Scarborough Fair

by Chris Scott Wilson

  His hand was shaking.

  ***

  The wind was a surprise. Although the late July day was sunny, Paul Jones pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders as he sat in the stern sheets of the jolly boat. The saber wind and the pitching of the boat did little to aid his humor as the crew put their backs into rowing out into Lorient’s bay. He craned his neck as Bonhomme Richard loomed above him, her head into the wind, the new bowsprit pointing the way over the incoming waves. Even from a distance he could hear loose canvas flapping and the crack of a rope, sharp against the background of the rigging’s wind-ruffled moans and the creaking of sea-weary timbers. There were voices too but he could not make out individual words. Why hadn’t one of the junior officers attended to the slapping canvas, and if not, then why was Lt. Dale neglecting the ship?

  It seemed there was something badly wrong. A sideways glance at Midshipman Fanning who had come to fetch him from the hotel only heightened his suspicions. The boy could not sit still, flicking imaginary fluff from his white breeches, shuffling as though the discomfort of a ship’s boat was a new experience. Fanning’s eyes skittered from Richard’s towering masts, yards full of dormant sails down to the battened gun ports of her broadside before coming to rest on his commodore. When he met Paul Jones’s gaze he became more agitated, nervous at being caught nervous.

  What could have been so urgent to induce Richard Dale to request his presence that afternoon when he was well aware the commodore was due to repair on board the following morning? The midshipman offered no excuse, only Dale’s request, an urgent request. Paul Jones looked back at the land where the houses on the seafront looked sturdy and inviting. He thought wistfully of his comfortable room, the appetizing meals prepared by the hotelier’s wife and of the shy glances of the raven-haired chambermaid. For a moment he wished himself back there. He knew he still looked pale and haggard, hair lankly drawn back into a queue. The illness had hung about his shoulders during the weeks ashore and now his attention was again demanded by the squadron.

  His sigh was lost in the wind.

  At the gangway a flustered Richard Dale stood surrounded by heavily armed marines, their scarlet and gold coats gaudy in the sunshine. Men were clustered all over the weather deck in groups, some penned by grim faced marines with bayonets mounted, the polished steel glinting threats. Prisoners, clothes torn and spattered with blood were haranguing their captors, spitting and sneering in an attempt to break the soldiers’ immobile expressions. Groups of free sailors hurled abuse at the prisoners’ waving fists, their voices lost in the jumble of international tongues.

  Irrationally, Paul Jones thought how strange it was that the first words of any new language the sailors learned were always the crudest of swearwords. He blinked the notion away as the marine officer, Colonel de Chamillard, stalked toward the rowdiest group of sailors, barking staccato orders to the half a dozen men who followed in his footsteps. Immediately, the marines broke ranks to form a line abreast, muskets tilted into the advance position. He spat another order and they moved forward, two paces then pause, driving the bawling crew at bayonet point in a ragged retreat toward the bows.

  “What in God’s name is going on here?” Paul Jones demanded.

  “Mutiny, sir.”

  “Mutiny!” The commodore bellowed the word, then coughed, shoulders wracking, a hand to his mouth. He had hoped never again to hear that worst of words on one of his ships. It always comes back to haunt me, he thought bitterly.

  “All under control now, sir.”

  Jones stared, eyes filled with tears from his searing cough. He looked away to the confined groups on the deck. The prisoners’ tongues had quieted. Slowly, the curses from the rest of the crew were dying out, here and there an oath heard in Portuguese. Paul Jones jerked a beckoning wrist at Lt. Dale. “Come below.” Without waiting for acknowledgement he strode to the companion ladder.

  Richard Dale glanced about the deck to assure himself the prisoners were well contained. He had been right. On the appearance of the commodore, the ultimate symbol of authority, the mutineers had begun to realize the depth of trouble in which they had jumped headlong.

  In the comparative gloom of the stern cabin, the commodore’s eyes burned feverishly in his blanched face. “When did this mutiny occur?” he demanded, noting the buttons torn from Dale’s uniform. “Did you fight hand to hand?” Without allowing Dale to answer, he turned away to splash brandy into a glass. He swallowed quickly, the liquor burning a furrow down through his chest. He began to pace back and forth across the narrow cabin, his figure a blurred silhouette against the daylight of the stern lights. After forty or fifty paces he came to a halt, hands resting on a chair back.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dale gulped, still trying to arrange the story in coherent order. “I found out about it this morning. A petty officer came to my quarters to tell me he thought trouble was about to erupt. His opinion was that it had been brewing for weeks. The main cause was the English turncoats and the French in the crew. It is not known what the French wanted, but the English wanted to take the ship and sail for England.” He paused. “The Americans were with us, and the Portuguese too. They helped quell the trouble.”

