Scarborough Fair

by Chris Scott Wilson

  “Yes, sir.” Dale broke into a smile, flattered the captain should remember him. His smile was infectious, drawing one from Paul Jones.

  “Are you here on orders?”

  “Delivering dispatches, sir, to a vessel that sailed with the tide. I came down for one last look at the sea before returning to Paris.”

  “You still have no berth?”

  “No, sir.”

  The captain looked off into the bay. “You said you are about to leave?”

  “Not immediately, sir,” the midshipman answered, his eyes following the captain’s to where Duc de Duras lay.

  Jones glanced sideways at him. “Would you like to accompany me on a short trip?” He waved an arm. “Out there, to look at a ship. As I recall we did not even go aboard the last one we went to visit together.”

  Dale smiled. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

  Jones nodded. “Good.” He caught sight of a ship’s boat coming in to the quay. “If I’m not mistaken, our transport.”

  When the jollyboat came alongside, Midshipman Dale was already at the foot of the steps to take command, but his poor French only led to confusion. Jones took over smoothly, taking a seat in the stern sheets, his back ramrod straight. He waved the red-faced midshipman into the boat. As he sat down, Dale apologized for his sparse French. The captain ignored him, instead commanding the boat crew to cast off before smiling indulgently.

  “Mr. Dale, there are two ways of learning French. Either go to the Comedie, or take a mistress.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “Preferably, do both.”

  Duc de Duras was a shambles. A jumble of spars impeded a speedy survey of the main deck. Blocks and tackle lay in tangles of cordage that snared unwary feet. Pots of tar and abandoned shipwright’s tools were strewn in the companionways. Saws, mallets, caulking irons, clamps, reeming chisels, and wring staffs were scattered on top of ragged canvas that a sailmaker had attempted to patch into sails. Jones moved forward cautiously, absorbing the unfinished work, his main pleasure the rolling of the vessel beneath his feet and the vision of tall masts arrogant against the sky. Gingerly, he lifted the corner of a tarpaulin near the main hatch. Bronze gleamed dully. The eighteen-pounder cannon the owner had acquired from the French navy. He stooped to examine the bore of the top weapon, then the next, noting their ill care with distaste. M’sieur Berard had received a raw deal, whatever he had paid. The American glanced up at the ship again. Every inch of her required a great deal of work.

  With Dale trailing in his wake, he examined her full upper decks, poop, and quarter, before moving below, inspecting mast footings and capstans before roaming the holds, trying to imagine them divided into quarters and gun decks. Having commanded a lower gun deck in battle, he tried to estimate the number and placement of cannon she could withstand without the timbers shaking to pieces after the first broadside. He picked up a loose spike and used all his strength to drive it into the topsides. He pursed his lips and nodded, the familiar excitement rising in his chest. If her superficial condition was ignored, underneath lay a sturdy ship. He left the embedded spike as testament to his decision and climbed back up the companion ladder to stand in the breeze.

  She was the best he would get, and she could give him victories. Neither Sartine nor de Chaumont was going to steal this chance from him. However she looked now, she would make a fighting ship.

  When Paul Jones turned, Dale was startled by his devilish grin. “Well, Mr. Dale. I will need a lot of help to make her ready for the sea. Trustworthy men.”

  Dale drew back his shoulders, cheeks ruddy as he blushed. “I should like to volunteer, sir.”

  “An officer would have to speak French well enough to supervise carpenters and crew.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but mine could be improved.”

  Jones’s smile was like sunshine. “Mr. Dale, I’m counting on it.”

  ***

  Christmas came and went. There was no word to confirm Duc de Duras was to be his. Paul Jones continued to accept the hospitality of James Moylan’s home. Deskbound, he sharpened his quills, writing letter after letter to Benjamin Franklin, all but pleading for command of the ship that lay deserted at her moorings in the bay. If he thought his days wasted while the war raged without him, there were distractions, the chief one unwittingly supplied by James Moylan. For such an unattractive man, he had a surprisingly pretty young wife, obviously acquired by wealth and position. Although tempted, Paul Jones tactfully kept her at arm’s length, loath to upset the business relationship he had built with her husband. Mrs. Moylan recognized his reluctance and gracefully retreated. Jones’s notoriety also brought invitations from every wealthy household in Lorient. Wives assuaged curiosity about the American in his dashing uniform, while husbands were keen to solicit business should work begin on his ship.

