Scarborough Fair

by Chris Scott Wilson

He humphed, not rising to her bait. “Not even I could accomplish it with that ship.”

  “What did you do, Cheri?”

  Jones stopped pacing and turned to study her, his eyebrows raised. “Do? What do you suppose I did? I sent that midshipman back to the Commissioners with a letter politely but firmly declining the command. And then do you know what they had the gall to do?”

  How beautiful he looks, she thought, offering no comment.

  “On my last cruise in Ranger, unescorted, I took six ships, one of them Drake, an English man-o’-war, and believe me it was no easy victory. The English fought well and hard. Then what could I do with a squadron? I could harry the English just like the foxes they so love to hunt. I could turn their attention from America to defending their own island. I went to M’sieur Sartine, your fine Minister of Marine. He sat there in his silk suit with a lace handkerchief held under his nose all the time we talked. Perhaps we Americans offend him in some way…”

  “But no, Cheri, they say he has bad lungs. He coughs blood all the time,” Therese interrupted quietly. The comment did not divert his attention.

  “Be that as it may. Regardless, it is application to duty we are discussing. He invited my ideas so I outlined several that would benefit both America and France. I could break the English trade routes from the East Indies, Hudson Bay, or the Baltic.”

  “He listened?” She twisted her parasol to attract his attention.

  Paul Jones nodded. “Oh yes, he listened. Long and well. I presented each plan in detail, showing how each could be accomplished.” He paused, lips pursed in disapproval. “As far as he was concerned there was only one problem. Each plan called for ships. Plans he agreed with, plans he enthused over, but he could not promise me ships. All I need is two or three frigates and supply vessels. Not a lot to ask when it could mean the breakdown of English trade and their loss of ocean supremacy.”

  As far as Therese was concerned, the issue reeked of politics, soldiers, and sailors naive enough to assume they only had to ask and they would be given tools for the job. True, that was how it should be, but in real life these things took time, the seemingly simple task of giving one tool requiring endless delicate maneuvers in closed chambers, promises given and favors conceded before bargains could be struck, always the politics. She knew they would eventually give him the ship he apparently so desperately needed, it was merely a matter of when.

  “He offered you nothing?” she asked quietly.

  He nodded, tendons writhing along his cheekbone. “He generously offered me Renommee, a frigate, but remembered she had already been given to a French captain. Then he suggested I take command of, how did he say it, ‘a number of small armed vessels’ out of St. Malo to disrupt the English privateer fleet in the Channel Islands. Then he had another bout of memory, casually mentioning that Prince de Nassau-Siegen would be in overall command, and a man like myself would not mind lending my experience to royalty.”

  He resumed pacing, bristling with humiliation. “It is not enough for him to deny me a ship, but when he offers one he refuses me full control. When I sail in a squadron, I will command or nothing.” He lapsed into an uneasy silence.

  Therese studied the garden. In the distance a fountain played carelessly, the column tumbling onto water lilies where golden carp swam lazily. “What now, my Captain?” She feared his answer would take him from her.

  He halted again, hand gesturing. “I have directed the midshipman who accompanied me to Le Havre to tell me of any suitable ship brought into France as a prize, and I have written to everyone who may be able to help.” He stepped to the seat and sat down slowly as though his tirade had drained his strength. As the bench took his weight Therese squirmed like a puppy, smiling at him coyly while making sure he was in the best position for a view of her charms so amply displayed by the low neckline of her gown. He turned to smile wanly, nothing lost on him.

  “Until I hear of a ship, I do as I have done. I wait.”

  ***

  Knuckles rattled at the bedroom door.

  Therese was seated at her dressing table, brushing the short mousy hair she always hid beneath her ash blonde wigs. Fresh from her bath, the water only just emptied and carried away by the maid, she was dressed only in her negligee.

  “One moment!” she called. Quickly, she retrieved a powdered wig from its stand and carefully eased it over her own hair. Though she wore no rouge, she knew her skin glowed from the hot bath. With a glance to reassure herself she was presentable, she shifted position on the stool, presenting a half profile to the door, her best angle. “Entrez!”

