Old Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Mutiny, is it?’ Paul demanded.

  ‘We’ll follow you anywhere, Captain,’ a seaman said. ‘We have done that. We’ve sailed with you clear across the ocean, and we’ve sat around at your command for more’n a year. Now we’re in enemy country, and risking our lives. We’re entitled to a little reward.’

  ‘You’ll put that silver back,’ Jones commanded, his voice filled with menace. ‘I’ll have no looting. I’ll not be called a pirate.’

  ‘Because that old hag upstairs so called you?’ asked a voice.

  They were more angry than Harry had supposed. And he knew Paul and himself could not fight them all. ‘We’d best find ourselves a compromise,’ he suggested in a low voice. ‘They’ve a point, John; this house could be considered a prize of war.’

  ‘You too, Harry?’ Paul asked bitterly.

  ‘We were sent here to fight for our country. Not to be murdered by our own crews,’ Harry reminded him.

  ‘They’ll not take that silver from this house,’ Jones declared. ‘I have given my word, and it will be honoured.’

  ‘Well, we sure ain’t leaving without it,’ said one of the men.

  Jones glared at him, his hand hovering by his pistol. In another few seconds they would all be dead, and America’s only true warship would indeed have become a pirate.

  ‘Wait,’ Harry said.

  They stared at him.

  ‘You are entitled to your booty,’ Harry said, ignoring Jones’ snort. ‘But Captain Jones cannot break his word.’

  ‘Then let him replace the silver,’ someone said.

  ‘That is what he means to do,’ Harry said. ‘Here and now. Set a price on it and we will guarantee you payment, Captain Jones and I, out of our own pocket, if need be, but the stuff will stay here.’

  ‘You’ll buy the stuff off us?’ The men were incredulous.

  ‘By God,’ Paul muttered. But he understood this was the only solution.

  ‘Be patient, John,’ Harry begged. ‘Yes, we will buy it off you. Name your price.’

  *

  Harry ducked his head to enter the cabin of the Ranger. ‘We await your orders, Captain,’ he said. ‘We have drifted clear across the Irish Sea. We can see Belfast. It is time to be doing something.’

  Jones sat at the table, his back to the companionway, a bottle in his hand. ‘I have no orders.’ He drank. He had been drinking steadily for the past twenty-four hours, since regaining the ship.

  ‘We are on a mission, Captain, and on an enemy shore.’

  ‘Then you give the God-damned orders, Mr McGann. I’ll not deal with that pack of mutinous scum.’

  Harry sighed, and also sat down. ‘John … those men will follow you anywhere, if you will but lead them.’

  ‘I shall never lead them again.’

  ‘John …’ he chewed his lip. He had never known so black a mood. But was it not justified? ‘Then at least order us back to Nantes.’

  ‘For what? To have my disgrace trumpeted throughout France?’

  ‘John …’

  ‘Sail ho,’ came the call from the upper deck.

  Harry got up, glanced at Paul, but the captain gave no sign of moving. Harry ran up the companion ladder, took the telescope from Mahon’s hands.

  ‘I reckon it’s a warship,’ the Second Lieutenant said.

  ‘I reckon you’re right.’ Harry studied the sails, the gunports, the flag. ‘A sloop of war. Word of our presence has got about.’

  ‘Do we fight her, Mr McGann?’

  Once again Harry chewed his lip. Their orders were commerce destruction, not battle with the Royal Navy. But how it went against the grain to turn away from the approaching Englishman. And this was a battle they could win; the sloop was a smaller ship than the frigate. But he did not have the right to make the decision.

  He looked down into the waist, where the crew had gathered. They were certainly ashamed of their behaviour ashore, however they might not be prepared to go back on the bargain they had struck. But he had no doubt that they too wanted to fight.

  ‘I will have to ask the captain,’ he said, and turned, and saw John Paul emerging on to the deck.

  ‘Sound the drum for battle stations, Mr McGann,’ Paul said. ‘We’ll see if these rascals can fight as well as they can steal.’

  *

  ‘It is all the fault of the Government,’ pronounced Lord Steele. ‘The Government and the Navy, sir.’ He looked at his host, Captain Lord Steyne. ‘They engage us in a war we cannot hope to win, and then fail to protect us from the inevitable consequences. Do you realise, sir, that this is the first time Britain has been successfully invaded in a hundred years?’