  Paul Jones attended each party, voiced pleasantries, and remained impervious to the subtle advances from both wives and husbands. His heart lay not in the arms of a woman or at the bottom of a brandy glass, but down where Duc de Duras headed up into the wind, her peeling bowsprit aching to taste the salt of fresh oceans, forever wary of the call of the breaker’s yard.

  And still he waited.

  ***

  Sartine’s cough sounded like a nervous girl clearing her throat. It was growing worse. How much longer did he have? So much to accomplish and time slipping away. And it was always worse when he was upset. Who could not be upset in a job like this? Minister of Marine, and war’s knuckles rattling on his door. He dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief. Unable to restrain himself, he examined the tiny blood specks on the lace. The familiar panic twisted in his stomach. He was glad the American Commissioners had left. They stole his time, and that Franklin! Like a stubborn ox, hammering the same point again and again. John Paul Jones. Sartine’s lips curled with distaste as he stared at the name again, written in tiny handwriting on the blotter pad before him.

  “M’sieur Franklin was on form today, Minister.”

  Sartine glowered up at de Chaumont who was standing in front of the desk, his black woolen suit rumpled from the long meeting. “It seems he has outflanked us,” Sartine conceded, trying not to show his anger. “He has a brain like quicksilver and he is as devious as a fox. I have no doubt he put Jones up to buying his own ship, and if the truth be known, probably put the money in his pocket to do it. Not that they would have to find the money. He knew that too.” He coughed again, turning away as his shoulders heaved.

  De Chaumont politely averted his eyes, allowing them to roam the magnificent tapestries that coated the office walls as though it was a palace. “Sometimes I think Franklin can see right through me with those steely eyes,” the Privy Councilor remarked.

  The minister grunted. “He sees far too well. Apparently it was obvious to him we are reserving all the best ships for our own brave French Captains. God knows, they will soon be sailing against the English. He must have seen the best way to get a ship was to find one himself, knowing King Louis had promised to foot the bill. Franklin is well aware I cannot refuse to pay now, or the king will appear to be a liar.” He paused, breath rasping through his nose as he fought down another coughing fit. “And the King does not want to appear a liar in front of the whole world. Blame would fall on my shoulders quicker than Madame Guillotine. And there is too much to do to risk my career over an arrogant glory hunter.”

  De Chaumont’s lips drew a thin line in sympathy. He knew how much Sartine hated to be out-manipulated. “Perhaps it is all for the best to give him his ship now and be done with it. He can do part of our navy’s job for us, sparing French ships. As you say, he is eager to snatch glory by whatever means necessary. He will either die for nothing or become a hero.”

  Sartine frowned. “You think him more than competent?”

  De Chaumont’s jowls shook. “There is something about the man—magnetism, and he has an original mind. I feel he will do something outrageous, and if he fails he will be a reckless fool, but if he pull
s it off he will be a genius.”

  “I sometimes wonder if the two are not so far apart,” Sartine commented. He studied his papers for a moment. “Do we have more business?”

  “Only the appropriations for the fleet at Brest.”

  “That can wait. Send for my secretary. I will write to Captain Jones now and then it is done with.” Sartine raised an eyebrow, voice a dry crackle. “From now on his fortune lies with God.”

  ***

  The letter arrived in early February. John Paul Jones could almost see Sartine’s teeth clenched as he dictated that he was delighted to inform Captain Jones “in consequence of the distinguished manner in which you have served the United States, and the complete confidence that your conduct has deserved on the part of Congress, King Louis has thought proper to place at your disposition the ship Duc de Duras of 40 guns, now at Lorient.”

