Scarborough Fair (7 page)

“Yes, sir.” Dale broke into a smile, flattered the captain should remember him. His smile was infectious, drawing one from Paul Jones.

“Are you here on orders?”

“Delivering dispatches, sir, to a vessel that sailed with the tide. I came down for one last look at the sea before returning to
Paris
.”

“You still have no berth?”

“No, sir.”

The captain looked off into the bay. “You said you are about to leave?”

“Not immediately, sir,” the midshipman answered, his eyes following the captain's to where
Duc
de
Duras
lay.

Jones glanced sideways at him. “Would you like to accompany me on a short trip?” He waved an arm. “Out there, to look at a ship. As I recall we did not even go aboard the last one we went to visit together.”

Dale smiled. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

Jones nodded. “Good.” He caught sight of a ship's boat coming in to the quay. “If I'm not mistaken, our transport.”

When the jollyboat came alongside, Midshipman Dale was already at the foot of the steps to take command, but his poor French only led to confusion. Jones took over smoothly, taking a seat in the stern sheets, his back ramrod straight. He waved the red-faced midshipman into the boat. As he sat down, Dale apologized for his sparse French. The captain ignored him, instead commanding the boat crew to cast off before smiling indulgently.

“Mr. Dale, there are two ways of learning French. Either go to the
Comedie
, or take a mistress.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “Preferably, do both.”

Duc
de
Duras
was a shambles. A jumble of spars impeded a speedy survey of the main deck. Blocks and tackle lay in tangles of cordage that snared unwary feet. Pots of tar and abandoned shipwright's tools were strewn in the companionways. Saws, mallets, caulking irons, clamps, reeming chisels, and wring staffs were scattered on top of ragged canvas that a sailmaker had attempted to patch into sails. Jones moved forward cautiously, absorbing the unfinished work, his main pleasure the rolling of the vessel beneath his feet and the vision of tall masts arrogant against the sky. Gingerly, he lifted the corner of a tarpaulin near the main hatch. Bronze gleamed dully. The eighteen-pounder cannon the owner had acquired from the French navy. He stooped to examine the bore of the top weapon, then the next, noting their ill care with distaste. M'sieur Berard had received a raw deal, whatever he had paid. The American glanced up at the ship again. Every inch of her required a great deal of work.

With Dale trailing in his wake, he examined her full upper decks, poop, and quarter, before moving below, inspecting mast footings and capstans before roaming the holds, trying to imagine them divided into quarters and gun decks. Having commanded a lower gun deck in battle, he tried to estimate the number and placement of cannon she could withstand without the timbers shaking to pieces after the first broadside. He picked up a loose spike and used all his strength to drive it into the topsides. He pursed his lips and nodded, the familiar excitement rising in his chest. If her superficial condition was ignored, underneath lay a sturdy ship. He left the embedded spike as testament to his decision and climbed back up the companion ladder to stand in the breeze.

She was the best he would get, and she could give him victories. Neither Sartine nor de Chaumont was going to steal this chance from him. However she looked now, she would make a fighting ship.

When Paul Jones turned, Dale was startled by his devilish grin. “Well, Mr. Dale. I will need a lot of help to make her ready for the sea. Trustworthy men.”

Dale drew back his shoulders, cheeks ruddy as he blushed. “I should like to volunteer, sir.”

“An officer would have to speak French well enough to supervise carpenters and crew.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but mine could be improved.”

Jones's smile was like sunshine. “Mr. Dale, I'm counting on it.”

***

Christmas came and went. There was no word to confirm
Duc de Duras
was to be his. Paul Jones continued to accept the hospitality of James Moylan's home. Deskbound, he sharpened his quills, writing letter after letter to Benjamin Franklin, all but pleading for command of the ship that lay deserted at her moorings in the bay. If he thought his days wasted while the war raged without him, there were distractions, the chief one unwittingly supplied by James Moylan. For such an unattractive man, he had a surprisingly pretty young wife, obviously acquired by wealth and position. Although tempted, Paul Jones tactfully kept her at arm's length, loath to upset the business relationship he had built with her husband. Mrs. Moylan recognized his reluctance and gracefully retreated. Jones's notoriety also brought invitations from every wealthy household in
Lorient
. Wives assuaged curiosity about the American in his dashing uniform, while husbands were keen to solicit business should work begin on his ship.

Paul Jones attended each party, voiced pleasantries, and remained impervious to the subtle advances from both wives and husbands. His heart lay not in the arms of a woman or at the bottom of a brandy glass, but down where
Duc de Duras
headed up into the wind, her peeling bowsprit aching to taste the salt of fresh oceans, forever wary of the call of the breaker's yard.

And still he waited.

***

Sartine's cough sounded like a nervous girl clearing her throat. It was growing worse. How much longer did he have? So much to accomplish and time slipping away. And it was always worse when he was upset. Who could not be upset in a job like this? Minister of Marine, and war's knuckles rattling on his door. He dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief. Unable to restrain himself, he examined the tiny blood specks on the lace. The familiar panic twisted in his stomach. He was glad the American Commissioners had left. They stole his time, and that
Franklin
! Like a stubborn ox, hammering the same point again and again. John Paul Jones. Sartine's lips curled with distaste as he stared at the name again, written in tiny handwriting on the blotter pad before him.

“M'sieur
Franklin
was on form today, Minister.”