  ‘Balderdash,’ said Captain Lord Steyne. ‘What was successful about that raid?’

  ‘They were not taken, sir,’ argued Sir Anthony Digby. ‘Or even driven off. They left of their own accord, after a signal victory.’

  ‘Well, what did you expect?’ demanded Captain Brewster. ‘The American was a frigate. Twice the size of a sloop of war.’

  ‘Hardly that,’ objected Mr Lamming, filling his pipe. ‘And is that not the point of milord Steele’s argument, that it was folly to send a sloop of war to accomplish a task requiring a ship of the line?’

  The gentlemen occupied the centre of the huge withdrawing room at Steyne House in Westminster with their argument, while their ladies attempted to sit by the fire and gossip, listening as hard as they could. The American descent on Cumberland and the subsequent naval action was the sole topic of gossip, in London.

  ‘I’m told they pulled poor Countess Selkirk out of her bed in her nightdress,’ whispered Mrs Lamming.

  ‘My dear, it was some huge monster of an Irish cutthroat,’ said Mrs Brewster.

  ‘How exciting,’ remarked Lady Digby. ‘Do you not think it is exciting, Lady Steyne?’ Their hostess merely looked a little ill. Because she too was listening to what the gentlemen had to say.

  ‘This is an unjust war,’ Lord Steel was declaring. ‘A vicious, brutal assault upon our own kind, and for what? Refusing to pay illegally imposed taxes. Were not half of our ancestors doing just that a hundred years ago, and winning their point?’

  ‘You, sir, are a confounded Whig,’ Digby snapped. ‘My grandfather fought for King Charles, may God bless his memory. Those colonists are a pack of puling rebels.’

  ‘Hardly puling,’ Lamming remarked. ‘They gave Burgoyne a right drubbing. And Lord Steel is right; they can hardly be beat now that the French have come in on their side. We should thank God there is only one John Paul Jones at sea, and not a whole fleet of them. And there may well be, in another year or so.’

  ‘Then what would you suggest for the Government to do?’ sneered Captain Brewster.

  ‘Why, sir, negotiate with the colonists, give them what they want, which is after all only the right to manage their own affairs, while still calling themselves Englishmen …’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘They would withdraw their declaration of independence.’

  ‘Nothing more? No indemnity? No recognition of England’s rights?’

  ‘Rights, sir? England has no rights,’ Lamming snapped. ‘People have rights, not countries.’

  ‘That, sir, is tantamount to treason.’

  ‘Is it? I would suggest it is patriotism, sir. Our duty now must be to beat the French. That is all that matters. And we will not do that while fighting the colonists with one hand.’

  The two men glared at each other.

  ‘I do feel, my dear Elizabeth,’ said Lady Steele, ‘that we should endeavour to distract them, before there is a challenge.’

  Elizabeth licked her lips. This was her first party as Lady Steyne; she had been married for too short a while, and was too unsure of herself, too overawed by the ranks of her guests, too stunned by the reality of her marriage, to know what to do.

  Gilbert Steyne had himself observed the danger signals. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we grow too hot. I am sure, Steele, that Great Britain has
the resources to deal with both France and a pack of rebels. We have succeeded against greater odds in the past. As for the colonial claim, perhaps there is justice in some directions, but these things can only be adjusted after they surrender themselves to our mercy, not while they are firing upon British warships and British troops, and …’ he smiled, ‘landing on our shores, however briefly. Believe me, once I am done honeymooning, I shall seek a new command, and endeavour to have this Jones decorate my yardarm, and his Irish gargantua besides. Now come, a drink.’

  The argument dissolved into smiles, and the ladies sighed with relief. Except their hostess. Because the evening was drawing to a close, and with that her apprehensions grew, as they always did when bedtime approached. How splendid a figure Gilbert made, dominating a roomful of men, riding a horse, or, indeed, walking the quarterdeck of a ship. She had married that splendour. Nothing more. That there would be more she had known, but she had supposed the wealth and social glitter which went with the name of Lady Steyne would far outweigh a few minutes of discomfort from time to time.

