Scarborough Fair (5 page)

“My husband, you must be warm wearing those clothes. I think you would be cooler without them.”

He laughed and struggled to his feet, eagerly unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Again, Therese, you are right.”

She laughed with him, but there was no warmth in her eyes.

***

The Hotel Valentinois boasted a vast library. But for the door and windows, the long walls were clothed with towering bookcases. Footsteps from the blocked floor echoed among the plaster relief friezes of the high ceiling before being soaked up by the thousands of calf-bound volumes. It was not a study where a man could wallow comfortably among his papers. For all its worth the showcase library was austere and forbidding, containing none of its owner's character.

Donatien Le Ray Chaumont sat at the huge desk, his fingers tapping noiselessly on the leather surface. Opposite, in his uniform as always, Paul Jones sat on a straight-backed chair. He held a glass of burgundy as he listened to the older man. De Chaumont made an expansive gesture. “…and so you see, Captain, I know of your difficulty regarding the acquisition of a command. This is why I am offering
L'Union
, my own privateer. You may sail her against the English and do as you wish with her.” Paul Jones said nothing, leaving de Chaumont to interpret his silence as speculation. The Frenchman raised what he hoped was a conspiratorial smile. “I can see you are wondering why I should do this. Is that not so? I will put your mind at rest. As you know, I own a fleet of merchantmen. Any disruption you cause to the English can only benefit me. More ports will be open to my ships.”

The American's eyes never left the Frenchman's face. He had already classified him. All those books leering down, the majority of them probably never read. But they had all been carefully rebound in matching calf, titles blocked in gold leaf. The man was a collector. He surrounded himself with things for the sake of possessing them. Beautiful books, beautiful ships, and probably beautiful women too. How many mistresses did he have, to supplement the meager diet Therese must allow him? Did he now want to add an American captain to his army of employees?

De Chaumont eyed him warily. “I take your silence as serious consideration of my offer. I will not press you for an answer at this exact moment. You may let me know your decision at your leisure.” He sat back, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“That will not be necessary.” Jones had put it all together. It was another of Sartine's ploys. Use de Chaumont to give him a privateer instead of the squadron he needed. All of them thought he would eventually accept any ship to be offered. In reality a privateer was little more than a pirate ship.

“You have reached a decision?” De Chaumont was eager.

The American drained his burgundy glass then placed it on the edge of the big desk. He rose to his feet, drawing his shoulders back as he smoothed down his waistcoat.

“Sir, I am not my own master, I serve the
Republic
of
America
. I cannot from my own authority serve either myself,” he smiled to lessen the sting “…or even my
best
friends. I must therefore decline your generous offer.” He paused, probing the Frenchman's expression before nodding curtly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to see to.” Without offering his hand he turned and walked away, heels tapping a stubborn tattoo across the wooden floor.

When the double doors closed, de Chaumont remained staring at the heavy paneling. That damned captain. He was pomposity personified. Perhaps the best thing would be to get him out of
France
all together. Preferably back to
America
, out of harm's way. And the man for that job was Benjamin Franklin, the main American representative in
Europe
.
Franklin
may not like the idea, but it could be demanded as a favor when agreement was needed over more crucial matters than securing a ship for an arrogant glory hunter, which Jones undoubtedly was.

As it always did, the real power lay in politics.

***

Benjamin Franklin's suite of rooms at the Hotel Valentinois also overlooked the gardens. His cluttered writing desk faced a broad expanse of manicured lawns and flowerbeds, now filled with dying blooms. A barrel-bodied man, his chair creaked a complaint when he dropped a paper he was studying and leaned back, allowing his gaze to stray to the window. Autumn had transformed Therese's beloved trees to metaled clusters of copper, bronze, and gold. While he watched, the wind stripped the crackling leaves by the handful, flinging them into the air to dance and flutter before planing down to the hardening earth. Dissatisfied, the wind picked at them so they rustled, cartwheeling along the deserted gravel paths, drifting between the tree trunks to lay a multihued carpet.

Another year, thought
Franklin
as he clasped his hands across the bulging expanse of his waistcoat. Another year and more pressure. Pressure that gained nothing, applied by schemers, deceivers, and liars all scratching their way, clawing upward to where the real power lay. He sighed, then plucked his pince-nez spectacles from the bridge of his nose and placed them on top of the discarded paper. He had never felt so tired. Always one step forward and two back. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, massaging his nose where the glasses had left ugly red marks.

What did the French have against John Paul Jones? He was a fine captain with an impeccable record. Entering the merchant marine at thirteen during wartime he had not lacked courage even as a boy. Working his way up to mate, his chance had come at the age of twenty-one. Traveling home to
England
as a passenger from
America
on the brig
John
, he had stepped willingly into the breach to take command when the master and first mate both died of fever. Nobody else on board was a competent navigator. On docking in Kirkcudbright in
Scotland
, not far from his hometown, the owners had appointed him captain, sailing the trade routes to the
West Indies
. Four years later he was master of
Betsy
, a large square-rigger which also traded in the
Indies
.