Sartine glowered up at de Chaumont who was standing in front of the desk, his black woolen suit rumpled from the long meeting. “It seems he has outflanked us,” Sartine conceded, trying not to show his anger. “He has a brain like quicksilver and he is as devious as a fox. I have no doubt he put Jones up to buying his own ship, and if the truth be known, probably put the money in his pocket to do it. Not that they would have to find the money. He knew that too.” He coughed again, turning away as his shoulders heaved.

De Chaumont politely averted his eyes, allowing them to roam the magnificent tapestries that coated the office walls as though it was a palace. “Sometimes I think
Franklin
can see right through me with those steely eyes,” the Privy Councilor remarked.

The minister grunted. “He sees far too well. Apparently it was obvious to him we are reserving all the best ships for our own brave French Captains. God knows, they will soon be sailing against the English. He must have seen the best way to get a ship was to find one himself, knowing King Louis had promised to foot the bill.
Franklin
is well aware I cannot refuse to pay now, or the king will appear to be a liar.” He paused, breath rasping through his nose as he fought down another coughing fit. “And the King does not want to appear a liar in front of the whole world. Blame would fall on my shoulders quicker than Madame Guillotine. And there is too much to do to risk my career over an arrogant glory hunter.”

De Chaumont's lips drew a thin line in sympathy. He knew how much Sartine hated to be out-manipulated. “Perhaps it is all for the best to give him his ship now and be done with it. He can do part of our navy's job for us, sparing French ships. As you say, he is eager to snatch glory by whatever means necessary. He will either die for nothing or become a hero.”

Sartine frowned. “You think him more than competent?”

De Chaumont's jowls shook. “There is something about the man—magnetism, and he has an original mind. I feel he will do something outrageous, and if he fails he will be a reckless fool, but if he pulls it off he will be a genius.”

“I sometimes wonder if the two are not so far apart,” Sartine commented. He studied his papers for a moment. “Do we have more business?”

“Only the appropriations for the fleet at
Brest
.”

“That can wait. Send for my secretary. I will write to Captain Jones now and then it is done with.” Sartine raised an eyebrow, voice a dry crackle. “From now on his fortune lies with God.”

***

The letter arrived in early February. John Paul Jones could almost see Sartine's teeth clenched as he dictated that he was delighted to inform Captain Jones “
in consequence of the distinguished manner in which you have served the United States, and the complete confidence that your conduct has deserved on the part of Congress, King Louis has thought proper to place at your disposition the ship
Duc de Duras
of 40 guns, now at Lorient
.”

Paul Jones read the letter twice. Satisfied his eyes had not lied, he placed the parchment squarely on the desk and leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together into a bridge. Softly, he blew through the span of fingers, long sighs to exorcise the tension imprisoned in his aching muscles throughout the winter.
Franklin
had done it, achieved everything he had promised. The wasted time was now as nothing. The future lay ahead. He decided to rename the ship in acknowledgement of
Franklin
's efforts.
Bonhomme Richard
, the Good Man Richard, a pen name
Franklin
used for satires he wrote for the daily papers. Jones began to smile. Frustration had fled, replaced by growing elation. He demolished the bridge of his fingers, his right hand drawing into a fist.

The wheels had begun to turn.

Moylan was $4,000 adrift on his estimate of M'sieur Berard's asking price for the new
Bonhomme Richard
. Either the Irishman had added his ten percent agent's fee on top, or Berard had sniffed the King's presence in negotiations and decided the royal purse could stand a little extra expense. Whatever, Sartine eventually paid $44,000 for the ship, then the King further authorized the royal coffers would also bear the cost of refitting and supplying armaments.

Feeling he had outstayed his welcome at Moylan's house, no matter how the Irishman and his young wife protested to the contrary, Paul Jones moved into his captain's cabin aboard
Bonhomme Richard
. His trunks and baggage arrived from
Paris
along with the midshipman, Richard Dale. Between them, they pored over plans spread on the chart table in the stern cabin, then personally directed the carpenters and shipwrights from dawn to dusk. At last aboard ship, Jones was reluctant to return to the land, but necessity forced him to endure coach travel on numerous occasions. Satisfied the superficial work to
Richard
was well in hand, he began to take advantage of the King's
carte blanche
offer to pay for any armament he cared to purchase. Cannon were in short supply. With no success at foundries in
Nantes
and Perigeux, he managed to secure a delivery date from a firm in
Angouleme
along with a promise from Sezerac & Sons in
Bordeaux
to cast the rest.

When both contractors defaulted, Benjamin Franklin exerted heavy pressure to obtain sixteen new model sixteen-pounders from the French Navy. These were mounted on the covered gun deck along with a dozen old twelve-pounders. The six old eighteen-pounders discovered on the first day's inspection were mounted
a la Sainte Barbe
in the gunroom when gun ports had been cut. Six nine-pounders on the foc'sle and quarterdeck completed
Bonhomme Richard
's ordnance.

Men were harder to find than guns. Reluctantly, Paul Jones took on English deserters and Portuguese. The English were unruly, but they signed on without complaint, and American sailors recently released from English prisons were added to the complement, brawls often breaking out between the different nationalities. Captain Jones was also to find he had not escaped Therese de Chaumont's husband. With the good news that he was at last to command a squadron came also the bad news that Donatien Le Ray de Chaumont was to be paymaster general of that squadron. Although the American received the news of his becoming a commodore with pleasure, he determined not to wallow in jubilation until the promised ships materialized.

***

It was shortly after dawn when he was woken by knocking at the cabin door. He shrugged away sleep and pulled himself up on the pillows of his narrow cot. Outside the stern lights he could see the sun barely peeping over the horizon, its first rays fanning out over the restless sea.