Scarborough Fair (6 page)

“Do you think your presence would encourage him?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then I suggest you journey to
Lorient
to see him. Your absence from
Paris
would please M'sieur Sartine of whom we do not wish to make too great an enemy, and I also think it would please de Chaumont. Even he is beginning to think his young wife spends too much time keeping you company.”

Jones did not miss the glint in
Franklin
's eye. “As always, sir, your advice is sound.”

Benjamin Franklin smiled. “My advice may not be the best in the world, but I think it's the best you'll get on this windy autumn afternoon.”

***

As the crow flies,
Lorient
lies 450 kilometers from
Paris
on the southern coast of
Brittany
. Danger lurked on every bend. Fragile wheels and axles were threatened by unexpected ridges or rocky-bottomed, ill-used river fords. Horses' legs could snap like twigs trapped in the uncharted shifting reefs of potholes scoured out of the king's highway by the autumn rain and the creaking wheels of overladen carts. The pensiones and inns of the road were the gathering houses of ruffians and brigands eager to fleece travelers of every franc their silk-lined pockets might hold and every trinket a lady's luggage might contain, even to the theft of her virtue. Not only the men were highwaymen. Many a traveler, keen to spend the night between fresh cotton sheets with a wholesome country wench, woke from a sated slumber to find his watch and purse had vanished along with his bed companion.

Paul Jones had traveled the same road earlier during his stay in
France
when visiting
Brest
at
Brittany
's tip where the French fleet lay at anchor. Now, his hand was always near the hilt of his sword. Any stranger to peer suddenly in the coach window was likely to be greeted by the wide muzzles of the two pistols he wore pushed into his belt. Even when he slept, a loaded pistol was always tucked under his pillow.

He was weary. The enthusiasm incited by
Franklin
at the Hotel Valentinois had seeped away with each jarring rattle of the coach as the driver bullied the horses with his whip. Listening to the crack of the lash and the jingling of the harness rekindled memories he would rather forget. Aged sixteen at the close of war in 1764, he had been released from his article of apprenticeship after serving only three years on
Friendship
, a brig trading out of Whitehaven to
Barbados
and
Virginia
. He had secured himself a position as third mate on
King George
, also sailing out of Whitehaven. What Congress's record of his service did not show was that
King George
had been a “blackbirder,” a slaver carrying negroes on the middle passage from Africa to wherever there was a market. Her live cargo had been sold to the highest bidder at the auction block.

It was no trade for the squeamish and the stench of a slaver could be detected ten miles downwind, but a young man with little or no hope of a regular berth had to take whatever he could secure. Like it or not, his four years in the blackbird trade had taught him much. The two years on
King George
and another two on
Two Friends
, sailing out of
Kingston
,
Jamaica
as chief mate.

Paul Jones wrinkled his nose in distaste. Strange how a few whip cracks and the rattle of harness could induce perfect recall of the slaves' jangling neck and ankle irons and the damnable stench of an abominable trade where human beings were treated with less care than animals. It was certainly a smell he would never forget. He shrugged away the memory as the coach slowed, the driver screaming curses. Thrown from side to side as the narrow iron wheel rims skidded on cobbles, Paul Jones threw up the blind. Holding on to his hat he leaned out into a bitter sea fret that drove into his cheeks.

“Where are we, coachman?” he yelled.

On the box, the driver wrestled with the traces, guiding the two wheel horses. “
Lorient
!” he called into the fading day.

“Thank God,” the American muttered, ducking back inside from the blinding rain. His journey was over. But then he wondered if his journey would ever be over, and if his feet would ever pace the hollow planking of a quarterdeck. If at times he hated the sea with its feminine temperament, and saw his voyaging as purely the means to gain enough wealth to buy the plantations he hoped to eventually own, then the last few months had proved how much he hated the land. At least on the open sea under a wide spread of canvas he was the temporary master of his own destiny. Ashore, his motivation seemed to leak away as he shunted between diminishing hopes of escaping the land's miserly clutches.

The coach slowed and he could hear the driver calling to somebody in the street. A voice answered and the horses' hooves picked up tempo again, but after several corners they mercifully came to a standstill.

“
Voila M'sieur
, there you are, sir. We are here.”

Paul Jones fastened the buttons of his coat and curled his cloak about his shoulders before opening the door. The mist's clammy fingers gripped his flesh as he climbed down on shaky legs to stand on the glistening cobbles. The coach almost filled the narrow street, one pair of wheels in one gutter while the other side of the mud-spattered vehicle almost scraped the bow windows on the opposite side of the street. Candlelight flickered behind a curve of bull's eye glass while a lantern outside a door illuminated a polished brass plate that simply read:
James Moylan Merchant.
Jones consulted his fob watch then tucked it safely back in his waistcoat pocket. A little after five. By all appearances Moylan was still in his office.

“Wait here for me,” he said to the coachman who was winding the traces about the brake lever. Receiving a nod, he turned back to lift the brass knocker and hammer his presence.

Almost immediately the door opened to admit him.

James Moylan was an ugly man. Squat, with the shoulders of a weightlifter above his barrel chest, he had the ruddy face of the Irishman he was, and the red nose of a man dedicated to the finer virtues of liquor. In his native
Ireland
he had been weaned on poteen distilled by the bog side, but with the accumulation of wealth he had educated his palate until only the best brandy would soothe his taste buds. His office was at the end of a ledger-lined corridor not unlike a gangway between decks. When the door was opened Moylan was revealed in a cloud of tobacco smoke that hung in layers inside the cramped room, continuously stoked by the furnace of his pipe. He sat back and squinted beyond the desk lamp when the clerk knocked and ushered in the visitor. As Paul Jones came into the circle of light the Irishman frowned, struggling to his feet, hand outstretched.