  What had Harry said, on the occasion of their last meeting? Beware! And she had sent him packing, as an Irish rebel.

  And now he had been to England. Pulling elderly ladies from their beds in their nightdresses? She found that difficult to believe, of Harry McGann. Which was odd, because she would have believed it, of Gilbert Steyne.

  She sat before her dressing mirror while her maid removed her wig and unpinned her hair. She had already undressed, wore only a light robe, enjoyed the relaxation from the tightness of her corset, the weight of her brocade gown. A temporary respite. There would be other weights, soon enough.

  He was in the room; she caught just a glimpse of his green silk dressing gown in the mirror, heard the valet closing the door of the adjoining room.

  ‘A splendid occasion,’ Steyne remarked. ‘You make a beautiful hostess. If only you would learn to remind people more often of your presence, you would be a paragon. What was that woman Steele whispering at you?’

  ‘Like us all, she wonders about the war. Is it an unjust war, Gilbert?’

  ‘All wars appear unjust, to one side. In this world, my dear, justice is the prerogative of the strongest. Justice is success. Profit. Injustice is failure and poverty. But there can be no profit without poverty. No success without failure. And thus, no justice without injustice. As these Americans will find out.’

  ‘I think that is a terrible philosophy,’ she said, and gasped at her own temerity.

  ‘Do you?’ her husband asked. ‘Leave us, Marguerite.’

  The maid looked at her mistress in the mirror, but knew better than to point out she was not yet finished. She gave a curtsey and hurried from the room.

  ‘So,’ Steyne said, standing immediately behind her as the maid had done. ‘You are now worrying about the Americans. Or is it about one in particular. Would you not agree that this huge Irishman on everyone’s lips must be your old friend McGann? Well, that is to the good. He will certainly be captured, soon enough. I really must make sure that I manage to meet him, at last. I think I will enjoy castrating the bastard. Then I will preserve his balls in a bottle, on my mantelpiece. Tell me, Liz, are they of a size to match the rest of him?’ He drove his fingers into her hair, dragging the strands backwards to remove the last of the pins by simple, and painful, pressure.

  Elizabeth breathed very slowly and carefully. She dared not attempt to move, despite the discomfort. ‘I am sure I have no idea,’ she said.

  ‘You mean he has never shown them to you?’

  ‘Of course he has not. You are being disgusting.’

  ‘Did I not explain to you that a husband cannot be disgusting to his wife? I explained that to you on your wedding night, my dear.’

  ‘And did I not come to you a virgin?’ she shot back, staring at him in the mirror.

  ‘Why, so you did. Which does not mean you had not previously dallied. As I am sure you know by now, that can be the more pleasurable part of lovemaking. And it is every bit as guilty as adultery, where the woman belongs to another.’

  ‘Harry McGann has never …’ involuntarily she caught her breath, as she remembered the night of their betrothal, his hand on her breast, so gently, as they stood by the gate.

  ‘I understand your meaning,’ Steyne said. ‘Bare your ass.’

  ‘Gilbert … please …’ she turned on the stool, tried to hold his hands. ‘I am tired. So …’

  ‘So anxious to lose yourself in dreams about Harry McGann.’ He grasped her shoulders to raise her to her feet. ‘Bare your ass, madam. Bare it.’

  She bit her lip to keep back the tears. She might have married her own father. Save that Josiah had loved, and had suffered remorse. This man possessed, and suffered nothing. Nor would he merely thrash her and leave her alone. Possession was the key, and of that one part of her body more than swelling breasts or rosy lips or flowing golden hair. To beat, and bite, and scratch, and then thrust into her with all his considerable strength and weight, and above all, to humiliate, was his only ambition. An ambition he had realised every night of their marriage. And would, every night, for the rest of their lives?

  She lay on her face and wept. Guns exploded, flags waved, people ran along the Nantes waterfront and cheered, as the two ships, one still under jury rig, slowly sailed up the River Loire and dropped their anchors out of the main current. Franklin was first aboard, to shake Harry’s hand. ‘A triumph, Mr McGann,’ he said. ‘An absolute triumph!’

  ‘She is but a sloop of war,’ Harry pointed out.

