Scarborough Fair (8 page)

“Enter!”

Midshipman Dale opened the door with a broad grin. It was the widest awake the captain had seen him at that hour.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but they're here.”

Paul Jones's mind was still lazy with sleep. “Who? And where's the boy with the tea?”

“The squadron, sir,” the midshipman replied, ignoring the second question. “Your ships, sir. They're in the bay. The last one is anchoring now.”

The captain's eyes flashed from Dale's face to the stern window and back again, the velvet cloak of sleep forgotten. He flung back the covers and pushed his feet into slippers. “Here, eh? I hope you speak the truth. I never thought I'd see the day.”

“May I offer my congratulations, sir.”

Jones smiled. “Thank you. I'll be on deck directly.”

Twenty minutes later Dale caught a movement on the edge of his vision and twisted to see the captain appear at the head of the companion ladder. Dressed in his full uniform, complete with tricorn hat, Paul Jones climbed to the poop deck where he took a position at the port rail to survey the bay.

Only a few cable lengths distant lay
Alliance
, a newly built American frigate under the command of Pierre Landais. Jones knew little of him but what
Franklin
had included in his letters. Landais had originally been in the French Navy but had been discharged in 1775 for refusing promotion to Lieutenant of the
Port
Of
Brest
. Two years later he had gone to
America
with a letter of introduction to Congress that recommended him for a commission in the infant American Navy. His wish promptly granted, now he was anchoring in a French port again, this time as an American officer.

Beyond
Alliance
lay
Pallas
, a frigate carrying twenty-six nine-pounders. Paul Jones could see activity on her decks and also in the rigging. Captain de Brulot Cottineau de Kerloguen had wasted little time in ordering men aloft to dry and furl the sails. Through his glass, Jones could see the gold-frogged uniform of the captain as he personally supervised carpenters who appeared to be rectifying battle damage. Perhaps she had been in action against the English during her voyage. Jones hoped so, for blooded men would make a useful acquisition. A crew who had fought together had confidence.

“What vessels lie astern of
Pallas
?” Jones asked, trying to peer beyond
Alliance
's quarter.

Dale had already made enquiries. “The brig
Vengeance,
sir, commanded by Lieutenant de Vaisseau Ricot.”

“Armament?”

“A dozen four-pounders, sir.”

Jones nodded thoughtfully. A useful support. And she looked almost as fast as the last vessel in his little squadron, which had entered the bay at sunset the evening before.
Le Cerf
, almost as proud looking as the stag she had been named for. A captured English King's cutter, she carried a persuasive complement of sixteen six-pounders and two eight-pounders. Her commander, Ensigne de Vaisseau Varage, had already visited
Bonhomme Richard
after mooring and had met his new commodore of whom he had heard much. Varage had been suitably impressed and pleased to learn that while he sailed with the squadron he would be accorded the rank of lieutenant in the American Navy.

Paul Jones could see the Ensigne across the water, standing at the rail of his cutter as he too inspected the new arrivals. Well, Jones thought, that's all of them now.
I have my squadron
. Whatever victories he had already won were behind him now. Now he could achieve much more. Five ships to hack and thrust at the English. Adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream at the thought of what lay ahead. By God, if the English already hated him, he would force them to respect him too. The very notion brought a flood of warmth. He sucked down a deep breath then compressed his telescope and tucked it under his arm. He glanced aloft at the starboard watch at work on the main yards, fixing running blocks and tackle before he turned to Richard Dale.

“How's your signaling? Rusty?”

Dale smiled. “I believe I can manage, Commodore.”

Paul Jones blinked. It was the first time he had been addressed by his new rank. “Run me up: ALL COMMANDERS TO REPAIR TO THE FLAGSHIP. Let's see what manner of men we have in our company.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The commodore was pleased to see the midshipman had anticipated his order. Without a glance at the code book, Dale ran up a series of flags. As they broke open in the breeze Jones smiled, his first order as commodore, then once again used his telescope. Within moments, all the vessels in the squadron had hauled up acknowledgements. The last was
Alliance
.

Paul Jones hoped that was not an omen.

Day was dissolving into night on 12 June when the squadron slipped out of Lorient on the evening tide. Their mission was to escort a small fleet of French merchant vessels to landfall at various ports on the
Bay of Biscay
. Paul Jones stood at the weather rail on the poop, legs adjusting to the rolling deck as he watched his ships spread out behind
Bonhomme Richard
. Lanterns threw hazy circles of light in the crosstrees, flickering as sails caught the wind, furled canvas shaken out to stretch and billow with the promise of a voyage. What little pleasure the sight afforded was dispelled by the anger that writhed like a cobra in his gut.

Le Ray de Chaumont had done it again. Jones was sure the Frenchman knew more than he cared to admit about his wife's feelings for the dashing American. Here he was, sailing out to escort a handful of merchant ships, when he should have been sailing to join Lt. General D'Orvilliers's fleet which had cleared
Brest
a week earlier to combine with a Spanish fleet to scour the English Navy from the Channel. There was little doubt they were going to invade
Britain
while the English were busy with the war in
America
. Reports had reached Jones that 40,000 French infantry had been massing ready to embark.

He grimaced into the wind then became aware of footsteps behind him. Richard Dale appeared, newly promoted to first lieutenant, looking a little uncomfortable under the weight of his new responsibility. Paul Jones's own uniform had acquired two shoulder epaulets that proclaimed his own new rank of commodore. He glanced away from Dale, aloft where the masts disappeared into the growing gloom, then down to the main deck where marines were idling, some working at their equipment while others watched the international band of sailors as they manned the braces to trim the sails. He turned back toward the spangle of glittering jewels that was the receding lights of
Lorient
.

