three, probably frigates.”

“When?” Paul Jones's fingers toyed with his quill, a hint of a smile curling his lips.

“Anytime now, today or tomorrow. That's why all the pilots are on the water. They're all eager to secure the contract.”

The Commodore consulted a chart. “So, knowing the Royal Navy, they'll make landfall as soon as possible then hug the coast south. What's more, if they've been at sea they won't know I'm here. That's my little surprise.” He fingered the chart then stabbed a finger at the coastline. “And we'll be waiting here. We'll hang in the shadow of the land and when they clear the point we'll sail into them like trawlers into a shoal of herring.”

Dale leaned forward over the chart. “Where?”

Jones stabbed the map again. “Here. Flamborough Head.”

***

“So now we know,” Captain Richard Pearson said, refolding the parchment the cutter had carried out from the commander of
Scarborough
garrison. Along with the dispatch was a cartoon cut from a
London
newspaper. It portrayed “the pirate” Paul Jones drawn like a circus clown with flapping pantaloons and baggy jacket, face caricatured into a scarred buccaneer topped by a plumed hat more suited to a merchant from
Genoa
than an American.

Captain Richard Pearson allowed himself a mirthless laugh and glanced at the land where the red danger flag flew over
Scarborough
's silent gun battery. His gaze swiveled north at the empty horizon, as though he could still see the thirty ships which had left his convoy at Whitby for the last leg of their journey to Scotland. He had protected them throughout the eight-day voyage from Christiansund in
Denmark
and now he was left with forty-two merchantmen to be escorted to
London
. Their cargo was badly needed stores for the Royal Navy, and he had only two ships to ensure their arrival. His own, HMS
Serapis
, was a fast new frigate, extra speed gained by a copper bottom which discouraged marine growth. Rated at forty-four guns, she carried fifty. The main armament was
twenty eighteen
-pounders mounted on the lower gun deck with twenty nine-pounders on the covered deck, while the quarterdeck carried ten six-pounders. His support vessel was HMS
Countess of Scarborough
, a sloop-of-war boasting twenty guns, commanded by Captain Thomas Piercy.

Captain Pearson stared south. He had served in the Royal Navy for thirty years and had experienced combat on several occasions. At the siege of
Pondicherry
he had been caught in a blast of grapeshot. Suffering broken ribs and internal bleeding, he had bravely stood to his post until the action had terminated. For the last nine years he had held the post of captain, commanding two frigates before being handed
Serapis
. For a moment his thoughts wandered to his wife and two daughters at home in Appleby, Westmorland, wondering whether he would see them again. Reluctantly, he put them out of his mind. He handed the dispatch to his first lieutenant who was covertly watching him.

“Here. Read this.”

First Lieutenant Wright had read many dispatches during his twenty years in the navy, mostly during ten years as a lieutenant. He skimmed the contents, eyes lingering for a second on Paul Jones's name and the size of his squadron before offering the letter back to his captain. He refrained from commenting on the cartoon still clutched in his superior's hand. “He's here then, sir.”

Captain Pearson nodded. “Yes, and to the south of us. If he knows of our presence you can guarantee he'll be waiting. He'd like nothing better than to sink a few of our merchant friends. He's too much of a pirate to take on only British warships.” He crumpled the parchment along with the newspaper cartoon and tossed them angrily over the rail. “Well, by God, if he tries to sink my convoy he'll find himself facing up to broadsides from an English man-o'-war. I've not lost a ship yet and I don't intend to start now. We'll stand out to seaward of the convoy, astern of the leaders. Signal
Countess of Scarborough
to sail astern of us, forward of the tail-enders. I want us both to be in flexible positions with plenty of options. He'll either meet the convoy square on, or stand out to sea and nip in behind. We know nothing of how he fights so we must be ready for anything.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Captain Pearson nodded. “Very well. Let's get this convoy under way. The day is wasting.”

***

“
23rd September 1779
,”
Bonhomme Richard
's officer-of-the-deck wrote in his log. “09.00 hrs. Sailing north, making 6 knots. Light and variable winds under a clear sky.
Alliance
sighted at 05.30 hrs. First sighting for 14 days.
Pallas
rejoined squadron at 06.00 hrs. Now numbers 4 excluding prizes. Approximate position 20 miles S.W. of Flamborough Head,
Yorkshire
,
England
.”

Paul Jones watched his crew manipulating
Richard
's sail plan as they changed course. He nodded at their efforts, drawing his watch from a waistcoat pocket.
Two o'clock
. He glanced ahead at the open sea, then at his squadron fantailed astern. How far away was the English convoy and how long would he have to wait? And would the Frenchmen still be sailing with him when the convoy was sighted? For a moment he envied the Royal Navy its discipline.