  Paul Jones read the letter twice. Satisfied his eyes had not lied, he placed the parchment squarely on the desk and leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together into a bridge. Softly, he blew through the span of fingers, long sighs to exorcise the tension imprisoned in his aching muscles throughout the winter. Franklin had done it, achieved everything he had promised. The wasted time was now as nothing. The future lay ahead. He decided to rename the ship in acknowledgement of Franklin’s efforts. Bonhomme Richard, the Good Man Richard, a pen name Franklin used for satires he wrote for the daily papers. Jones began to smile. Frustration had fled, replaced by growing elation. He demolished the bridge of his fingers, his right hand drawing into a fist.

  The wheels had begun to turn.

  Moylan was $4,000 adrift on his estimate of M’sieur Berard’s asking price for the new Bonhomme Richard. Either the Irishman had added his ten percent agent’s fee on top, or Berard had sniffed the King’s presence in negotiations and decided the royal purse could stand a little extra expense. Whatever, Sartine eventually paid $44,000 for the ship, then the King further authorized the royal coffers would also bear the cost of refitting and supplying armaments.

  Feeling he had outstayed his welcome at Moylan’s house, no matter how the Irishman and his young wife protested to the contrary, Paul Jones moved into his captain’s cabin aboard Bonhomme Richard. His trunks and baggage arrived from Paris along with the midshipman, Richard Dale. Between them, they pored over plans spread on the chart table in the stern cabin, then personally directed the carpenters and shipwrights from dawn to dusk. At last aboard ship, Jones was reluctant to return to the land, but necessity forced him to endure coach travel on numerous occasions. Satisfied the superficial work to Richard was well in hand, he began to take advantage of the King’s carte blanche offer to pay for any armament he cared to purchase. Cannon were in short supply. With no success at foundries in Nantes and Perigeux, he managed to secure a delivery date from a firm in Angouleme along with a promise from Sezerac & Sons in Bordeaux to cast the rest.

  When both contractors defaulted, Benjamin Franklin exerted heavy pressure to obtain sixteen new model sixteen-pounders from the French Navy. These were mounted on the covered gun deck along with a dozen old twelve-pounders. The six old eighteen-pounders discovered on the first day’s inspection were mounted a la Sainte Barbe in the gunroom when gun ports had been cut. Six nine-pounders on the foc’sle and quarterdeck completed Bonhomme Richard’s ordnance.

  Men were harder to find than guns. Reluctantly, Paul Jones took on English deserters and Portuguese. The English were unruly, but they signed on without complaint, and American sailors recently released from English prisons were added to the complement, brawls often breaking out between the different nationalities. Captain Jones was also to find he had not escaped Therese de Chaumont’s husband. With the good news that he was at last to command a squadron came also the bad news that Donatien Le Ray de Chaumont was to be paymaster general of that squadron. Although the American received the news of his becoming a commodore with pleasure, he determined not to wallow in jubilation until the promised ships materialized.

  ***

  It was shortly after dawn when he was woken by knocking at the cabin door. He shrugged away sleep and pulled himself up on the pillows of his narrow cot. Outside the stern lights he could see the sun barely peeping over the horizon, its first rays fanning out over the restless sea.

  “Enter!”

  Midshipman Dale opened the door with a broad grin. It was the widest awake the captain had seen him at that hour.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but they’re here.”

  Paul Jones’s mind was still lazy with sleep. “Who? And where’s the boy with the tea?”

  “The squadron, sir,” the midshipman replied, ignoring the second question. “Your ships, sir. They’re in the bay. The last one is anchoring now.”

  The captain’s eyes flashed from Dale’s face to the stern window and back again, the velvet cloak of sleep forgotten. He flung back the covers and pushed his feet into slippers. “Here, eh? I hope you speak the truth. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “May I offer my congratulations, sir.”

  Jones smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be on deck directly.”

  Twenty minutes later Dale caught a movement on the edge of his vision and twisted to see the captain appear at the head of the companion ladder. Dressed in his full uniform, complete with tricorn hat, Paul Jones climbed to the poop deck where he took a position at the port rail to survey the bay.

