Scarborough Fair (23 page)

Pearson pursed his lips. “Our merchantman is going to make a run for
Scarborough
. Signal the rest of the fleet to follow him, then bring
Serapis
to and order
Countess of Scarborough
to join us.” He smiled grimly. “What is it the men say? One Englishman is worth five Frenchies or three Yankees? It appears today we are going to find out.”

***

Paul Jones restrained himself from hammering his fists on the taffrail. With teeth clenched he watched the slow motion maneuvers of the Baltic convoy as they went about to run for shelter. The English warship
Serapis
was sliding into the gap between the convoy and his own squadron.

“Curse them,” he muttered. “Always the wind. At
Leith
I wanted none and got a storm, and now when all I ask is enough to make my sails draw, there's scarcely a breeze.” He twisted away from the rail. “Mr. Dale. Crack on the stun'sails. The sooner we reach and deal with him, the quicker we can get amongst the convoy.” There was no doubt in his mind
Bonhomme Richard
, with the help of
Alliance
and
Pallas
could make short work of the two English men-o'-war. It was inevitable. The Englishmen were hopelessly outgunned. He looked up to see the studding sails open, but the breeze barely rippled the canvas, making little difference to
Richard
's headway. “Clear for action,” he ordered. Frowning, his gaze fastening onto Richard Dale's face. “Where will you be?”

“I've elected to command the main battery, sir.”

Jones nodded. “Who will be here with me?”

“Midshipman Mayrant, sir. A good lad.”

The commodore nodded again, loosing a brief smile. “If you picked him, I believe you. I rely on you to maintain the standard you've set so far, more especially today.”

Lt. Dale came to attention, eyes locked with his commander's, aware that something special was about to happen. Perhaps today was that day he had earlier prophesied, the day he would follow Paul Jones wherever he would lead. “Thank you, sir. I shall try to justify your faith in me.” He saluted formally, then about-faced with a click of his heels before marching to head of the companion. He stood silently for a moment, registering one or two upturned faces on the weather deck. Slowly, he drew a deep breath.

“Clear for action!” he bellowed. “All hands stand to their posts!”

There was barely a murmur from the men as they moved quickly to their stations. Since the convoy had been sighted
Bonhomme Richard
had carried an atmosphere of apprehension so thick it was almost visible. Now, throats constricted with tension, wagging tongues stilled, their eyes rested silently on the horizon where HMS
Serapis
blocked their path like a bulldog on a chain. Each man knew his place, second nature from frequent drills. While Richard Dale descended to the main gun deck, Lt. Stack climbed to the main-top where twenty sailors and marines stood to swivel guns and small arms. Midshipman Fanning took up his station in the fore-top with fourteen men while the mizzen-top held Midshipman Coram with nine men. On the poop deck Midshipman Mayrant joined the commodore as his aide, glancing behind him for reassurance at the twenty marines under the personal supervision of Colonel de Chamillard. In the waist, the marine drummers stared straight ahead as they beat out “General Quarters,” crisp snare drums rattling out the music of war.

An hour later Paul Jones glanced astern at his following squadron then for'ard to where HMS
Serapis
was matching him tack for tack. Fear crawled somewhere in his stomach, its ugly hand twisting his bowels, but confidence lay harbored there too; that today would be a day of all days. He smiled, half fearful, half exhilarated, as though he had cast the dice of his fate and now he would have to see it to the end. Now was the time.

“Signal:
FORM
LINE
OF BATTLE.”

“Aye aye, sir,” his aide, Mayrant replied, his high voice cracking from nervous strain as he turned to call down the command. Within moments a blue flag opened at the fore followed by a blue pendant at the main truck. The mizzen sported the final part of the order, a blue and yellow flag.

Bonhomme
Richard
sailed on, the light wind nudging her so slowly she seemed stationary, bow wave sluggish. Almost as if we have all the time in the world, Paul Jones thought.

