Scarborough Fair (28 page)

For a moment he almost turned to go back below. It had seemed safer there. His mouth hung open as he tried to take in all the information thrust at him. He started to move then stumbled over the body of a prisoner who had been shot down on reaching the deck. Jackie recognized him as the praying man. So his God hadn't helped him after all.

“You there! Standing like a lump of wood! Lend a hand here!”

At the foot of the mainmast an American petty officer stood over a line of men working at a pump. It was a winch with several extended bars so a dozen men could wind at each handle together. Jackie recognized it as a chain pump which pulled a string of valves through the bilges, more efficient than the normal two piston machines. He took his place, the petty officer calling time so the men worked in unison. Water began to spew from the outlet by their feet in a regular rhythm, flowing across the deck in search of the scuppers. Heave, heave, heave. Before long Jackie fell into the monotony. Whatever happened about him, all effort was concentrated on that handle. The anger and frustration of the brig was burned out with each wrench of his muscles. He closed it all out: the smoke, the cannons, and the fear.

Pain bit into his back with the fangs of a rabid dog. He yelped in surprise, swinging his head to stare back over his shoulder. The American petty officer was coiling the knotted rope he had used as a whip. His mouth was an ugly slit.

“Lay on, you miserable bastards! One of the pumps is shot away. If you don't want to see Davy Jones, lay on!”

***

Captain Pearson's chin was almost driven into his chest as he prowled HMS
Serapis
's quarterdeck. His bodyguard of marines had diminished considerably. The wounded had been carried below to the cockpit, and those who had died had been hurriedly consigned to the embrace of the dark sea. He had no idea how many fighting men he had left or in what condition they were. Estimates had to be revised every few minutes. The broadsides from the eighteen-pounders on his gun deck had long since grown ragged, and from what he could deduce there were perhaps five or six still firing. The battery of ten-pounders on his weather deck remained silent, Americans in the mast-tops of the pirate ship laying down a heavy crossfire on any man attempting to load them. Some of the pirates had even got into his own mast-tops and were dropping grenades onto the deck below and directly down the splintered hatches.

Pearson pulled his gold watch from a waistcoat pocket and prized open the lid. Without reading the heart-warming inscription from his wife, he consulted the dial.
Ten o'clock
! They had been fighting for three hours! And God alone knew how many dead. He shook his head as he closed the watch and absently pushed it into a pocket. They seemed the longest hours he had ever known. There was little hope for
Serapis
now. His beautiful new ship was burned and ripped apart, nearly a hulk. He glanced at the staff where he had ordered the Royal Navy ensign nailed to prevent it being shot away. He had never thought he would see the day when he would even consider striking it…

“Captain?”

Pearson turned. Lt. Wright was at the head of the ladder. A short sword dangled from his right hand, a smoking pistol in the left. He was tottering on his feet. Pearson could see where sweat had run furrows through the dirt on his face. “What news, Mr. Wright?”

“I have just seen
Countess of Scarborough
. She is almost dismasted. One of the French frigates engaged her. I'm afraid she is lost.”

“Sinking?”

“No sir. Surrendered. She's hove-to, her colors struck and the Frenchman is alongside.”

Pearson's mouth was a grim line. “And what of ourselves? Have you a report on our damage?”

Wright's shoulders slumped. “Only four of the eighteen-pounders are still in commission. No man can get near the ten-pounders. We have suffered terrible explosions below decks. If we had powder left I would fear for the magazines. At present the American is firing double-headed shot at our mainmast. All the marksmen are trying for him.” He paused, shrugging. “In my opinion, sir…”

“I did not solicit your opinion, Mr. Wright.” Pearson interrupted, fixing him with a stony glare. “Kindly confine yourself to statements of fact.”

“Begging your pardon, sir.”

