Scarborough Fair (31 page)

The sound of retching brought his attention back to his own boat. The American sailor had both hands supporting his weight on the gunwale, his musket forgotten across his knees as he vomited into the sea. Both the midshipman and the other sailor were watching, amused by their comrade's malady. Quickly, Jackie met Tom Berry's eyes. The older man shook his head tersely, no, supported by a downward pushing motion of his hand; wait. The fact that Tom had even considered the moment as a possible one for action was enough to set Jackie's nerves tingling. Exhaustion drained away, his toil at the oars nothing, motions automatic. From that second he was ready. A glance affirmed Billy was ready too.

Jackie forgot all the misery of his aches and the hunger gnawing at his belly. His vitals contained a flicker of flame ready to be fanned into a blaze. Information crowded his senses. Their position. The tide's pull. The distance to
Bonhomme
Richard
. The whisper of the breeze too feeble to disperse the growing fogbank. The hunched figure of the midshipman, wounded arm cradled against his chest. The set of the sailor's shoulders as he hung over the side of the boat, dribbling vomit. The neglected musket. The other sailor, bored. The double bank of oarsmen, pulling stroke after stroke.

He was ready.

If a minute had seemed like ten when manning the pump, now each minute seemed like an hour. His chest felt tight, caught in a band of iron that coiled around him in a spring waiting to be released. A pulse hammered in his temple. His throat was suddenly parched. He rolled his tongue across his teeth behind his top lip to damp his nervous grin. Soon.

Midshipman Mayrant glanced at the doubled-over sailor in distaste. “When we come alongside
Richard
you go on board while the prisoners are being transferred. Then you'll only have the return journey to make later.”

“I'll be all right,” the sailor mumbled, as if he had no such belief.

“No, I'll get another man to replace you.” Mayrant turned to the other American. “It looks as though the nearside has a long queue waiting to load. We'll go around the stern. Fog's coming up strong. I'll go aboard and get a lantern.” He twisted to look back.
Serapis
was lost to sight behind a solid gray wall. “If we get lost on the way back, a lantern'll give them a chance to find us.”

They pulled so close to
Bonhomme Richard
they could see right inside her hull where English cannonballs had smashed through. Mist drifted like smoke over her rails, tumbling down her topsides in tendrils. They continued past the line of boats loading at the foot of the ladders before Mayrant called for the port oars to trail. The boat swung under
Richard
's transom, the windows of the stern cabins like blind eyes staring at them.

“Besides,” the midshipman said, “I want to collect a few things of my…”

“Now!” Tom Berry ordered in a harsh whisper.

Before Jackie had digested the word, Tom launched himself forward. Landing square in front of the armed sailor, he swung a punch. The surprised American only had time to raise his arms in defense. The fist caught him above the ear. As he fell sideways into the midshipman, Tom seized the musket and brought it to bear.

An instant after Tom moved, Jackie lunged at the seasick sailor. He snatched the musket from his knees. The steel barrel was icy as it touched his blisters, but he had no time to listen to protesting nerves. In a maneuver rehearsed twenty times in his mind, he reversed the musket and crashed the butt across the sailor's shoulders. The American slumped over the side, arms dragging in the sea. One-handed, Jackie hauled him inboard then dumped him on the seat.

Billy was right behind them. Too late to join the fight in the narrow boat, he spun around to face the oarsmen.

“Dip oars! Stop her dead!”

The crew obeyed, so dulled by authority that nobody questioned him.

Midshipman Mayrant hugged his wounded arm protectively as he stared into the wide bore of the musket then up at Tom Berry. “You'll hang for this.”

“Say another word and you're dead,”
Berry
said grimly, his ginger curls shaking. He leaned forward to relieve the officer of his sword and pistol. “I'm a prisoner-of-war escaping, so don't give me any speeches.” He glanced sideways at Jackie. “For a fisherman you don't fight so bad.”

