Scarborough Fair (27 page)

“Oh, Holy Mother of God, save us!” a man bawled halfway along the hull. Not another one, Jackie thought as a man struggled to his knees, straining to shuffle inboard. As he pulled, every man along the line had his chains jerked. Jackie leaned forward to shout at him, then his mouth hung open as he saw the jet of seawater spouting from the hull timbers where the man had been sitting. A plank had sprung!

Abruptly, everybody was shouting with fear. To drown, chained below! Men were fighting each other to get to their feet. One man staggered and fell, before the whole line collapsed like dominoes. At the far end a crowd of prisoners clamored at the door, hammering with their fists, pleading.

“Let us out, for the love of God! We're sinking!”

Lieutenant Dale came to his feet and moved aft, grimacing, running the gauntlet of the English sharpshooters across the debris-scattered deck. Amidships, he stumbled over a tangle of ratlines ripped from the mainmast. Hands grabbed at his uniform. Splinters of raw wood tore at his knees and elbows as he was dragged under a bulwark. A small knot of men were fighting from there, marines and sailors helping each other.

Wiping smoke-sore eyes, Dale squinted into the anxious face of Henry Gardner, the chief gunner. Before the battle started,
Gardner
had been the very model of a sailor; cool, confident, watching over his cannon and demanding nothing less than perfection. Now he was a wreck, as dirty and tired as any of them, but his face was contorted by nerves, watery eyes blinking rapidly. For a moment Dale could not reconcile the two images, mentally deaf to the gunner's chattering. Then
Gardner
fell silent, staring at him expectantly. When Dale said nothing,
Gardner
began to shake him like a dummy.

“Don't you think I'm right?”

“About what?”

“Don't you agree we should strike? We've lost all our cannon. What good are muskets against that man-o'-war's eighteen-pounders, for God's sake? Johnson here has been below and
Richard
's got no bottom left in her. He says the water's pouring into the bilges! We'll be at the bottom within an hour! We must give this up. We'll all die…”

“Silence!” Lt. Dale barked. “Get to your post and do your duty! The commodore is the only man who can order us to strike the colors. This battle's not over yet!”

Henry Gardner glared at him for a long second, scowled, and pushed himself erect. “I'll strike the colors myself! I'm the only man here with a head on my shoulders!” Then he was gone, silhouetted by flames from a nearby fire before his running figure was swallowed by gun smoke.

On the quarterdeck Paul Jones pulled the plug of a powder horn with his teeth and sifted black powder into the touchhole of the nine-pounder he had rescued from the port side. He pushed the plug back in, glancing around to make sure the marines were clear of the rope falls. A hand offered a slow match. He nodded his thanks, too exhausted to waste words. He bent wearily over the cannon to line up the back and foresights on the Englishman's mainmast. Satisfied, he stepped aside then put the match to powder. The gun roared, recoiling to slam against the tackle. The rail was shrouded in smoke. He motioned for the marine with the sponge to prepare for the next charge, taking a moment to wipe the grime from his forehead. The battle was still raging the full length of both ships. Smoke, explosions, flames, barking muskets. It went on and on. Below, on the weather deck a man moved through the drifting smoke like a wraith. The commodore smiled when he recognized him.

“
Gardner
? Just the man. Come up here. You can take over this…”

The gunner stormed onto the deck and pushed the commodore aside without a glance. Single-mindedly, he stepped through the French marines. At the taffrail he reached the stump of the ensign staff then stopped. His head swung to and fro as he searched for the colors which had been carried away by shot. When he realized he could not surrender the ship himself, he confronted Paul Jones.

“Quarters! Quarters, for God's sake!” he shouted.

The commodore's eyes flashed at the insubordination. “Hold your tongue, man! Are you mad?” he snapped.

Gardner
seemed not to hear him. “Quarters, I say!” He paced forward, arms outstretched in supplication. “Surrender, or we'll all die.”

A marine rammed home double-shot into the nine-pounder. Seeing the commodore was busy he began to prime the cannon from his powder horn.
Gardner
saw him from the corner of his eye and switched direction. He lunged, knocking the horn from the bewildered Frenchman's hand. “No! No! Quarters, I say!”