Pearson nodded, deep in thought. The
Countess of Scarborough
was lost, so
Serapis
stood alone. And if he eventually beat the American Paul Jones, what then? There were still the other French frigates standing off, skulking like vultures, ready to nose in and pick the bones. He walked slowly to the head of the ladder, the lieutenant stepping aside so he could look yet again at the bedlam into which his ship had degenerated. The only way he could reconcile the destruction was knowing he had accomplished what he had intended. He had given the Baltic convoy breathing space to crowd all sail and run. Although he did not know for certain, by now they should be close to the protection of the batteries at
Scarborough
castle. Fair
Scarborough
. The pirates could not plunder them now. All he stood to gain by continuing the battle was more death, possibly of every man under his command. He sighed then turned to pace back to where the Royal Navy ensign was stretched taut by the carpenter's nails. He stared grimly at it.

***

“Can you see it?” Paul Jones asked.

Lt. Dale rubbed his eyes, watering from the smoke of the nine-pounder. He and the commodore were still working the cannon in the absence of a proper crew. His vision clearing a little, he squinted into the night. Paul Jones was stooping over the piece, supervising the marines as they loaded again with double-headed shot. Watching them work, he shouted for a powder monkey to fetch up more cartridges.

“Well, Mr. Dale, can you see it or not?”

“I think so, sir. It looks to me as though it's trembling. Yes, I believe it is.”

“Is it, by God,” the commodore grinned. “I thought my days of gunnery were over, and here I am, trying to knock down the mainmast of an English man-o'-war.” He gestured for the marines to get a move on, glancing at his lieutenant. “I'll have that ship yet and win this…” He fell silent, frowning, before his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Did you hear it, or was it a trick of my mind?”

Richard Dale was rigid, ears strained. Suddenly, all the musket fire from
Serapis
stuttered to a halt. Only sporadic shots from
Richard
's mast-tops continued. Then they both heard it again, loud and clear.

“Quarter! Do you hear me? Quarter!”

Paul Jones stood up to his full height, brushing away strands of chestnut hair from his smudged face.

“Do you ask for quarter?” he called back, pushing to the bulwark for a view of the English decks. Musket fire broke out from the English marines when they sighted the American officer.

“CEASE
FIRE
!” Captain Pearson bellowed. “I have asked for quarter! CEASE FIRE!”

The shooting stopped. Paul Jones could see the red-jacketed marines throwing down their weapons. Muskets, pistols, cutlasses, hangars, and pikes clattered to the deck. The beaten men clustered into groups where they had fought, sullen, shoulders slumped in defeat. The commodore surveyed them, his cheeks drawn, steely eyed, but he broke into a weary smile when his crew began to cheer. Voices rose from every corner of
Bonhomme
Richard
, hoarse with victory. Paul Jones peered aloft where arms waved from the mast crosstrees. Even the prisoners at the pumps stopped, slumped against the winch handles to massage drained muscles while their overseers moved to the rail.

Paul Jones quelled the wild laughter that threatened to bubble up in his throat, nodding when Richard Dale came to stand with him. When he spoke, his tone was formal but with an underlying humor.

“Mr. Dale, would you kindly go aboard and take possession?”

Dale could not suppress his grin. He drew himself to attention, then saluted, a grubby, cheeky-faced farmer. “With the commodore's permission?”

Jones answered his smile briefly. “When you have taken command, escort the English captain to me here, then organize the prisoners into fire control parties. If we can't hold back the water, at least we can douse the flames. And have all the wounded attended to by Surgeon Brooke.”

Lt. Dale took a detail of French marines and American sailors over the bulwark onto the foc'sle of
Serapis
. They worked aft in formation, collecting prisoners as they went. Surrounded by the remainder of his officers, Captain Pearson waited on the quarterdeck. Lt. Dale approached the ladder, mounting it slowly under the wary gaze of the Englishmen. Pearson ignored him, staring instead at the ragged bunch of prisoners who had been his men. They had fought long and hard and deserved better than to be herded like animals by the French marines. He could not help feeling he had betrayed them, although he had surrendered to save their lives. But for a flaw in his character or better judgment, they could have been the victors, not the defeated.

“Sir, I have orders to escort you on board the ship alongside.”

Captain Pearson pursed his lips as he met Richard Dale's eyes. So young, he thought. Most of them boys, hardly men. This one had the look of a plowman with his ruddy face. If ill-organized yeomen could achieve what these had in their battered old East Indiaman, then what heights would the Americans eventually scale when properly equipped?