  The brass handle twisted and a moment later her husband was in the room, face flushed, brow furrowed in an anger she recognized as all too familiar, advancing toward her flapping a sheet of parchment in an outstretched hand.

  “The man is insufferable, I tell you. But what can one expect of these foreigners, these jumped-up Americans? Do they think we all hold office merely to serve them? That all of Belle France hangs on their every whim? The man is a guest in my house, too, and he has the effrontery…If I had my way I would pack the scoundrel off on the next ship across the Atlantic and good riddance. I would even pray for storms.”

  As he came to a panting stop Therese hoped her alarm at his outburst did not show. So her husband had found out after all. Her little affaire was over. She had enjoyed Paul Jones in all senses of the word and was reluctant to let him go. But then Donatien always found out in the end. At least this time there had been something to discover, not like that time with the cavalry officer, the cuirassier, with his polished breastplate. A strutter and braggart, all mouth and no finesse. No, perhaps she could correct that: all talk and no finesse. That’s all he knew how to do with his mouth—talk. Precious little had occurred before Donatien had come into her bedchamber just like this, demanding truth and fidelity. Now she gazed impassively at him. He was dressed in a dark frock coat and knee breeches so he had come straight from his offices in the city. Her thoughts raced madly but she could find no excuses to offer.

  Le Ray de Chaumont glanced at the parchment again and shook his head, the high collar of his shirt cutting a thin red line into his shuddering jowls. As he scanned the letter his cheeks flushed and when he began to read aloud he almost stuttered with rage. “I mean, listen: ‘The minister has treated me like a child five successive times by leading me on from great to little and from little to less’.” De Chaumont was breathless. “He even hints, sacre bleu, at challenging the Minister of Marine to a duel in defense of his sacred honor. Mon Dieu, My God, can you imagine it?”

  Therese almost laughed aloud with relief. So the letter was from her captain, not a letter about him. Complaining about his lack of a ship, as usual. Composure restored, she tried to imagine a duel between the determined American and the diminutive Sartine with his weasel face, coughing specks of blood into his lace handkerchief while he parried rapier thrusts. The delicious image was shattered by her husband.

  “My life is becoming complicated beyond measure. Sartine pesters me every minute I spend at the ministry when I am trying to arrange supplies. He seems to hold me personally responsible for this coarse American just because he stays in my house. M’sieur Franklin stays here too but I am not blamed when he falls foul of the King’s ministers.” De Chaumont looked about to collapse, eyes casting restlessly around the room, his body uncoordinated as if he did not know whether to go or stay. “The minister can make life very awkward. It would be easy for him to cancel my supply contract.”

  “But surely there are conditions?”

  “Conditions nothing. If he wanted to cancel it, he would find a way, believe me.”

  Therese smiled reassuringly. “But even so, you would still have your fleet of merchant ships.”

  Her husband’s face was scarlet. “My fleet? With things as they are, I should be ruined. The English are making trade impossible by blockading ports, and even when my ships can put to sea they are waylaid by privateers who hide behind th
e English flag and steal my cargoes. No, without the navy contract everything I have would be lost.”

  Therese rose from her stool to take his arm and lead him to the chaise-long where they sat down together. She could almost feel the heat from his burning face and she began to fear for his health. In truth, she had never been madly in love with him. In a way he was handsome, but when they had been introduced she had discounted the difference in their ages, his wealth and power a greater attraction than his features. Her most pressing need at that time had been to obtain financial security, and a bonus was the respect she would command as the wife of a Privy Councilor to the King. Although throughout their marriage she had always had “escorts,” she had invariably taken pains to be discreet. If her husband found out, then few other people did. Over the years she had come to feel comfortable with him, a comfort enhanced by the luxury his wealth provided. But every franc belonged to him. He had settled a little money on her at the beginning of their marriage but she had given that to her parents so her sister would have a dowry to attract a husband. Since then, Donatien had only given her an allowance, paying all the other bills himself, most notably those of her couturier who supplied an endless stream of expensive gowns. Without a franc more of independence than on the day they met, the idea of possible bankruptcy was horrifying. Given a choice between her American captain who had no appreciable money, or her wealthy husband, there was no choice. She had to protect and preserve what she already had.