Seething, Paul Jones pulled an empty pistol from his belt. He threw without pausing to aim. The steel barrel crashed into the gunner's skull. Felled,
Gardner
collapsed over the cannon, limp. Paul Jones grabbed his jacket by the scruff of the neck and tipped him casually on the deck. He retrieved his pistol before bending to finish priming the cannon as though nothing had happened. As he aimed, he heard the voice he had come to recognize as the English captain's, calling out between the two ships.

“Sir, do you ask for quarter?”

Jones spared a disparaging glance at the inert Henry Gardner, unconscious on the deck, then began to line up the nine-pounder's sights.

“Sir, do you ask for quarter?” Captain Pearson repeated.

Aggravated, Paul Jones straightened up. Hands on hips, legs planted wide apart, he shouted back. “No sir, I hadn't even thought of it! I'm determined to make YOU strike!”

Among the bedlam on
Richard
's weather deck, Lt. Dale had been moving aft to try and stop Henry Gardner from hauling down the American colors. He heard the commodore's reply and failed to repress a smile. It quickly disappeared when instead of a retort, the English captain called: “Boarders away!”

In mid stride, Dale swung back. “Cutlasses! Pikes! Stand by to repel boarders!” He pulled free his own short sword, brandishing it above his head in encouragement. Men materialized, looking to him for leadership. “Hold the rail!” As he spun to face HMS
Serapis
the enemy came leaping over the rail, yelling to bolster flagging hearts. “Have at them!” Dale screamed, swinging his blade at the leader. “Long live
America
!”

Bonhomme
Richard
's sailors rallied, resolute if they could not capture the English man-o'-war then no English sailor or marine would set foot on
Richard
. They welcomed the invaders with hot musket balls, thrusting pikes and the cold steel of scything cutlasses. Hewing and jabbing, Dale held his ground as apparitions in striped jerseys or red uniforms appeared over the rail. His men clustered about him, lungs screaming for air, adrenaline waking exhausted bodies. The killing was over quickly. The smoke and the night cloaked the defenders. The English fell back from brutal resistance, too many of their comrades butchered on the American deck. They fled, dragging the wounded with them.

Lt. Dale passed command to a warrant officer before again starting aft. He grabbed the shattered rail to haul himself up to the quarterdeck. The commodore was laboring over the cannon. Dale noted
Gardner
's body then waited for his commander to stand up.

“Boarders repelled, sir. The men are holding.”

Paul Jones rested against the for'ard rail as he considered his ragged first lieutenant. “That new uniform I bought you is almost as bad as the one you wore when I first met you,” he observed. “But at least you've got an excuse this time.”

“Sir, I've had word we're making water in the bilges.”

Jones scowled. “I can't spare men to man the pumps. Fire is eating us above, and water grabbing us from below.” He looked away, teeth clenched. When he turned back his expression had softened. “Send someone to the brig and tell the prisoners they'll have to work for their keep. If they don't pump they can stay below in chains and go down with her when she goes.”

“
Richard
sink, sir?” Dale looked horrified.

“It's not unthinkable. If we're taking on as much water as you say and we don't beat this stubborn Englishman soon, then sinking is a possibility not to be ignored. Very well, carry on, Mr. Dale.” He turned back to his adopted cannon, rolling up his sleeves.

***

The brig was knee deep. Seawater gushed through the smashed hull timbers like a flood through open sluice gates. The prisoners nearest the door pounded their fists to pulp against solid oak. Without a hope of being heard, they competed with the fury of the raging battle above.

Jackie Rudd stood with his back to the inner sheath of planking. It was like steeping in a sewer, the prisoners' filth floating about their knees in the icy seawater. The thought of drowning obsessed him. There seemed no escape. Each man was chained to the next, the last in line shackled to a ringbolt bedded in the submerged deck timbers.

“What do you think?” Jackie asked his cousin.