“We are free of port at last.”

Dale stood beside him. “Yes, sir.” He sniffed the breeze like a hound seeking scent. “With your permission, sir, it looks as though we'll get some weather soon.”

Jones nodded. “On that we agree. Order another two points west. The sooner we clear this lee shore the better.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Dale passed the order to the helmsman, then the deck canted as
Richard
obeyed her rudder. Below, on the main deck, commands were shouted as the crew jumped to trim the sail plan to reap the maximum benefit of the wind.

Paul Jones turned to speak but saw Dale had moved on past the helmsman and down into
Richard
's waist where he was showing his new authority as first lieutenant by berating the watch for their slow handling of the braces.
Alliance
had responded to the lead shown by
Richard
, heeling as she altered course. Jones noted with a professional eye that she had not corrected enough to maintain a steady station from his flagship. More adjustment was necessary if she was not to come too close. He was not worried, but Captain Landais should be wary of falling foul of his new commodore so soon.

The commodore smiled and turned to gaze astern at the encroaching weather. Moisture dampened Jones's cheek, drawing his eyes to the sky, now pitch dark. The squall had caught them quicker than expected. Almost immediately he was blinking as the wind drove the full force of the rain against his face. He squinted aloft at the towers of canvas. The sails were rippling, spilling before filling out as the sharp eddies swirled and battered at the frail material. A glance told him the helmsman was fighting the wheel as
Bonhomme Richard
began to lose headway in the cross sea.

“You there! What's your name?” Jones shouted at a young midshipman climbing the companion ladder to the poop.

“Fanning, sir!” the boy called back, cupping a hand about his mouth.

“Well Fanning, lend a hand there!” He pointed to the struggling helmsman whose straining muscles writhed under his soaked shirt.

Without another glance at the boy, Jones turned back to search out
Alliance
in the rain streaked night. He muttered curses when he saw she was almost abreast, gray pyramids of canvas shivering in the testy wind. She was still altering course in an attempt to keep her station, but
Richard
's lack of headway meant if
Alliance
kept coming, she would run under
Richard
's bows. Was Landais a fool? He could not overhaul
Richard
quickly enough to take up a new station on the starboard quarter.

The commodore reached for his telescope, but before he could see who commanded
Alliance
's bridge the lens was already smeared with rain. Suddenly, hunched there in the tearing wind, blind, all too wary of the danger threatening his ship if
Alliance
did not give way as the rules of the sea demanded, Jones recalled a conversation he had held with John Adams who had crossed the
Atlantic
with Captain Landais. What was it he had said? “Landais knows not how to treat his officers or passengers, nor anybody else. There is in this man an inactivity and an indecisiveness that will ruin him. He is bewildered—an absent bewildered man—an embarrassed mind.”

The commodore could only hope
Adams
was wrong. Such a man in command of a warship could prove extremely dangerous. That was if he had a warship after the next few minutes.
Alliance
was drawing closer by the second, plowing through the heavy sea, spume and spray climbing her topsides to be flung across the deck. Jones grabbed a speaking trumpet and began shouting into the wind.

“Ahoy there!
Alliance
! Sheer off!”

There was no response.

“
Alliance
! Haul away! Sheer off!”

Jones's eyes widened, ignoring the bite of the rain. Now
Alliance
was presenting a broadside as
Richard
swung slowly. What canvas he could see above her deck was quivering as she luffed up into the wind. She stood less than half a cable away, closing with every second. If he could barely see
Alliance
's sails, then the chance of Landais deciphering signal flags was non-existent Was the man blind, stupid, incompetent, or all three?

“Helmsman!” Hard a starboard!” he screamed into the wind.

The sailor did not hear him, muscles bunched as he fought against the crosscurrent yanking on the rudder. Beside him the small figure of the midshipman clung to the helm, buckled shoes sliding on the wet deck. The commodore pushed his hat hard down onto his head, robbing the wind's fingers of their prize as he pushed away from the rail. He caught the helmsman's shoulder, the man's taut face turning, alarm written in his streaming eyes.

“Hard a starboard, man!”

“Aye aye, sir!” he replied through clenched teeth. The current yielded for a second, the oak spokes blurring as they spun.
Bonhomme Richard
did not respond.

In that moment Paul Jones knew they could not escape the inevitable. He watched powerless as
Richard
swallowed the sea between the two ships, pile driving through the wave crests. A wind had come from nowhere to fill her sails. He felt a surge of hope as the deck plunged beneath his feet then heeled as she belatedly succumbed to the helm.

Hope died with crash of splintering timbers for'ard. It was as if
Bonhomme Richard
was in pain. She groaned, winced, and shuddered. Sails suddenly boomed aloft as if she was gathering her power to ram right through
Alliance
, butting at the frigate's ribs like an angry bull.

The wind buffeted the commodore as he strode to the companion ladder, one hand gripping the rail while the other denied the wind his hat. Lanterns spluttered, shadows crawling like doom over the gear-scattered deck. A figure fell from a yardarm, his scream of fear already buried by the shrieking wind. Jones spared the unfortunate man a bare glance before his eyes were drawn back to the crunching of splitting timbers up in the bows. Amidships, another man lay face down between
two sixteen
-pounder cannon, his blue officer's uniform sodden, awash with seawater searching escape in the scuppers. A spar somehow torn from the mainmast swung murderously to and fro scant inches above his head. Sailors gaped, hesitantly stepping forward, then retreating as the spar swung back over him.