Scarborough Fair (32 page)

“Jackie?”

“Aye, what?”

“Sing us a song.”

Harry swung his eyes from the open sea to smile at the two lads and the seaman with the mop of ginger curls. Arm along the length of the tiller, he leaned on it a little so
Gin
tilted her nose toward the land. He nodded his agreement. “I've missed your voice, our Jackie.”

Jackie's mouth curled in an easy smile, still gazing fondly at his hometown where the waves marched in to dissolve on the beach. He thought of Rose for a moment, comparing her to Dorry in
Whitby
. He wondered if she would ever be like Dorry, wild and eager, but then he knew there would never be anybody like Dorry for him again. That was a different part of his life, excitement which had brought danger and fear too, the last few days when he did not know what the next hours held. Slavery, prison, or freedom, even death. No, he would always associate Dorry with that, but he would remember her now and again. Rose would have her moments too, he was sure, but more tender…

“Are you going to sing, then?” Harry prompted.

Jackie nodded, already trying to bury the memories. He cleared his throat, soothed by the cold tea. With a smile, he put back his head and opened his mouth, and the words came clear and sweet, carried by the breeze.

“Are you going to
Scarborough
fair,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme?

Remember me to one who lives there,

She once was a truelove of mine…”

***

The night was long gone.
Serapis
rolled gently with the tide. Paul Jones had breakfasted, shaved, and donned his uniform before mounting the ladder to his new quarterdeck. At the staff, his commodore's pennant now flew, proclaiming
Serapis
the new flagship of the squadron. It was
ten o'clock
. Lieutenant Richard Dale was standing with the sailing master at the foot of the mizzenmast, discussing the jury-rig to see if improvements could be made. He saw the commodore from the corner of his eye, excused himself, then approached the quarterdeck. He saluted.

“Good morning, sir.”

“And to you, Mr. Dale.” Paul Jones looked off to
Bonhomme
Richard
. Her lower gun ports had been lashed down but were almost awash. “Is there anyone left aboard?”

“No sir. The last boat was hoisted in only minutes ago. All the wounded were aboard by dawn before the prisoners were brought off. Another search of her was made before the last boat left. I was worried there might be others left aboard after we found Midshipman Mayrant and two sailors locked in your old cabin.”

“What happened?”

“He was in command of one of the boats. Near dawn one of his sailors was taken ill and while his attention was diverted some prisoners took over the boat. Mayrant and his men were bound and gagged, then hidden in your cabin.”

“Mayrant had a wounded arm, didn't he? Is he all right?”

“Yes sir. They knocked out one of the seamen, but otherwise they harmed nobody.”

Jones nodded thoughtfully. “Did we lose any more boats?”

“No sir.”

“I'm surprised. Did you instigate a search?”

“No sir, the weather was too thick. I thought it best not to send out boats in case they got lost. With none of our own men at risk…” He faltered.

The commodore nodded. “You made the right decision.”

“Have you any orders, sir?”

“Yes, stand by to make sail for
Holland
. We have a rendezvous at the
Texel
.” He glanced at the French ships of his squadron. “If this rabble will follow me.”

An hour later Paul Jones consulted his fob watch.
Eleven o'clock
. He peered down at the men working on the weather deck before craning his neck to see aloft where sailors straddled spars, lashing new canvas and rigging.

“Sir?”

He twisted to see Lt. Dale at the rail, arm outstretched.
Bonhomme
Richard
was settling. Her head dipped slowly until her bowsprit grazed the sea. Motionless, she listed sharply to lie on her side until they were virtually looking down onto her decks. Ruined masts pointed accusing fingers at
Serapis
. For a moment she seemed to hover, undecided, then with a shudder she slid beneath the
North Sea
. Black water closed over her, leaving only flotsam bobbing above her grave.

Paul Jones looked for a long time at her resting place. Soon, even the last ripple had dissipated. He turned to the quarterdeck rail. Below, his crew lined the bulwarks, all staring at the empty sea. He fancied he could read in their faces some of his own emotions. Silently, one by one, they drifted away to resume work. One or two turned to look up at the commodore on the quarterdeck.

“You won a great victory. I doff my hat to you,” Colonel de Chamillard said at his shoulder. “You have achieved the impossible. You fought and beat an English man-o'-war within sight of
England
. To my knowledge, it has never been done before. You will be a hero now.”

Paul Jones turned to study the Frenchman. “We shall see about that,” he commented tonelessly, trying to hide his feelings. “I may have won, but I lost too.” He looked away, back at the leaden sea. Suddenly he straightened his shoulders as though leaving it all behind him. “Mr. Dale, are the anchors hoisted? Then set a course for
Holland
!”

Moments later, men scrambled as petty officers issued threats. Canvas billowed aloft and the captured
Serapis
, under her new master, set sail for the open sea.