“Sail on the starboard quarter! Bearing south-east!”

The commodore looked up sharply at the lookout's call, tucking away his watch with one hand while he reached for his telescope with the other. Only an uncertain patch of sail could be seen. He collapsed the telescope to wait impatiently for the next call.

“Only one sail! A brig!”

Behind the commodore, Lt. Dale snatched a speaking trumpet. “Only one? Are you sure?” he stared up at the lookout in the mainmast crosstrees as though to hang him for a liar.

“Aye sir! One brig!”

“Signal Lt. Lunt in the pilot boat to give chase,” Paul Jones ordered. “With this wind it would take
Richard
an eternity to overhaul a brig. If they refuse to yield to him, Lunt can hold them until we close.”

Within minutes Lt. Henry Lunt answered the flagship's signal and the nimble pilot cutter's profile altered as her crew crowded sail, swinging across
Richard
's stern. Paul Jones could see the marines readying their weapons and the swivel guns being loaded as she raced away. He looked back to the empty sea in the north. “Bring her about and we'll give Mr. Lunt our support…” He was interrupted by the lookout's call, loud and clear.

“Sail off the port quarter! Large ship standing south round the head! Bearing nor' nor' west!”

The commodore raised an eyebrow, opening his telescope and pressing it to his right eye in one fluid movement. Flamborough Head was plainly visible, the 450-foot chalk cliffs white as fresh fallen snow against the leaden sea.

“Two sail! No! Belay that! Three, four!” They began to appear so rapidly the lookout could not keep count. “Fifteen! No, twenty! All bearing nor' nor' west!”

The commodore watched the first blurs of canvas drift slowly into the lens of his telescope, reluctant to believe the lookout's frantic calling. He watched them for a full minute before lowering the glass with a knowing smile. “It's them, Mr. Dale. The Baltic convoy. We have them. Wear ship, set royals and stun'sails then give chase. Hoist the English colors to give them something to think about before we start blowing holes in them.”

***

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” Captain Pearson said irritably, leaving his late lunch half eaten. He took a last mouthful of ale to wash the scraps of salt pork from between his teeth, rising to buckle on his sword. Heading for the deck he straightened his belt to alter the hang of his scabbard, then the set of his hat, stooping to avoid the low timbers. On HMS
Serapis
's main deck he glanced aloft, noting the light wind, almost too feeble for maneuvers, before turning to mount the companion ladder.

Although off-watch, Second Lt. Stanhope and Third Lt. Shuckburgh were both standing with Lt. Wright on the quarterdeck. The three officers saluted before Wright moved forward.

“My apologies for disturbing your lunch, sir, but the lookout has just called down a sighting to the south.” He paused. “I thought you should be informed, sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Wright.” He moved to the rail to use his telescope but could see nothing.

“Ahoy the deck! Four ships hull down on the horizon! Fifteen miles!”

Lieutenant Wright watched the captain expectantly.

Pearson glowered. “Seeing how everything that floats has been locked in a safe harbor since Mr. Jones was sighted off
Scarborough
, it may just be that these four ships are the pirate himself.” He paused, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “It's too soon to tell for certain. Call me when they can be seen clearly from the deck and what colors they are flying.” He peered landwards at the white cliffs of Flamborough Head three miles distant. There were treacherous shoals off the point, the worst known as Flamborough Steel where the tide split north and south, churning the sea into a froth. At their present position the charts marked ten fathoms, and Captain Pearson liked to keep plenty of water beneath his keel. With a glance at the slack sails above, he turned to Lt. Wright. “Plan your tacks to give us plenty of sea room when we come up on those ships. If the wind does not improve I fear
Serapis
won't be able to give what I may demand of her.”

Within two hours Captain Pearson was back on deck. The nearing ships were plainly visible. His lieutenants stood in silence as he scrutinized the strangers.

“They fly our colors,” he muttered, shaking his head. “If ever I saw an old East Indiaman, that leading vessel is one. And if it's not Paul Jones, I'll resign my commission. Two frigates with him and a brig too. No doubt Frenchmen by their lines. I hope to God they sail like Frenchmen.” He lowered the telescope slowly. “There's little doubt. It looks like we've got a fight on our hands, gentlemen.”

Cannon fire erupted from the leading merchantman of the convoy. A second shot followed, smoke billowing from the freighter's bow gun ports. Men scrambled aloft to loose topgallant sails in a bid to capture every puff of wind as she began to come about.