It was also to his credit that as soon as Congress had aired an inclination to seek independence from mother
England
, Jones had volunteered for
America
's non-existent navy. He had gained an appointment as first lieutenant when the Navy was formed and posted to
Alfred
, a 22-gun frigate where one of his duties was to command the lower gun deck. Only a short year later as the navy acquired more vessels he had been given the temporary rank of captain, commanding the sloop
Providence
. Quickly amassing an impressive record of engagements and victories, he had proved his worth. Although in
Franklin
's opinion, nepotism in Congress had robbed Jones of his rightful seniority on the captains' list. That situation had been rectified the following year when they had given him the newly built
Ranger
. And everybody who mattered in
France
knew what he had accomplished in that ship.

That was what
Franklin
found so irritating. The French knew all about Jones's exploits and yet Sartine and de Chaumont were trying to force deals in which the major stipulation was Jones should cease to use
France
as a base. More clearly they wanted him an ocean away, back in
America
. Somebody needed something badly if they were prepared to lose a man who might make all the difference in the war at sea. And without doubt, whether they could see it or not, ocean supremacy was a major factor in gaining victory. If that could be engineered, then anything was possible.
America
could become an important power in its own right.
Franklin
knew all too well that Jones had collected a few enemies. It was often the case with naval captains who were a law unto themselves at sea, literally masters of all they surveyed, to the point of life and death over their crews. That sort of training, unfortunately, did not lend itself to the more subtle approaches required in politics.

Franklin
sighed as he picked up the resume of Jones's career once again to study it. Damned Frenchmen. Why should he lose the best opportunity
America
had of striking hard against the English?

Somebody knocked at the door.
Franklin
continued to scan the sheet then dropped it and instead stared blindly out of the window, lost in thought. When the knocking began again, he blinked, remembering he had dismissed his secretary for the day. “Enter!” he called.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the quiet voice without any trace of accent said behind him.

He turned to look up. “Ah, Captain Jones.” He extended a hand, too tired to rise from the chair. After the handshake he gestured vaguely. “Find yourself a chair.” With a glance at the window he raised his eyebrows. “And not such a good afternoon after all. Winter is almost upon us.”

“I count each and every day,” Jones said dryly.

“How long is it now?”

“Almost five months, sir.”

“It appears you give offence.”

“Not to you, I hope, sir.”

Franklin
waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not, but you are somewhat persistent. I meant you have managed to fall foul of the two Frenchmen best qualified to help you secure a ship. I do not know what you have done, but I do know many find de Chaumont's wife very personable. A man of my age and commitments does not notice these things, but…” his voice trailed away in speculation.

Paul Jones waited for
Franklin
's customary chuckle, but the older man merely lapsed into silence, eyes sliding to the window. Jones waited. There was obviously more to come.

Benjamin Franklin began to polish his glasses. “What with one thing and another, procuring you a ship is proving somewhat difficult.” He glanced up, his gaze meeting the young captain's eyes before returning to the soft cloth as he diligently rubbed each circle of glass. “It appears we will have to take the matter in hand ourselves.” He glanced up as Jones shifted in his chair. “I shall amend that statement. You will have to take the matter in hand. You understand that if I am seen to take a leading position it would jeopardize all I and the other American representatives in this country are trying to accomplish.”

“Then how is it to be done?”

Franklin
smiled. “You will find a ship, publicly stating you are to buy her from your own reserves and equip her for a voyage. When you have done that, I will pass by M'sieur Sartine and de Chaumont. Diplomacy will compel King Louis to show willing by footing most of the bill.”

“How can you be so sure? I do, of course, have funds, but they are tied up in
Virginia
.”

“The inheritance from your brother William?”

“Yes, but my assets are all in land, and now would not be the best time for liquidating them. Even if it were possible, it could not be done overnight.”

“That will not be necessary. It has only to be known you are prepared to buy a ship and equipment. It will not actually be necessary to raise the money.”

Jones still appeared skeptical. “With respect, sir, I do not wish to appear naive, but what if King Louis is not induced to dip into the royal coffers? M'sieur Sartine as Minister of Marine and Le Ray de Chaumont as Privy Councilor both have the ear of the King.”

Franklin
nodded. “Yes, they both have influence, but it would be impolitic for them to advise against helping you if you present them with a ship that is suitable. Their sole excuse to date has been that you have found each vessel they have offered you to be inadequate, thus laying the blame at your feet.” He held up his spectacles to examine the polished lenses against the light from the tall window. “In the rare event of your fears materializing, then the money will be forthcoming from Congress. That I can guarantee, but even so, nobody but you and I will know. To all intents and purposes
you
will have bought the ship. Do you agree to those terms?”

John Paul Jones pursed his lips. He would have mortgaged his soul for a ship. The
right
ship. His shoes had lost too much leather tramping the soil of
France
and he had lingered too many hours in Therese de Chaumont's clinging arms when his conscience dictated he should be at war. He nodded. “Yes, I accept your terms.”

“Good. There remains only one thing to do.”

“Yes?”

Franklin
put on his glasses in a business-like manner, then smiled. “Go out and find yourself a ship. Have you any thoughts on the problem?”

Jones nodded. “I have written to everyone who may be able to help, but my faith lies strongest in James Moylan, a merchant at
Lorient
. In my various dealings with him, he has served me well and I trust his judgment. He has promised to write as soon as he finds a likely vessel.”