1787

Paul Jones sighed, staring morosely out of the window high over the rooftops of Paris. Would he ever have another victory as great, he wondered, as that day he captured HMS
Serapis
? The battle at Flamborough Head had been eight long years ago. And little thanks he'd had at the time. While the king of
France
had presented him with a magnificent gold hilted sword, inscribed:
Louis XVI, the rewarder of the valiant avenger of the sea
, and a decoration,
l'Order du Merite Militaire
that accorded him the title Chevalier, Congress had offered nothing. Only praise. He had even had to beg them for permission to accept the French medal, and still they had offered him nothing more than verbal reward. He fingered the dark blue ribbon in his buttonhole with a touch of bitterness. On his return to
America
, Benjamin Franklin and Jefferson had recommended him for the rank of rear admiral, but two of the captains above him on the seniority list had succeeded in having his appointment suppressed. The irony was that both of them had never achieved the open sea in their ships, landlocked throughout the entire war.

At the sound of a footstep in the hallway he turned from the window. The door handle rattled, then she was in the room. Just the sight of her awoke his hunger. The widow Therese Townsend. Flawless skin and wide dark eyes that held all the promise of night. They contrasted vividly with her silvered wig, that touch of aristocracy she affected to endorse her claim as cousin to Louis XVI. She wore a green velvet dress, cut to emphasize her slim neck and ample bosom. Her waist was barely a hand span and she stood now, one hand on hip, appraising him from the doorway, mouth curved into a smile.

How like a cat she looks, he thought. A cat who has its paw on the mouse's tail, relishing the anticipation of games to come. She reminded him of another Therese, a confrontation much the same as this but in a room far more elaborate. But then, M'sieur de Chaumont had earned considerably more than a naval officer. And how many ladies had there been since that Therese? He smiled. A gentleman does not keep count.

“I am happy, Commodore, you are pleased to see me,” Therese Townsend smiled. “I am flattered to be the first person you asked to see since you arrived back in
Paris
.”

He held open his arms. “Do I get a Parisian welcome?”

She came into his embrace, lips soft and yielding, her body a mold for excitement. Her scent invaded his very mind, an aperitif to the afternoon. The kiss was long and deep before she drew back, pouting, to study his face.

“Chevalier, the Knight.” She raised a teasing eyebrow. “A pun, or deliberate?” When he laughed, she touched the ribbon in his buttonhole. “And this is your medal?” He nodded and she pressed close. “I think I could give you a medal too. No wonder half the ladies in
Paris
titter when your name is mentioned.” She freed herself from his hold and began to peel off her gloves. “And what of
America
? Did they welcome you as I did?”

He chuckled. “At last
America
has recognized my achievement.”

“Help with my dress, please.” As he moved behind her to loosen the fastenings she looked over her shoulder with a frown. “I do not understand these things. Tell me, exactly what was so special about what you did?”

He stepped back as she wriggled free of the emerald velvet. He watched as she hung the dress over a chair then kicked off her shoes and began to roll down her silk stockings. His mouth was suddenly dry. She paused. “Well, what was so special?”

He cleared his throat, hands gesturing. “I challenged the ocean supremacy of the English in their own waters, within sight of
England
. The locals, you know, lined the cliffs at Flamborough Head and watched the battle. But most importantly,
I won
. And against a far superior ship, a brand new frigate when my own ship was a converted old
East India
merchantman.”

“
Bonhomme Richard
? My stays, please.” She turned her back to him again. He stroked her bare shoulder, his other hand beginning to unwind the stays of her corset. “But surely you had a whole squadron?”

He snorted. “Yes, but they refused my order to engage. One ship,
Alliance
, even fired into me at the height of the battle.”

“
Alliance
? I have heard of her captain, Pierre Landais.”

“A most erratic man. He was eventually court-martialled for that and other things. The navy dismissed him in disgrace.” As he completed the explanation, he released the whalebone corset. Deftly, she caught and set it down on the chair before tugging down her pantaloons. Naked but for a garter, she turned to face him. She allowed him a long look, then tiptoed to the bed. Covered by the sheets, chin resting on raised knees, she watched as he undressed.

“You said America has recognized your achievement now. How?”

He faltered, turning to give her a small smile. “I am to receive a Congressional Medal of Honor. It has yet to be designed, but it will be cast in gold.” He brushed a hair from his uniform jacket before hanging it on the chair back. She fell silent as he peeled off his shirt and breeches, folding both carefully before turning toward the bed. She lay back, holding open the covers for him to join her. In bed, he propped himself up on one elbow and looked down into her face.

She peered up, wide-eyed. “And so, if America is now proud of you, what brings you to France?” After a moment she chuckled. “I would like to think you came back for me.”

He smiled gallantly. “Would that I had. No, I am to be attached to the French navy again. It appears La Belle
France
will soon be at war with
England
.”

She grimaced. “Not again. War, there is always war.”

Paul Jones pulled her close, kissing her nose. She hooked a leg over his thigh, her body pliant, inviting.

He smiled slowly. “My lady, what else is there but love and war?”

END