  Therese placed a comforting arm around her husband’s portly shoulders. “Donatien, my love, calm yourself. You will only become ill if you agitate yourself so.”

  “But that American. He makes my blood boil…”

  “Never mind.” She pulled him to her, carefully lowering his head onto the soft cushion of her breasts, only thinly disguised by the negligee. Rocking him like a child, she billed and cooed, stroking his head. “I have an idea.”

  “Oui, yes,” he murmured.

  Her mind was working overtime. “You have a privateer, don’t you?”

  “L’Union?”

  She snorted. A fitting name. “Why not offer her to Captain Jones?”

  Donatien jerked up his head, struggling for freedom from the nest of her arms. “What? Let that upstart of a colonist command one of my ships? I would never dream of it! He would wreck her on some wild scheme. He is a maniac…” His voice trailed away as he studied his wife’s tolerant smile. After a moment his mouth relaxed and widened into a grin. “You sly little vixen. You want me to give him a ship to get him out of my way at the ministry. And of course, you think what is one ship when my whole fleet stands to be lost for the sake of a navy contract? And if I do M’sieur Sartine a favor by ridding him of the American, so when I renegotiate the supply contract, I should get even better terms.”

  Therese said nothing, just gave him the beauty of her smile before lowering his head again to her bosom. This time he came easily, tension dispelled by the implanting of the idea. He sighed in contentment.

  “You always manage, Therese, to make it seem so simple.”

  “That’s all I am,” she purred. “A simple woman who wants to help her husband.”

  “And you do,” he said, curling an arm about her narrow waist. He turned his face, pressing into the fragrance of her breasts. “You help me by just being you. Just being here for me to look at.” Both his hands were roving now, plucking and smoothing the thin material that displayed every contour of her body. “Just by touching you.” He pulled back from her, then with fumbling fingers parted the gown to devour her creamy flesh with his eyes. “And you smell so wonderful.”

  His face was again red, this time with excitement. Lust garnished his eyes, his mouth working with anticipation. He surveyed the plain of her stomach with his fingers, stroking tentatively before impatience urged them toward her center. Gently, she placed a restraining hand over his.

  “My husband, you must be warm wearing those clothes. I think you would be cooler without them.”

  He laughed and struggled to his feet, eagerly unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Again, Therese, you are right.”

  She laughed with him, but there was no warmth in her eyes.

  ***

  The Hotel Valentinois boasted a vast library. But for the door and windows, the long walls were clothed with towering bookcases. Footsteps from the blocked floor echoed among the plaster relief friezes of the high ceiling before being soaked up by the thousands of calf-bound volumes. It was not a study where a man could wallow comfortably among his papers. For all its worth the showcase library was austere and forbidding, containing none of its owner’s character.

  Donatien Le Ray Chaumont sat at the huge desk, his fingers tapping noiselessly on the leather surface. Opposite, in his uniform as always, Paul Jones sat on a straight-backed chair. He held a glass of burgundy as he listened to the older man. De Chaumont made an expansive gesture. “…and so you see, Captain, I know of your difficulty regarding the acquisition of a command. This is why I am offering L’Union, my own privateer. You may sail her against the English and do as you wish with her.” Paul Jones said nothing, leaving de Chaumont to interpret his silence as speculation. The Frenchman raised what he hoped was a conspiratorial smile. “I can see you are wondering why I should do this. Is that not so? I will put your mind at rest. As you know, I own a fleet of merchantmen. Any disruption you cause to the English can only benefit me. More ports will be open to my ships.”

  The American’s eyes never left the Frenchman’s face. He had already classified him. All those books leering down, the majority of them probably never read. But they had all been carefully rebound in matching calf, titles blocked in gold leaf. The man was a collector. He surrounded himself with things for the sake of possessing them. Beautiful books, beautiful ships, and probably beautiful women too. How many mistresses did he have, to supplement the meager diet Therese must allow him? Did he now want to add an American captain to his army of employees?

