Scarborough Fair (3 page)

Dale stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

“What are your orders?”

Dale's eyes sought the canvas bag. “To await any reply you may care to send, sir.”

Jones nodded. “Have you ever been to
Le Havre
?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither have I, and I hope it won't be an experience we'll regret.”

“Is there any reply for the Commissioners, sir?”

Jones smiled. “We won't know that until we've been to
Le Havre
. We go to inspect a ship.”

***

They journeyed beyond daylight and into the night, west from
Paris
as fast as the horses could pull the coach. The road was tiresome, deep mud of the previous winter baked by the July sun into ruts. The driver goaded the overworked team, his whiplash drawing dark streaks into the white lather flecked across their shoulders. Inside, on hard leather seats, the two American officers endured the jolting of stiff springs. Paul Jones thought back to when he had first boarded a ship at thirteen in his native
Scotland
and remembered wondering if he would ever grow used to the pitching and tossing of a rough sea. Now he appreciated that the motion of a ship was heaven compared to the rigors of land travel. They maintained a sporadic conversation, not too informally as befitted the difference in ranks, but mutual discomfort built a bridge between them. Even so, the tortured creaking of the coach coupled with the rattling of the wheels and the drumming of horses' hooves on the pockmarked road proved too formidable an obstacle.

The
Deux Soldats
was little more than a farmhouse, so close to the road its walls were spattered with dried mud from rushing wheels. Yellow rectangles of light cast into the night from the inn were a pleasing sight, and Jones was grateful to stretch his legs when he dismounted in the courtyard. Inside, there were few customers, the landlord quickly fetching a carafe of wine. The captain shrugged off his cloak as the innkeeper's wife brought bread and cheese before retreating to make up two beds for her unexpected guests.

“God knows when we shall reach
Le Havre
,” Jones wondered aloud, excitement over the waiting ship dulled by fatigue. He noted wryly Dale's appetite had been little blunted by travel as the young man broke bread before even sipping at his wine.

“The coachman said tomorrow afternoon, sir,” the midshipman offered before reapplying attention to his supper.

“Sooner the better. I'd trade one day's ride in that infernal coach for ten Atlantic crossings.”

Dale grinned. “I would agree with you there, sir.”

Jones raised a smile. “Have you made many crossings? Your uniform appears to have.”

Dale glanced down at the abused cloth with distaste. “I have not had either the opportunity or the finances to replace it, sir. With all the confusion of the war I am owed many months' wages. It is all I can do to live.”

“A common enough complaint,” the captain conceded, wondering why Dale had not been paid if he was attached to the American Commissioners in
Paris
. “Tell me about your war.”

“When the fighting began, sir, I was on the side of the Loyalists.” He paused, examining Paul Jones's face, offering as an excuse, “I was born in
Virginia
.” He fingered his hair, drawing a new parting to show a long scar running arrow straight across his scalp. “A Yankee musket ball did that, sir, on the
Rappahannock
River
. A marine shot at me from a cutter. When I woke up we had escaped, but were later captured by the
US
brig
Lexington
.”

“Commanded by John Barrie?” Jones queried.

Dale's eyes flickered to the older man. “Yes sir, and a finer officer, if you'll beg my pardon, I've yet to meet. He talked with me often. On his advice I joined his crew as midshipman. Later,
Lexington
was taken over by Henry Johnson. Last year we crossed the
Atlantic
to cruise around the
British Isles
, but when we turned for home we ran into a fight and
Lexington
was taken. Along with the other officers I was sent to Mill Prison at
Portsmouth
.”

Jones nodded. “I have heard of it.”

Dale smiled, eyes belying the merriment of his mouth. “I had heard of it too, sir, but nothing I heard prepared me for it. The stench of so many men thrown together and herded like pigs, rotting in their own filth. Even pigs would have turned up their noses at the swill we were fed. Shipboard vittles, salt beef with maggots and rotten hardtack with weevils would have been a gourmet's delight after the slops at the Mill.” His voice trailed away while Jones noted the relish with which Dale contemplated the plain bread and cheese on the table.