Billy moved his feet so the stinking water swirled about his legs. He glanced away into the smoke near the door, absorbing the misery around him. Desperation turned his face granite. “I think we're in hell already,” he said. “It's even worse than the preacher's promise. There's no place else to go but down.” He gestured to the gaining water. He was about to say more when a commotion at the door stole his attention.

Pressing inside the brig, two marines had to use their muskets to lever a way through. One had a bloody bandage around his head while both wore uniforms blackened and torn. The smith was with them, tools in hand, accompanied by two sailors hefting an anvil. The prisoners began to yell.

“Shut up, you damned scurvy rats!” the smith shouted. When his voice had no effect he motioned to a marine who fired a round over their heads. Those nearest the door retreated, cringing, while the remainder fell silent. “Now listen to me you muttonheads! You're being released to man the pumps! Any man among you who won't work will stay down here! Now, who won't work?”

His yellowed teeth bared in an evil grin. “I thought so. Now stand quiet till you're loose, then follow my men topside. By God, you might wish you'd stayed down here!”

The two sailors placed the anvil on the deck. With the surface almost awash, they grabbed the first prisoner's wrists to stretch the links on hard steel. Using a cold chisel, the smith swung his hammer.
Sparks
flew. The prisoner stood up free and the others began to clamor again. The smith looked up with a scowl.

“Silence! Any man to shout stays down here in this midden!”

The threat was enough. Hushed, the prisoners-of-war waited their turn as the anvil moved slowly down the line. Eyes alternated between the cursing smith and the level of rising water. Jackie tried to estimate how long before he would be free. After half an hour he was next in line. The man before him still had his head bent, hands clasped in prayer, lips moving silently. The two sailors pulled him down, swearing as they forced his fingers apart so the manacles could be stretched on the anvil. The hammer rang, driving the chisel through the iron. The prisoner opened his eyes, stunned. He stared for a moment at his freed hands before raising them aloft.

“Thanks be to God! He is here at this hour!”

The smith snarled, leaning forward. He grabbed the prisoner's belt then heaved him aside. “Forget your God, scum. Thank me instead!” He turned hard eyes on Jackie. “You. Get your hands down here. I'll spend no more time in this cesspit than needs be.”

Jackie gritted his teeth as he stooped to spread his wrists. The chisel was placed. He watched the arc of the hammer. The anvil rang as the chain was severed. Free. Moving aside, rubbing his wrists, he darted a glance at Billy who stared back enviously. Jackie gestured upwards, suddenly grinning. Billy nodded grimly. One of the smith's aides thumped Jackie's shoulder.

“Get topside! All hands to the pumps!”

He nodded dumbly, not trusting his voice. He waded along the deck, seawater tugging at his canvas trousers, reluctant to lose him from its clammy embrace. Then he was in the companionway, slopping up the ladder. Musket fire grew louder. He emerged onto the gun deck, stooping under the low deck beams as he turned for the next stretch of ladder. Upended and smashed weapons and men lay strewn everywhere, cannonballs like huge black marbles dotted among the blood and human gristle. One depleted gun crew was still feverishly working their eighteen-pounder, ramming down the charge and shouting as they strained to run the truck up to the topsides. The cannoneer screamed as he set fire to the touchhole. Jackie almost cried with pain when the cannon roared, bucking back like a wild animal as it threw death out the port. Grimacing, he climbed on toward the sky. If the devastation of the gun deck battery had been a nightmare, then he was totally unprepared for the scene on the main deck.

Beneath the night sky, the rigging of the two ships stood gaunt against the moon through patches of drifting smoke. It was difficult to tell where the spars of one ship ended and the other began. They seemed tangled in a mess of trailing shrouds and braces, the remains of the sails like tattered battle pennants. Below, smoke billowed, smearing wreckage that cluttered both decks. Flames threw crimson into the sky fore and aft, and he could see flashes and hear barking of muskets from the mast crosstrees. For'ard, there was the clatter and rasp of swordplay, screams and yells from everywhere. A cannon bellowed from what he guessed must be the quarterdeck, grapeshot whistling a deadly melody toward the English warship.