Scarborough Fair (9 page)

Without a thought Jones ran forward. The limp body was deadweight but he managed to drag him across to the port side rail. The group of sailors, embarrassed the commodore had done their work, clustered around as Paul Jones turned the officer over. His face was covered with brine-diluted blood from a gash in his forehead. It was Henry Lunt, the second lieutenant. He and his cousin, Cutting Lunt the sailing master, had not long been released from the Mill Prison in exchange for English prisoners-of-war. They had both survived the jail for two years. Henry, aged twenty-six, had served as seaman on
Alfred
and
Providence
with Paul Jones. On meeting Henry again, the commodore had signed both Henry and his cousin to sail on
Bonhomme Richard
.

“How is he, sir?”

Jones looked up into the eyes of Cutting Lunt, the sailing master, who at the age of thirty was four years Henry's senior. His face betrayed concern. Jones suspected if it had been any other man stooped over Henry, then Cutting Lunt would have pushed him roughly aside.

“More blood than damage, I think,” Paul Jones replied. “Get him below to Dr. Brooke. That is, if we aren't…” Before he could say “sinking” there was another crash for'ard. Half crouched, he twisted to peer into the gloom shrouding the bows. He scowled, and then turned back. The spar that had felled his lieutenant was still thrashing to and fro.

The commodore jumped up. “Axes here! Cut it free!” The rope work parted with a whip crack under the persuasion of sharp blades. As the sailors worked, the wind tugged at the rigging, dragging the spar over the bulwarks to disappear into the night.

The commodore saw that Henry Lunt had already been carried below, his cousin Cutting Lunt making for the quarterdeck to sail his ship out of further danger. Jones was pleased to see the master's duty came before useless worry over his cousin.

“She's sheered away, sir!” Lt. Dale called. He had appeared from for'ard, hair plastered against his flushed face. His uniform sleeve was torn and an axe dangled from his hand, knuckles streaked with blood.

“Damage?”

Dale looked over his shoulder then back at the commodore. “Our bowsprit carried away
Alliance
's mizzenmast. I cut the braces and
Alliance
fell away. She took part of our jibboom, but apart from that, most of the damage appears to be superficial. Timberwork on the bulwarks and two of the cannon have torn free. Their tackle will have to be replaced.” His eyes strayed to the severed rigging where the spar that felled Henry Lunt had been chopped away. “That's excluding whatever happened here.”

“Are we broached below decks?”

Dale blinked. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I have not yet had time to check.”

Jones nodded. “Do that now and have the carpenter sound the bilges, then again in four hours. Even if there is no visible damage we may have sprung a plank or two.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Dale turned away, still carrying the axe.

“Damned Frenchman,” Paul Jones swore under his breath. “I'll have him strung up for this.”

***

Dawn found the ragged squadron maneuvering to regain their stations from the flagship. The merchant fleet had sailed on during the squall, ignorant of the drama played out in their wake, but more than one officer-of-the-deck trained his glass on
Bonhomme Richard
's damaged bowsprit, moving on to note
Alliance
's lost mizzenmast. Little imagination was needed to deduce what had happened.

Paul Jones was still angry when he rose from his bunk. He had received several reports during the night from the carpenter.
Richard
had sustained no leaks from the collision. That at least was something. As soon as he finished dressing he visited Dr. Brooke's quarters. To his surprise the surgeon was alone, reading a medical book. The doctor noted the commodore's expression with a smile.

“Better news than you expected, I dare say, sir.”

“Lunt?”

“He's back in his own quarters, sleeping heavily I shouldn't wonder.” He smiled at the lieutenant's luck. “He had a tear in his scalp which I stitched, and a concussion that will be cured by rest. I gave him a draught.”

“I'm pleased to hear it.” Paul Jones looked around the small cabin with its shelf of reference books and solid chest of surgeon's tools. Although the lid was down, Jones could visualize the contents. Drills and saws and needles more suitable for stitching canvas than frail human flesh. He had seen them before, and would no doubt see them again. Rather later than sooner. He repressed a shudder.

“Will you dine with me tonight, Dr. Brooke? I should like the pleasure of your company. We may not have the opportunity later.”

Brooke smiled again. “I should deem it an honor, sir.”

Jones nodded. “Tonight, then.”

On deck, men were moving purposefully about. As he climbed to the poop, he noted the presence of more marines than usual, mainly tending to their weapons. At the weather rail Richard Dale was alternately pointing to the horizon and directing comments to Colonel de Chamillard, the Officer of Marines, conspicuous in his scarlet uniform. Close by stood two midshipmen, hands clasped behind their backs, almost a parody of the senior officers. Dale peered aloft while reaching for a speaking trumpet.

“Lookout! Make a report!”

From the mainmast crosstrees a voice bellowed. “A brace of ships, sir! Carrying all sail!”

“Nationality?”

“I cannot tell, sir!”

“Is the man blind?” Dale muttered, waving one of the midshipmen to his side. “Fanning. Get aloft and make a report. Your young eyes might make them out.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The fourteen-year-old was off and running. Almost without touching the steps he was down to the main deck and threading between the sailors and marines crowding the rail. Like a monkey he swung up on the bulwarks, heedless of the sea pounding along
Richard
's hull below his feet; then he scampered up the ratlines as though he had done it from birth. Paul Jones smiled as he watched the boy, remembering his own youth when he had forced himself to conquer his heaving stomach, shaking with fear when he had looked down to the miniature deck far below, the sway of the masts exaggerated by the roll of the ship. The image faded. The boy, Fanning, showed willing.

“Good morning, sir.” Dale's face was serious. At his side De Chamillard eyed the commodore in speculative silence.