“You were set free?”

Dale sighed. “I escaped. A whisper, a bribe, and one night the turnkey stood with his back to me for a few seconds longer than he should. I kept away from the port, knowing they'd expect me to try for a ship to
France
, but after two weeks of near starvation I was caught stealing bread.” He lifted the crust from his plate for emphasis. “When they took me back I went into the Black Hole. Evil it was. I'm a man used to wide-open spaces and a broad blue sky or a tower of billowing canvas, snowy in the sunlight. Salt spray on my cheeks and the humming of the wind in the rigging. Sunlight. A simple thing we take for granted. The Black Hole was the only name for it. Not a spark of light. Not the glow of a firefly or the crimson of a dying ember. Not even moonlight. Only darkness. So thick you could rub the substance of it between your fingers. But you couldn't even see your fingers, not if they were touching your nose, and you wondered if you had arms and legs or if you ever had them at all.”

“I began to sing. Rebel songs my uncle taught me. He had been raised in
Ireland
and knew the songs the English hate. I sang them once and I sang them again, louder. And I kept on singing until I had no voice to croak the words. Every time I was ready to collapse with fear in that cold dark place, when the rats ran over my legs or their teeth nipped at my trousers, I sang.”

“When they let me out, everyone in the prison had heard of me, and when another escape was planned I was invited. We were lucky. We made it. One of the men had family connections and was able to get us onto a fishing boat. The crew did not like it, but blood is thicker than water, so they hid us under canvas and shared what little food they had. We were grateful for crumbs. And then in the cold dawn they landed us on a deserted beach near
Dieppe
. A brigantine flying American colors lay in the harbor so we presented ourselves to the officer of the watch.” Dale grinned, remembering the lieutenant's horrified face. “He must have thought we were demons cast up from the bowels of Hell. With one thing and another I came to be in Paris, a messenger for the Commissioners.”

Paul Jones gazed impassively at the young man, masking his admiration. The boy told a good tale, and had confirmed first impressions. The captain drained his glass then stood. “Interesting story. Well Mr. Dale, I'll bid you goodnight. We travel at dawn.” He crossed to climb the stairs slowly, his cloak casually slung over one shoulder.

Richard Dale watched him go. He had heard much of Captain John Paul Jones and his eagerness to be hero, but the only side Dale had seen was quiet and thoughtful. He realized then Jones had given away nothing of himself, but there had been something behind those hazel eyes, something a man could respect. Dale munched the remaining cheese, wondering if a giant lurked within the captain's slight frame. There was something strange about him that made him different to any other man Dale had ever met, even John Barry who had convinced him to join the American side. Suddenly, Dale knew he only had to be asked and he would serve under John Paul Jones wherever he went.

***

Le Havre
bustled in the July sunshine. Fishing boats bobbed at their moorings while crews mended nets and sorted gear on decks slippery with fish scales and fresh blood. Their catches had been transferred to the stalls that stood shoulder to shoulder between the capstans where shouts of invitation could be heard to inspect the wares laid in handwoven creels. The smell of fish and sea hung over the people moving to and fro on the quayside, buying and selling, coins and smiles and curses changing hands.

Paul Jones's heart filled with joy as he saw the ocean, the mistress whose demands outstripped even those of Therese de Chaumont. But it was only a glimpse, sunlight sparkling from the water, spied through an alley between tall stone buildings. The coach rattled on through the wide streets that racked away from the harbor. He had endured indescribable discomfort in the bucking coach since dawn. Only to grab a hasty meal and change horses had they stopped. His face felt grimy and the thin coat of road dust powdered his uniform.

As they neared the quay the streets grew more crowded, the driver threading between carts laden with fish returning from market. Tinkers and hawkers bartered on every corner. Women carrying baskets looked up as the coach passed, faces prematurely aged by the strain of childbirth and hard work. Ragged urchins ran alongside begging alms, eyes wide at the blue finery of the two officers. It seemed everywhere dirty cherubs stared and grinned cheekily.