  “The main cause was the English, you say?”

  “Aye, sir. The ringleader is a man called Towers, a quartermaster. His aides-de-camp are an armorer called Sturgis and a Frenchman called Rousseau. We were trying to separate them from the main body of mutineers when you came aboard, sir. They were being protected by the others.”

  “Why wasn’t this done as soon as you were aware of the threat this morning?”

  Dale flushed. “Sir, I took steps immediately. M’sieur de Chamillard was informed, but word must have got to the mutineers that we knew of the plot because they struck just as the marines were being ordered out. Fortunately we had forced their hand. We moved in only minutes after the armory was opened, before too many weapons could be distributed.”

  “Fortunately, you say,” Paul Jones said sarcastically. “Then why did it take so long to contain the situation?”

  “There was utter confusion, sir. Whereas the marines and naval officers were in uniform, the loyal crewmen could not be distinguished from the disloyal. With so many voices in different tongues while the Americans and Portuguese were trying to assist, I don’t think the marines knew which of the crew they were fighting. Most of the skirmishes took place below decks where a handful of mutineers in advantageous positions were able to effectively hinder the rounding up operation…” Dale was interrupted by a banging at the door. His mouth hung open as he looked at the commodore. He was rewarded with a glower.

  “Enter!” Paul Jones barked.

  A petty officer filled the doorway. His face was streaked and sweat stains had spread from his armpits. Unconsciously, he softly whipped his thigh with a knotted rope persuader as he waited for permission to speak.

  “Yes?”

  The petty officer grimaced. “Mr. Cutting Lunt said I was to inform you, sir, the ringleaders are in irons.”

  The commodore waved a hand. “Very good. Carry on.” When the door closed he sniffed. “Some progress at least.” He turned to gaze out of the stern lights then poured himself more brandy. As he raised the glass he pushed the decanter toward Dale. “Have a drink before we visit the cornered fox, the quartermaster who would make himself a captain.” He watched Dale pour himself a snifter, his eyes steely. “And I want a full report covering all this.”

  Dale met the commodore’s cold stare. “Of course, sir.”

  The gangway was dim, claustrophobic with the July heat. Two French marines armed with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets guarded the battened door of the brig. They looked hot and uncomfortable, stooping to prevent their tall shakos from being crushed by the deck timbers above. When they heard the officers clumping toward them, the marines came to attention as best they could. The commodore halted in front of the door, sniffed, then gestured for it to be opened.
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  A marine stepped forward, shouldering his musket before fumbling through the keys on his chain until he found the right one. The key ground as it turned, stiff before the hasp fell loose. Using both hands the marine lifted the cross batten free and stood it on the deck. He heaved the heavy door open before standing aside.

  It was dimmer in the brig than in the gangway. A small oil lamp flickered in the air disturbed by the opening door. The draught weakly stirred the stench of dried sweat and urine. Three men lay slumped on the floor, chained like animals by wrists and ankles.

  “Which of you is Towers?” Paul Jones queried, straining to see the sailors’ faces in the gloom. One of the prisoners grunted, wrist chains rattling. “You there! Stand up so I can see you.”

  The man grunted again, then slowly gathered his limbs so he could rise to his feet. As he straightened up he held his face close to the guttering lamp. “That suit you?” he growled.

  He was easily a head taller than Paul Jones, dark ringlets of hair gleaming in the lamplight. He had the battered face of a man well used to brawling in the streets outside gin houses, filthy now and crusted with blood. His body bragged strength, taut muscles rippling in thick forearms where a gallery of tattoos vied for space on the tanned skin. Anchors and snakes, whale flukes and rose briars, and even a crude etching of a naked woman. He stood with no sense of shame as he stared indolently at the two officers.

  Paul Jones noted the ringlets and the broad gold earring. They reminded him of a man from his past, another mutiny…He shrugged the recollection away. “Quartermaster Towers?”

  “What if I am?”

  “You led the mutiny?”

  Towers snarled, leaning forward on the balls of his feet. “I only did what you should have.”

  Paul Jones stared at him.

  The sailor continued. “You should have taken this ship the French gave you and used it to fight them, not against good English frigates. You’re an Englishman, aren’t you?”

  Jones’s voice was icy. “I’m an American.”