“By the Almighty God, Captain, I'm not believing you could get here so fast.”

Jones took the offered paw then gratefully heeded Moylan's gesture to take a seat. “You expected me?”

“Of course. When I wrote you, I knew you'd come. She'll be suiting you fine.”

Jones frowned. “You wrote to me?”

Moylan reached for a bottle along with two glasses. He filled them both and handed one to his guest. “I only sent it the day before yesterday to
Paris
. If you came without receiving it, your arrival must be an omen.”

“A good one, I hope. Did I hear you mention a ship?”

Moylan smiled as he sank back in his seat. He drained his glass then stood it on the desk where many glasses had left a pattern of rings. “Yes, a ship, and she's for sale.”

Jones leaned forward, both the news and the brandy warming his stomach. “Tell me.”

Moylan shuffled papers in search of a taper to relight his pipe. “The
Duc de Duras
. Nine hundred tons and owned by a M'sieur Berard. She's not new by any means, you'll be understanding. Twelve years old, built in 1766 for the
East India
run.”

“Is she here now?”

“That she is. This is her home port. I'll not be knowing if you're aware this town was only a little fishing port until it became a base of the French East India Company in 1670. The town's name L'Orient, now just the one word,
Lorient
, came from that business. The company collapsed eight years ago and now the town is a naval station, arsenal, batteries, and all.”

“Tell me more about the ship.”

Moylan puffed his pipe back into life, silent until reassuring clouds of aromatic smoke began to gather about his head. “As I'm saying, she is here and currently being refitted. Her owner has a notion to convert her into a privateer, no doubt in retaliation for the depredations of the English vessels that sail under that name, which of course is only being an excuse for piracy. To that end M'sieur Berard has managed to acquire
six eighteen
-pounder cannon from the French navy here. But I'm thinking his dream is a fanciful one. Rumor has it a lot of money changed hands over the cannon. I'm of the opinion Berard will not be able to complete his project. As it is, work has already stopped. The cannon are aboard but the gun ports have not been cut.” He paused to puff at his pipe. “Berard's merchantmen have been attacked by the English on several occasions, and I'm thinking there's no more money. If he was to receive a reasonable offer, I'm sure he would not be unwilling to reach an agreement.”

“What constitutes a reasonable offer?”

Moylan pursed his lips. “Perhaps 200,000 livres would tempt him.”

“How much is that in dollars?”

“Give or take a dollar, about $40,000.”

Jones sat back. “Whatever currency you say it in, that's a lot of money.”

Moylan's ugly face twisted into a wistful smile. “It is in the nature of things that if she cost any less she would not be worth having.”

“And is she?”

Moylan winked and nodded. “I fancy she'll be suiting you fine.” He studied the captain's expression, then continued. “I'll make arrangements for you to see her tomorrow.” He consulted his timepiece. “The hour is late. It is fortunate I had papers to attend to or you would have missed me. Tell me, do you favor well-spiced continental food?”

Paul Jones shook his head. “I'm a man of simple tastes, used to the tantrums of a sea cook. I have a liking for plain food.”

The Irishman grinned. “So have I, and my cook spares the herbs or my stomach keeps me awake all night. Then you shall be staying at my house. The food at the local inns is liable to disagree with you. I fear you see enough fish at sea without eating it three times a day when you're ashore.” He tinkled a small bell which summoned the clerk. Moylan squinted into the light. “Have the captain's luggage transferred to my coach and call us when the driver is ready to leave.”

As the clerk closed the door, Jones leaned forward. “My thanks for your offer of hospitality, Mr. Moylan. I hope I can repay you.”

The merchant eyed him, then a smile kissed the corner of his lips. “Captain, I will be well satisfied if the ship I have found suits your purpose. Us Irish were never too fond of the English.”

***

The
Duc
de
Duras
was visible from the quayside. Anchored by bow and stern, she lay idly at her moorings, ignoring the fretful pull of the morning's flowing tide in the bay. Using his telescope Paul Jones stood in the freshening breeze, eyes raking her. She was a three-master, complete with topgallant and royal masts. Her paintwork was shoddy and her rigging incomplete, but as she rolled on the swell, a scattering of wood shavings was visible along with stacks of white timber by the bow hatches where carpenters had been working. She boasted only one row of gun ports on the level of the main deck, but she stood clear enough from the water for another row to be cut to present a formidable broadside. Built as a trader, accommodation would be cramped for a fighting ship. The sailors, of course, would sleep on the gun decks in hammocks, but a roundhouse would have to be built on deck for a marine detachment, as necessary for enforcing discipline on the crew as for attacks on the enemy. On first sight
Duc
de
Duras
had distinct possibilities.

He collapsed his telescope and waited impatiently. Where was the boat Moylan had promised? He had said
ten o'clock
. Irritable, he pulled out his pocket watch, then smiled at his own impatience. Still nine minutes before the hour. As he tucked the watch away he heard footsteps behind him and turned.

“Good morning, sir.”

Jones frowned, then surveyed the farmer's face as he returned the salute. “Midshipman Dale, isn't it? You traveled to
Le Havre
with me to inspect a ship?”