“The squadron does not acknowledge the flag, sir,” Mayrant said timidly as though somehow it was his fault.

“What?” The commodore twisted to glare astern.
Alliance
, closest to
Richard
, had hauled her wind, veering away landwards onto the flagship's port quarter. “Landais, the damned fool. He complains I don't give him the chance to fight. I give him a battle on a plate. Not just any battle but an English man-o'-war, and what does he do?” Farther astern,
Pallas
was sheering off to starboard and the open sea, plainly declaring her neutrality. Paul Jones's whisper was bitter. “Cottineau, you too? You refused me
Newcastle
because you wanted to fight at sea. Now you deny me that.” His smile of minutes before was gone. Perhaps luck was gone too. He shook his head with despair. The odds in the coming engagement had suddenly been shortened, giving the Englishman the edge with his newer ship. What had looked easy now looked impossible. “Damn you, Frenchmen,” he moaned. “It would have been better if I had never set eyes on
France
.”

“Pardon, sir?” Mayrant frowned.

Paul Jones turned his back on the squadron's insubordination. “Haul up the lower courses so we can see what we're about.” He fixed his gaze on the patient
Serapis
while
Richard
's crew toiled to reef and furl the lower sails, hampered by the cargo nets strung six feet or so above the deck, ready to catch any debris blown down by cannon fire. Under the canopy of nets the gun crews stood by their charges.

Henry Gardner, an Englishman turned American, wore his rank as Chief Gunner seriously. He prowled the decks checking the rope falls, testing tackle everywhere before any senior officer could find cause for complaint. Muzzle lashings had been cast off, the eighteen-pounders drawn down parallel to the deck before the tompions were withdrawn from their snouts. The powder monkeys had ferried up cartridges of black powder from the magazines, then on command a wad and cartridge had been rammed down each muzzle to make a bed for the shot.

“Run out your guns!”
Gardner
ordered when the lieutenant caught his eye. He watched closely as the ports were hauled up and lashed, before the barebacked crews put their shoulders against dull bronze, heaving until trundling carriage wheels thudded against hull timbers. The tackle falls flaked neatly on the deck, ready to handle the recoil.
Bonhomme
Richard
's flanks bristled with cannon.

“Prime!”

A gunner stepped forward with a powder horn to fill each weapon's touchhole.

“Point your guns!”

Under the direction of the cannoneers the crews grunted, manhandling the long barrels and driving in wedges until the top sight hovered in line with the nearing image of HMS
Serapis
as
Richard
rounded onto the enemy's weather quarter. The two ships were sailing side by side, slowly converging. The day had died, darkness falling over the ocean. Between the ships the sea shone, smooth as a lake, reflecting the rising moon. Opposite,
Serapis
had triced up her gun ports to reveal a formidable double row of cannon. Those of
Richard
's gun crews who had not broken out into a sweat setting their cannon now found chests and armpits soaked, mouths suddenly parched. No easy merchantman faced them now.

When the two ships were almost within pistol shot, a voice hailed: “What ship are you?”

Midshipman Mayrant followed his instructions to the letter. “The
Princess Royal
!” he shouted in reply.

“Where from?”

The answer was a muffled shout and the next statement was called with all the authority of a King's officer well used to being obeyed. “Answer immediately or I shall open fire on you!”

How formal he sounds, Paul Jones thought as he gripped Mayrant's arm to still any reply. The boy looked up at him, face and lips bloodless. He saw green fire leap and flash in the commodore's eyes.

“Sir?”

“We're close enough. Strike the English colors and hoist the American ensign.” He released the boy who passed the order. Only the swish of
Bonhomme
Richard
's passage through the sea could be heard to accompany the squeal of the halyard running through the blocks. When the colors fell open into the breeze, Paul Jones started for the rail.

“Starboard broadside!
FIRE
!”

The first broadsides were deafening.