“Fight, yes, kill no,” Jackie answered. “What do we do with them now?”

Berry
stared at the three Americans for a moment. Hollow-eyed, they glared back at him. The boat drifted in to bump against
Bonhomme
Richard
. They could hear voices up on deck still calling time at the pumps, but under the stern there was only the sound of water lapping at the hull. The seasick sailor regained consciousness. He sat up slowly, rubbing the nape of his neck. He glowered at his captors then uttered a groan. Turning away, he began to retch over the side again.

Billy made a face. “Well, I'm not going to listen to that fat bastard spewing up all the way in.”

His comment broke the tension. Jackie leaned out of the boat, hooking his fingers into a partially opened window in the stern lights. He prized it fully ajar then stuck his head in for a second. “Some sort of fancy cabin,” he said when he emerged. “We could put them in there, out of the way.”

Tom Berry shook his head. “They'd be found too quick.”

Billy disagreed. “They'll only be trouble for us if we take 'em ashore. I say leave 'em here.”

“What about us?” an oarsman asked.

“If you want to come along, you're free,” Billy replied. “Or,” he gestured up to the ship and shrugged. “They'll take you to
France
and you'll rot in prison until the war's over. And God knows when that'll be.”

Berry
made up his mind. “Watch them,” he said, making sure Jackie's musket had the Americans covered. He handed his own to Billy, then took hold of the sill and quickly levered himself through the port. Already adjusted from staring into the gloom outside, he had no problem making out the cabin's contents. All personal possessions had been removed, so perhaps the three Americans would not be found for a while. If he had his way, they would not be found at all. He bolted the door, jamming a chair against it as insurance. Back at the window he leaned out.

“Billy, get in here to help me. Jackie, you stay out there. As soon as Billy's in, send up the first one. And have a look in the stern sheets to see if there's any rope. If there isn't, cut the painter. We won't be mooring anywhere.”

Inside the stern cabin, while Billy held the musket, Tom tied and gagged the midshipman. When he was secure he asked for the next man. Within ten minutes the three Americans were bound up tight. Tom studied them as they sat on the floor, eyes blazing hatred above the gags. As an afterthought, he threaded their legs around those of the bolted down table and strung them together before tugging the last knots firm. He stood up to inspect his work.

“That'll keep 'em from getting to the door to bang for help.” He jerked his head at the open port. “Come on.” They clambered back down into the boat. “Seen anything?”

Jackie shook his head. “I can hear the other boats but none have rounded the stern.”

Tom faced the two lines of oarsmen, all prisoners-of-war. “Are you with us?” he asked, his expression leaving no doubt as to his opinion of potential dissenters.

“Aye, I'm with you,” the nearest man agreed. The second nodded, and the third. Soon they had all joined the conspiracy.

Tom turned. “These are your waters, lad. You're the pilot. Which way?”

Jackie pursed his lips, the onus of command thrust on his tired shoulders. “Take her straight off the stern. Once in the fog we'll turn.”

Tom grinned suddenly, waving a hand. “Billy and me'll get back to the oars. You take the tiller. The quicker we're away from this damned ship the better.”

“Right,” Jackie said softly, taking the tiller bar. “Starboard oars, trail. Port oars, pull.” The boat swiveled on its own axis until the bows faced the open sea. A world of solid fog awaited them. Jackie took a deep breath, then suddenly inspired called: “All oars, pull! Pull for your freedom!”

***

“Look!” Jackie croaked.

The oarsmen rested, leaning on their knees, heads hanging with fatigue. Two hours before, when they had broken out of the fogbank into a deserted sea, they discovered an unseen current had coaxed them out of sight of land. Guided by the sun and intuition, Jackie had corrected their course immediately. Weary almost beyond endurance, their progress had slowed until the oars barely made an impression on the leaden swell.

Hunger and thirst had taken toll.