  De Chaumont eyed him warily. “I take your silence as serious consideration of my offer. I will not press you for an answer at this exact moment. You may let me know your decision at your leisure.” He sat back, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “That will not be necessary.” Jones had put it all together. It was another of Sartine’s ploys. Use de Chaumont to give him a privateer instead of the squadron he needed. All of them thought he would eventually accept any ship to be offered. In reality a privateer was little more than a pirate ship.

  “You have reached a decision?” De Chaumont was eager.

  The American drained his burgundy glass then placed it on the edge of the big desk. He rose to his feet, drawing his shoulders back as he smoothed down his waistcoat.

  “Sir, I am not my own master, I serve the Republic of America. I cannot from my own authority serve either myself,” he smiled to lessen the sting “…or even my best friends. I must therefore decline your generous offer.” He paused, probing the Frenchman’s expression before nodding curtly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to see to.” Without offering his hand he turned and walked away, heels tapping a stubborn tattoo across the wooden floor.

  When the double doors closed, de Chaumont remained staring at the heavy paneling. That damned captain. He was pomposity personified. Perhaps the best thing would be to get him out of France all together. Preferably back to America, out of harm’s way. And the man for that job was Benjamin Franklin, the main American representative in Europe. Franklin may not like the idea, but it could be demanded as a favor when agreement was needed over more crucial matters than securing a ship for an arrogant glory hunter, which Jones undoubtedly was.

  As it always did, the real power lay in politics.

  ***

  Benjamin Franklin’s suite of rooms at the Hotel Valentinois also overlooked the gardens. His cluttered writing desk faced a broad expanse of manicured lawns and flowerbeds, now filled with dying blooms. A barrel-bodied man, his chair creaked a
complaint when he dropped a paper he was studying and leaned back, allowing his gaze to stray to the window. Autumn had transformed Therese’s beloved trees to metaled clusters of copper, bronze, and gold. While he watched, the wind stripped the crackling leaves by the handful, flinging them into the air to dance and flutter before planing down to the hardening earth. Dissatisfied, the wind picked at them so they rustled, cartwheeling along the deserted gravel paths, drifting between the tree trunks to lay a multihued carpet.

  Another year, thought Franklin as he clasped his hands across the bulging expanse of his waistcoat. Another year and more pressure. Pressure that gained nothing, applied by schemers, deceivers, and liars all scratching their way, clawing upward to where the real power lay. He sighed, then plucked his pince-nez spectacles from the bridge of his nose and placed them on top of the discarded paper. He had never felt so tired. Always one step forward and two back. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, massaging his nose where the glasses had left ugly red marks.

  What did the French have against John Paul Jones? He was a fine captain with an impeccable record. Entering the merchant marine at thirteen during wartime he had not lacked courage even as a boy. Working his way up to mate, his chance had come at the age of twenty-one. Traveling home to England as a passenger from America on the brig John, he had stepped willingly into the breach to take command when the master and first mate both died of fever. Nobody else on board was a competent navigator. On docking in Kirkcudbright in Scotland, not far from his hometown, the owners had appointed him captain, sailing the trade routes to the West Indies. Four years later he was master of Betsy, a large square-rigger which also traded in the Indies.

  It was also to his credit that as soon as Congress had aired an inclination to seek independence from mother England, Jones had volunteered for America’s non-existent navy. He had gained an appointment as first lieutenant when the Navy was formed and posted to Alfred, a 22-gun frigate where one of his duties was to command the lower gun deck. Only a short year later as the navy acquired more vessels he had been given the temporary rank of captain, commanding the sloop Providence. Quickly amassing an impressive record of engagements and victories, he had proved his worth. Although in Franklin’s opinion, nepotism in Congress had robbed Jones of his rightful seniority on the captains’ list. That situation had been rectified the following year when they had given him the newly built Ranger. And everybody who mattered in France knew what he had accomplished in that ship.