  ‘An English sloop of war. And nearly your size. Was it not a hard fight?’

  ‘Briefly. We carried a heavier weight of metal, and our men were keyed up for action. It truly is nothing to be exceedingly proud of.’

  ‘It was a victory,’ Franklin reminded him. ‘And out of it you have brought a captive. My God, man, few French ships have ever brought a Navy prize home. And the Whitehaven bombardment … it is on everyone’s lips. But Jones … is he hurt?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And yet not on deck to moor his ship?’

  ‘You’d best come below,’ Harry suggested. ‘Bed her down, Mr Mahon.’ He led Franklin down the companion ladder, into the cabin. John Paul sat, as he had done for the past week, with his bottle, gazing out of the stern windows.

  ‘Captain Jones,’ Franklin said. ‘Allow me to congratulate you. All France wishes to congratulate you. I am instructed to bring you to Paris to meet His Majesty. The Queen, the ladies of the court, are all agog to learn of you.’

  ‘Are they that interested in failure?’ Paul asked, not looking at him.

  ‘Failure, sir? You are become the most famous seaman afloat.’

  ‘There’s humour,’ Paul said. He lowered his feet to the deck, turned. ‘Perhaps you suppose I have the Earl of Selkirk in my hold.’

  ‘No, sir. I do not suppose that. But I suspect you have a goodly number of English seamen down there.’

  ‘Near two hundred,’ Harry said.

  ‘Good news indeed. And a British warship as a prize. There is a humiliation the lion will never accept. Oh, we shall have our exchange, never fear. While for your next voyage, ah, the plans I have.’

  ‘There will be no next voyage,’ Paul said. ‘Sir?’ Franklin frowned at him, then looked at Harry. ‘He is ill.’

  ‘Only in the mind,’ Harry said.

  ‘There will be no next voyage, sir,’ Paul declared. ‘Because I would not command that pack of scoundrels out there to clean the mud from off my boots. I resign this command, sir. I am done with it. I am done, sir. Done.’

  CHAPTER 10 – France, Ireland, and England, 1778-79

  ‘Ah, Captain Jones,’ said His Majesty. ‘What did the English say, so proudly, of Drake? That he singed the King of Spain’s beard. But you … you have twisted the lion’s tail. Now there is a feat.’

  He beamed. But then, he appeared to beam constantly, only occasionally allowing his face to settle into a so
mewhat moonlike cast of vague discontent. And for all his splendid clothes and surroundings he suggested, both in his speech and his manner, a country squire rather than a king. Harry had to remind himself that this Louis XVI was still very young, only twenty-four years of age, and that he had been ruler of France for less than four years. But why should either John Paul Jones or himself, he asked himself, two of the most confirmed republicans in the world, be apologising, even mentally, for a king? And especially one who, by all accounts, was the most absolute monarch in Europe, far more so than George III of England.

  There could be no doubt that his wife was sure of that. Marie Antoinette sat by her husband’s side, a glitter of jewellery, but a glitter of more than that. She was by no means a beautiful woman, or even an especially pretty one, although Harry estimated that she was tall and probably had a good figure — as she was sitting down and her gown was heavily embroidered and padded it was impossible to be sure of this. But she exuded a totally arrogant awareness of wealth, and power, a certainty that the entire world, or at least that of Versailles and probably all France as well, existed merely to sustain her and her husband at the top of its social pyramid — and this awareness did give her a kind of glittering beauty. Nor could she be very far wrong, he considered, looking around him at the assembled seigneurs and their ladies, all magnificently dressed — even in their best uniforms John Paul and himself looked shabby, and Ben Franklin, in his plain brown suit, suggested a tramp by comparison — all equally arrogant, but all taking their arrogance from the common fount, that of the two young people who ruled them with all the confidence of having been divinely designated for such a task.

  Equally could they draw their concept of themselves from their surroundings, such as the huge room in which they were at present gathered, a vast expanse of polished parquet, the walls nothing but mirrors, which at once served to double the size of the hall and the number of people present, the crystal chandeliers above their heads, the uniformed flunkies flanking every entrance … all there to surround but two gold upholstered chairs, in which sat the two omnipotent beings, and their slaves.