Gunpowder thunder rolled over the sea, cannonballs searing the sky before shredding canvas and wrenching away rigging. The distance between the two ships was so narrow there was little chance of missing. The eighteen-pound shot smashed into decking, spears of white wood rearing up as planks were ripped from crossbeams and flung into the air like firewood. The thunder drowned the screams of agony as men's limbs were torn from their bodies while the red-varnished timbers of the gun decks disguised spurting blood.

HMS
Serapis
did not suffer alone. When Captain Pearson saw the stars and stripes he had no hesitation. His gunners had long been ready, smoldering matches close to hand. He gave the order for the port battery to open fire, the broadside merging with the American's.
Bonhomme Richard
shuddered as the English shot sought and found targets, smashing into her topsides.

Below the main deck Lieutenant Richard Dale stood with one arm hanging onto a stanchion, eyes screwed into slits against the smoke and stink of spent gunpowder. After only one broadside the heat from the cannon had already brought out fresh sweat on his back and shoulders where the cold sweat of fear had dried. The gun crews on
Richard
's port side stood by their unfired charges, numbly staring at the sweat drenched starboard gunners working their cannon. Flung back by the recoil, the smoking muzzles were inside the ports.

“Reload!” Lt. Dale shouted.

The men had begun without him. The leading hand pulled a stave from the low beam above then dipped the sponge tip into a water bucket before ramming it straight down the barrel to kill sparks or scraps of burning cartridge. Turning a deaf ear to the cannoneer's sequence of orders, they automatically followed the ritual. Cartridge, wad, ball, heave the gun carriage until it hit the topsides, prime, aim. Only when all was ready did they glance at the lieutenant braced against the stanchion, or glance at their shipmates who had watched the performance.

“Fire!” Dale shouted.

The cannoneers held slow matches to the touchholes. An almighty explosion ripped through the gun deck. Men were flung into the air to bounce off beams like dolls discarded by petulant children. Another explosion followed, horrified faces turning open mouthed, starkly lit by orange bursts of fire. Carnage everywhere. The idle port gunners still on their feet were spattered by spraying blood. A head, complete with open eyes, ragged tendons dangling bloody from a sheared neck, was caught by a sailor in a reflex movement. He stared at it for a second in disbelief then threw it away. The second blast sent him staggering to his knees. The severed head rolled back in front of his face. He vomited as he tried to scramble away but his feet slipped on the gory deck.

“Oh my God!” a man wailed, his eardrums burst by pressure waves. “The magazine's blown! We're dead!”

Richard Dale pulled himself upright, wiping blood from his eyes. Picking through the debris, he moved forward to inspect the scene. Two of the eighteen-pounders had burst, barrels blown open like flowers. With carriages upended, the ruined muzzles stared uselessly at a gaping hole in the timbers above. Their crews were nowhere to be seen in the smoke, blown to bits along with the crews from several cannon on either side and men from the port battery. Horribly disfigured sailors lay moaning among the human debris of bone and gristle, clutching wounds in a bid to staunch welling blood. It was as though a madman had run the length of the deck whirling a scythe about his head.

Lt. Dale hid his revulsion and fought the heaving in his stomach by issuing a rapid stream of orders.

“Those guns still intact! Reload and fire at will! You, yes you, get your crew to take the wounded below to the surgeon. You port side men, make up the men missing from the starboard crews. Jump to it!” Behind him, an English cannonball punched through the topsides, leaving a charred trail as it careered across the deck. He never flinched. “You heard me! Get to it or I'll know the reason why!”

***

Smoke had begun to permeate into the brig below the main gun deck. The prisoners-of-war crouched in rows, shackled together with nowhere to run and nobody to fight. The deafening roar of the eighteen-pounders bursting had driven heads lower between hunched shoulders, hands clapped to ears. Except for distant warning shots when the Baltic convoy had sighted
Bonhomme
Richard
, Jackie Rudd had never heard cannon fire. Broadsides thundering out overhead left him staring helplessly upwards, fearful of the decking crashing down.