Paul Jones ignored them all, eyes above their heads toward the ocean and the ship he had come to see. Slower now, the horses shambled to a walk, rattling harness bits between stained teeth and tossing tangled manes. In the center of the market where the harbor steps led down to the water, the driver hauled back on the reins and wound them around the brake lever. The team came to a stamping halt, iron shod hooves scraping sparks from the cobbles.

Brisk now, Jones threw open the coach door and stepped down. Faces turned to him as he doffed his tricorn hat to smooth back his hair before firmly placing the hat back on. His step was so confident people moved instinctively from his path as he walked to a capstan wrapped with the painter of a ship's boat moored at the steps. A sailor in a blue shirt with a belaying pin stuck in the waistband of his canvas trousers guarded it. When he saw the captain approaching, he unfolded his arms and came to attention. Richard Dale materialized from the captain's wake to confront the sailor.

“Seaman, where lies
Epervier
?” the midshipman demanded.

The sailor's head moved a fraction. “Yonder in the bay, with the black and yellow topsides, sir.”

Dale looked out to where a captured English corvette bravely held her head into the breeze as though remembering better days. Her topsides were holed and scarred by ball, her gunwales splintered by grapeshot. Shrouds and ratlines were ragged, a tangle of blocks and pulleys. The mainmast remained as a cracked stump, standing six feet above the bloodstained deck. Her foremast carried depleted yards, hastily jury-rigged under storm canvas, now furled. She wore the desolate air of a captive, her weary timbers deaf to the enticing whispers of the open sea, miserable among the cluster of fishing boats and coasters. Richard Dale's mouth tightened as he stepped closer to John Paul Jones.

“That's her, sir.
L'Epervier
.” The midshipman felt like a child beside the captain. It wasn't the difference in years, more the quiet oozing confidence, an assurance of capability. Jones revealed little, but there was a certainty about his slim shoulders. Show him a problem and he would smooth it away. Dale tried to fathom the aura and came no closer to an answer. He noted Jones's relaxed stance but suspicion nagged that he was looking at a purring cat that could turn into a tiger in a bare instant.

Unaware of Dale's perusal, Paul Jones clasped his hands behind his back. He stared out into the bay, legs planted firmly on the land as though on the quarterdeck of a rolling ship. His eyes were cold, calculating, his chiseled face granite. But his voice betrayed disgust and disappointment as he turned away from the battered corvette.

“I see her,” was all he said.

“Damn them! Damn their eyes!” Paul Jones spat, hands bunching into fists. Sun flashed from the buckles of his highly polished shoes as they crunched on the gravel as he strode back and forth. Sweat glistened on his forehead and upper lip as if his frustration was boiling out into the summer air.

The gardens at the Hotel Valentinois were exceptionally beautiful that year, Therese de Chaumont thought, turning a deaf ear to the captain's blasphemy. She sat quietly on the long seat, immaculate coiffeur untouched by the breeze, satin ruffles of her gown falling in a carefully arranged cascade about her tiny feet. A parasol defended her complexion and bare shoulders from the summer sun while a fan lay in her lap should the heat become uncomfortable.

While the captain ranted, she viewed the work of her gardeners. The lawns were perfect, symmetrically divided by raked gravel paths into rectangles, arcs, and octagons. Flowerbeds blossomed, kaleidoscopes of color contrasted by lustrous evergreens. Although the blooms gave her immeasurable pleasure, the trees were her special delight. Sycamores, poplars, ash, and beech arranged into copses to breathe life, but best of all she loved the oaks. Tall and broad and strong like a man in his prime, eager and reaching for the sky, but firmly rooted, something to cling to. But what brought joy also brought sorrow. With the passing of the seasons their branches grew a little wider, a little denser, adding to their beauty, while hers was flawed a little more each year. A wrinkle, a sag, a bulge. As she contemplated the ageing process, a butterfly tumbled and danced over the nearest flowerbed. Her eye picked out a dying flower among healthy companions. She looked away to her trees, knowing how the flower felt.