Jones nodded. “Good morning to you both. What news?”

“Two ships coming over the horizon, sir, on course for the merchantmen. We have not been able to ascertain whether they are friendly.”

“So I gather. M'sieur, are your men fit?”

The French marine officer's shoulders stiffened slightly before he nodded sternly. “Yes sir, I trained them myself.”

“Good, I may have need of them.” It was said as a dismissal. De Chamillard caught the inflection.

“If you will excuse me, sir, I will see to my men.” He retreated to the main deck. Dale watched him go then looked to his superior.

“You think we will have need of the marines, sir?”

Jones snorted. “Perhaps for repelling boarders. I may remind you we have not yet tested our gun crews. If those are English ships we had better be ready for anything.” He peered up at the midshipman at the masthead. “Do you think that boy has got his breath back yet? Let's test his eyes.”

Dale lifted the trumpet. “Fanning! Report!”

There was silence for a moment as though the boy was unsure, the wait punctuated only by the whispering of the breeze in the shrouds and the swish of the ocean kissing
Bonhomme
Richard
's hull.

“Englishmen, sir!”

How young he sounds, Jones thought. A child in a man's war. “Ask him to verify that.”

Dale glanced at him, nodded, and raised the trumpet again. In reply, Fanning's voice rode over the wind and sea with the purity of a choirboy taking his solo in church. “Englishmen, sir! Men-o'-war! They are showing colors now and crowding sail!”

Dale looked expectantly to the commodore. Jones could plainly see the excitement on the young lieutenant's face. Anticipation uncoiled restlessly in his own belly. “Signals,” he said, a grin beginning to crease the corners of his mouth.

Dale waved impatiently to the other midshipman. The boy, dark haired and hollow cheeked, stepped forward nervously.

“Your name, lad?” Paul Jones asked, watching the boy's Adam's apple dance in rhythm to his butterflies.

“Mayrant, sir. Midshipman Mayrant.”

“How's your signaling?

Mayrant raised his arm to show the code book clutched in his sweating palm. “Passable, sir.”

“I fervently hope it's better than that. Run me up:
Alliance
,
Vengeance
AND
Le Cerf
TO STAND BY THE FLEET.
Pallas
TO ASSIST THE FLAGSHIP IN ENGAGING THE ENEMY.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The boy saluted then turned to the flag locker.

“If we're going to return to port with damaged bulwarks and hastily patched rigging,” Paul Jones remarked, referring to the collision in the night, “then we might as well have been in action to justify it.” He produced a wry expression. “Set me a course to intersect the enemy's and make sure the men are ready to clear for action. Do not make them stand to, yet. If they wait too long at their posts morale will ebb.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Dale went about his duty.

The commodore stood alone, eyes riveted to the naked horizon, almost willing the Royal Navy men-o'-war to close with
Richard
. But fear was there too. Fear his ship would fail him, or his men, or worst of all, that he would fail them. But he would never know until it happened. He had seen enough action in his career to realize one could never be certain of the outcome. One could only do one's best and rehash it when it was all over. His reverie was broken as the first series of signal flags cracked open in the wind. Midshipman Mayrant had worked quickly. If the rest of the crew showed half the promise of the two midshipmen, he would be well pleased. Behind him, the sailing master, Cutting Lunt, was issuing a series of orders in a tone that demanded instant obedience. This was not the moment for laggardness. Down in the waist an unfortunate sailor who was slow off the mark was frozen by Cutting Lunt's harsh yell.

“Lieutenant Stack! Take that man's name! We're going to war, not for a day's fishing! When I say jump, you jump, you bugger, or be flogged like the bilge rat you are!” He grinned, turning away as a petty officer flailed a knotted rope across the sailor's shoulders.

“
Pallas
acknowledges, sir,” Mayrant advised.

“The others?” Jones queried.

“All but
Alliance
, sir…Oh, she's signaling now.” As he spoke,
Richard
listed below their feet, heeling onto her new course as the helm was put over.

“Man the braces there!” Cutting Lunt shouted.

Another voice cut through the din on the main deck. “When I say haul, I mean HAUL, you buggers! Set to it!” Underneath the bawling of the petty officers, the stamping of the scarlet-coated marines could be heard as Colonel de Chamillard began to drill them, terse barks of command instantly obeyed. Jones swept his gaze over the activities below, then peered at the gaily colored flags fluttering from
Alliance
's signal lanyard.

“She's acknowledging, sir.”

“Yes,” Jones muttered to the breeze, “last again.”

“Excuse me, sir, but she's asking if she may assist.”

The commodore's eyes were steely. “Signal she is to maintain her station AT ALL COSTS until ordered to the contrary.”

***

Captain Pierre Landais stood on his quarterdeck next to his signaling lieutenant. The Frenchman was small and wiry, much the same build as the American commodore, but his features were easily read, and his body could not disguise the tension twisting his muscles into useless knots. He had not learned to wear the bland mask of authority necessary when commanding men who looked to their captain for example and reassurance. Instead, he screamed and cursed every man who stood in his path and those who bore the misery of walking in his shadow. A lock of hair escaped Landais's hat and fell across his forehead. On Paul Jones it would have appeared boyish, an excusable remnant of youth, but on the Frenchman it seemed merely unkempt. Anxiously he awaited the commodore's reply to his signal. His fingers drummed on the rail. Still waiting, he watched
Bonhomme Richard
veer off course, her stern showing clearly as she stood toward the horizon. A smattering of flags opened in farewell.

“What does it say, man?” he demanded.

The lieutenant thumbed through his code book, fumbling and creasing pages.

“Well? Well?”