  Only a few cable lengths distant lay Alliance, a newly built American frigate under the command of Pierre Landais. Jones knew little of him but what Franklin had included in his letters. Landais had originally been in the French Navy but had been discharged in 1775 for refusing promotion to Lieutenant of the Port Of Brest. Two years later he had gone to America with a letter of introduction to Congress that recommended him for a commission in the infant American Navy. His wish promptly granted, now he was anchoring in a French port again, this time as an American officer.

  Beyond Alliance lay Pallas, a frigate carrying twenty-six nine-pounders. Paul Jones could see activity on her decks and also in the rigging. Captain de Brulot Cottineau de Kerloguen had wasted little time in ordering men aloft to dry and furl the sails. Through his glass, Jones could see the gold-frogged uniform of the captain as he personally supervised carpenters who appeared to be rectifying battle damage. Perhaps she had been in action against the English during her voyage. Jones hoped so, for blooded men would make a useful acquisition. A crew who had fought together had confidence.

  “What vessels lie astern of Pallas?” Jones asked, trying to peer beyond Alliance’s quarter.

  Dale had already made enquiries. “The brig Vengeance, sir, commanded by Lieutenant de Vaisseau Ricot.”

  “Armament?”

  “A dozen four-pounders, sir.”

  Jones nodded thoughtfully. A useful support. And she looked almost as fast as the last vessel in his little squadron, which had entered the bay at sunset the evening before. Le Cerf, almost as proud looking as the stag she had been named for. A captured English King’s cutter, she carried a persuasive complement of sixteen six-pounders and two eight-pounders. Her commander, Ensigne de Vaisseau Varage, had already visited Bonhomme Richard after mooring and had met his new commodore of whom he had heard much. Varage had been suitably impressed and pleased to learn that while he sailed with the squadron he would be accorded the rank of lieutenant in the American Navy.

  Paul Jones could see the Ensigne across the water, standing at the rail of his cutter as he too inspected the new arrivals. Well, Jones thought, that’s all of them now. I have my squadron. Whatever victories he had already won were behind him now. Now he could achieve much more. Five ships to hack and thrust at the English. Adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream at the thought of what lay ahead. By God, if the English already hated him, he would force them to respect him too. The very notion brought a flood of warmth. He sucked down a deep breath then compressed his telescope and tucked it under his arm. He glanced aloft at the starboard
watch at work on the main yards, fixing running blocks and tackle before he turned to Richard Dale.

  “How’s your signaling? Rusty?”

  Dale smiled. “I believe I can manage, Commodore.”

  Paul Jones blinked. It was the first time he had been addressed by his new rank. “Run me up: ALL COMMANDERS TO REPAIR TO THE FLAGSHIP. Let’s see what manner of men we have in our company.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The commodore was pleased to see the midshipman had anticipated his order. Without a glance at the code book, Dale ran up a series of flags. As they broke open in the breeze Jones smiled, his first order as commodore, then once again used his telescope. Within moments, all the vessels in the squadron had hauled up acknowledgements. The last was Alliance.

  Paul Jones hoped that was not an omen.

  CHAPTER 4

  Day was dissolving into night on 12 June when the squadron slipped out of Lorient on the evening tide. Their mission was to escort a small fleet of French merchant vessels to landfall at various ports on the Bay of Biscay. Paul Jones stood at the weather rail on the poop, legs adjusting to the rolling deck as he watched his ships spread out behind Bonhomme Richard. Lanterns threw hazy circles of light in the crosstrees, flickering as sails caught the wind, furled canvas shaken out to stretch and billow with the promise of a voyage. What little pleasure the sight afforded was dispelled by the anger that writhed like a cobra in his gut.

  Le Ray de Chaumont had done it again. Jones was sure the Frenchman knew more than he cared to admit about his wife’s feelings for the dashing American. Here he was, sailing out to escort a handful of merchant ships, when he should have been sailing to join Lt. General D’Orvilliers’s fleet which had cleared Brest a week earlier to combine with a Spanish fleet to scour the English Navy from the Channel. There was little doubt they were going to invade Britain while the English were busy with the war in America. Reports had reached Jones that 40,000 French infantry had been massing ready to embark.