When no pursuit materialized there had been an initial burst of elation. It quickly died. Continuous rowing exhausted them into silence. Now when they spoke it was hoarsely. Only when they threatened to surrender to sleep did Jackie or Tom berate them, Tom even scooping hatfuls of freezing seawater to toss over drowsy men.

“Look!” Jackie brought them back to reality, pointing. In the distance was a flotilla of boats. Lugsails brimming with wind, they tacked back and forth, their appearance distorted by the sun sparkling off the sea. The oarsmen glanced up at the mirage before disbelief allowed their heads to droop once more without even cursing Jackie for a madman. Tom Berry turned toward the sea, saw the sailing smacks, then closed his red-rimmed eyes tight before reopening them. The boats were still there. He opened his mouth to speak but could only wring a croak from his arid throat. He swallowed before trying again.

“You've lost us now, lad.”

Jackie laughed, a cackle that left him coughing. “Lost? No, don't you know what they are? That's
Scarborough
herring fleet. They're casting nets.” Then he was on his feet, peeling off his shirt to use as a flag. Waving it madly, he began to shout. Billy stood up to join his cousin, using the last of his strength to hoist an oar from its thole, the painted white blade swaying unsteadily over his head.

Tom Berry watched the two young men, incredulous. Slowly, their joy infected him until at last a smile cracked his grizzled jaw.

***

“That's some kind of tale, our Jackie,” Harry the fisherman mused, pushing forward his cap so he could scratch the back of his head. “Well, I don't know. You lot escaping from that pirate.”

“I'm telling you the truth,” Jackie stated, reaching again for the can of cold tea. The stolen ship's boat taken in tow, the escaped prisoners had been shared among three fishing smacks for the homeward voyage. Billy, Jackie, and Tom sailed together in the
Gin
, Jackie's pride and joy. Between them, they had devoured the bread and strawberry jam Harry and his crew had brought out for their
noon
meal. Still hungry, Tom was even eyeing the raw herrings that had somehow missed the catch boxes and were scattered across the bottom boards. Bilge water rolled them back and forth, minute currents giving dead fins the illusion of life.

“Oh, will you just look at that,” Jackie murmured.

Scarborough
's headland had swollen to fill the horizon. The castle battlements lined the cliff top, dominating the town which crawled up the hillside from the seashore. To the left was St. Mary's church with its central tower and the twin dwarf spires at the south end, surrounded by the graveyard. Paradise House stood between the two ancient monuments, its garden a manicured square.

At the foot of the cliff the harbor was crammed with vessels of every size and description, the east pier's arm thrown protectively around them. At anchor to the south of the west pier, unable to squeeze inside, lay the Baltic convoy that had turned tail and run from Flamborough Head. Locked in the brig when Paul Jones's squadron had challenged the English escorts, Jackie had not seen the fleet. Now, he gazed at them with awe. They seemed to huddle so close together under the security of the castle battery it was impossible to separate one ship from another, let alone attempt to count them. Masts stood like a forest of winter-naked trees, rigging a complicated mass of spiders' webs. They looked anxious, bowsprits straining to the land as though to deny their presence in the
North Sea
.

Jackie's fascination with the ships faded as he looked again at his hometown. Everything he loved was there. His mother and his friends. And Rose. What else did a man need? In his own boat, with his stomach full and the smell of herrings in his nostrils, already it was as if his adventure had been a dream. The waiting chained in the brig while thunderclaps of gunfire crashed overhead, the interminable hours at the pumps, then the ferrying in the boat before their escape into the clammy fingers of the fog.

Going home. A good warm feeling.

“You see it, Billy?”

“Aye, I see it all right,” his cousin answered. He drank in the panorama. With a sigh, he lay back, eyes closed. The sun warm on his face, Billy knew where he was now. It was all over. He could doze until they moored. He relaxed for a few minutes, listening to the rush of the sea against the hull and the rumbling of the canvas lugsail luffing slightly when Harry changed tack. It was almost too quiet for his ragged nerves.