“Sir?”

“Yes,” Pearson said absently, “I heard you. Very well.” He turned and walked to the staff where the ensign was nailed. With his own hands he wrenched it away from the wood, leaving scraps of cloth still attached to the embedded nails. He about-faced and held out the symbol of His Britannic Majesty's Navy. Dale took the tattered flag, rubbing the heavy cotton between his fingers.

“If you please, sir.”

A marine fell in on either side of the Englishman. The captain looked at the deck then gave his first lieutenant a sad smile. “Carry on, Mr. Wright.” Slowly, he straightened his back and began to walk.

Paul Jones had put on his uniform jacket over his blackened shirt and cursorily tidied his hair. The two commanders looked each other over. Each had heard the other's voice during the battle but neither had seen his opponent.

“Sir, this is Captain Pearson of His Britannic Majesty's Navy,” Lt. Dale offered. “Captain Pearson, may I introduce Commodore John Paul Jones of the American Navy.”

Pearson said nothing. Slowly, he unfastened his sword scabbard then offered it as a token of surrender. Paul Jones accepted it solemnly, weighing it in his hands. He raised his head to speak, only to be interrupted by a crack like a clap of thunder from HMS
Serapis
. All eyes swiveled to the English warship. Her mainmast, punished by so many charges from the commodore's own nine-pounder, split like a thunderstruck oak. Groaning, it toppled slowly. Yards swung loose then crashed to the deck. Braces and shrouds were entangled. The mizzenmast, too, shivered like an aspen in the wind, before its topmast splintered away. The whole mess collapsed overboard into the
North Sea
. A ravel of rigging trailed after. When the dust and the sea settled, the commodore turned his attention back to Captain Pearson.

“I accept your surrender.” He handed back the sword. “You have fought gallantly, sir, and I hope your king will give you a better ship.”

Pearson's face was haggard, set to disguise his self disgust and shame. Only his eyes betrayed the lie of pride written on his face. The American felt for him, imagining their positions reversed. “You cost me the Baltic fleet, sir,” Jones stated, a compliment.

A glimmer of small triumph flared quickly in the Englishman's eyes. A moment later, it had died away. “And you, sir, cost me my command.”

Jones ignored the retort, wondering which of them had lost the most. “Would you care to accompany me below to my cabin?” He switched his gaze to Lt. Dale who had witnessed the exchange. “I would like a report on HMS
Serapis
's condition, and of
Richard
's too. At your convenience. Carry on, Mr. Dale.” His tone implied he wanted it as quickly as possible.

Dale saluted. “Very good, sir.”

***

Lt. Dale remained on deck for a few minutes after the two senior officers disappeared below. Without the urgency necessary under fire, his gaze skittered over the two men-o'-war, still grappled together. He walked slowly down to the main deck where a water butt was lashed to the foot of the mainmast. Miraculously, the dipper still hung from a nail. He scooped it full and drank deeply. When his thirst was slaked he pulled out his handkerchief, dampening it to wipe his face and hands. Refreshed, he wondered where to begin his task. Every hatch, hold, and compartment of both vessels had to be examined. He trusted only his own eyes and the carpenter's for accurate assessment.

Dead and dying lay everywhere. While the deck pumps sloshed and fire fighters formed bucket chains, burial parties cleared the decks. Here and there a man thought dead would suddenly moan, then be carried to wait in line for the surgeon's expertise. Doses of grog were issued before shattered limbs were sawn off and dumped in a bin to the accompaniment of screams. Those with flesh wounds were washed and bound. Many were deaf, others blinded. Men with chest and stomach wounds were made comfortable while they waited for death. They knew instinctively release would only be brought by the grim reaper, so they waited stoically for his arrival. The time for fear had gone, but for many the battle still raged inside tortured minds. Broadsides thundered back and forth in fragile mental corridors, every footstep of reality a pistol shot, every shadow an advancing enemy, every shaft of light a gunpowder explosion. Their eyes were shiftless, forever seeking an imaginary foe. For them the battle would never end, a nightmare never to be banished by the coming of day, each moment relived time and time again.