  Towers spat. “Like hell you are! You’re nothing but a bloody turncoat out for all you can get. They’d never even give you command of one little English cutter, never mind a whole bloody squadron…”

  “Silence!” Lt. Dale barked.

  “Silence yourself, puppy. The only way he could get to be a commodore was with the Froggies.”

  Paul Jones’s voice was carefully controlled. “I am fighting for American freedom.”

  Towers laughed. “Like hell. Nothing but a damned turncoat.” He snorted his disgust then hawked up a gob of phlegm, which he spat in Paul Jones’s face. “Turncoat! Traitorous bastard!”

  The commodore ignored the phlegm dribbling down his cheek but his eyes hardened. The voice that had calmly answered the sailor’s taunts turned menacing. “In the Royal Navy they hang mutineers.”

  “Hang me? You won’t hang me. I want justice. I did what was right and proper.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed Paul Jones’s face. He turned on his heel and walked to the open doorway. He stopped to look back at the tall man leaning against the hull, glowering in the glow of the lamp.

  “You’ll get justice, Quartermaster Towers. Just see if you don’t.”

  ***

  John Paul Jones was beginning to wish he had ordered an awning to shade the deck where the officers’ mess table served as a bench for the court-martial. He sat at the center of the table flanked by the commanders of every ship in his squadron, each man with a record of the charges in front of him plus writing materials should the need for notes arise. All the officers had begun to feel the heat. Most bore in silence the chafing collars of best dress uniforms and sweat trickling down their ribcages. Only Pierre Landais muttered, mopping his face with a silk handkerchief.

  Opposite the bench stood the three accused, behind them ranked the hundred English members of the crew, held prisoner by a cordon of armed marines. Beyond a second line of soldiers, this time facing outward, was the rest of Bonhomme Richard’s crew. They had been ordered to attend, not that an order had been necessary. All those who were loyal were eager to see Quartermaster Towers and his cohorts get what they deserved. There had been no takers to wager that the main offenders would not hang. Even the humblest ship’s boy knew the penalty for mutiny.

  Pierre La Brune, first officer of Pallas, had been delegated to conduct the prisoners’ defense. It was a pointless and thankless task, but Paul Jones was determined the court-martial should be carried out in the proper manner. Richard Dale had counseled for the prosecution, by which time the hot afternoon sun had sucked away all Paul Jones’s concentration. His eyes kept flickering to Towers’s defiant grimace, conjuring back memories of another mutiny, six years before, on the island of Tobago in the Caribbean.

  The commodore had been plain John Paul then, the name he had been christened. He had been master of Betsy, a large square-rigger out of London, trading between Ireland, Madeira, and Tobago. He established and nurtured a partnership with a merchant planter called Archibald Stuart toward the eventual aim of buying himself a plantation in Virginia where he could become a landed gentleman, a far cry from his childhood in a small estate cottage in Arbigland, Scotland. The dream had been shaping well, a bank balance of two and a half thousand pounds reached when trouble cast its black shadow over Betsy’s deck.

  Many of Betsy’s crew were natives of Tobago and after docking they asked for an advance on wages to entertain their shipmates ashore. John Paul had refused, wanting to invest all his ready cash in cargo. The men had become angry. Although he could not remember the ringleader’s name now, the man had already proved a troublemaker during the outward voyage. When advance wages were denied, he began to incite the crew. Under threats, John Paul had retreated to his cabin. Angry and humiliated, he had grabbed a sword and returned on deck. The ringleader had been stepping into a boat loaded with his cronies. Seeing the captain, he seized a bludgeon and jumped back on deck. Retreating again, John Paul found himself standing with his back to the open hatch of Betsy’s hold. When the ringleader lunged, John Paul had no choice except death and life. He chose life. He ran his assailant clean through with his sword.

  Seeing the man was dead, he went ashore to give himself up to a magistrate who told him he would not need bail, only to present himself when called to trial. Friends, however, advised him on the technical difficulties he could face, perhaps even to the loss of his life, and earnestly urged him to flee. Carrying only fifty pounds, he had crossed the island on horseback within three hours and boarded a ship, leaving his hard-earned wealth behind. Unable to return to Tobago without fear of arrest, the mutiny had cost John Paul his ship, his savings, and the dream of a Virginia plantation. Worst of all it had cost him his name. After that he called himself John Paul Jones.

  Now his luck had changed again. Risen to commodore, he was again faced with scum of the earth who wanted to take everything away from him. In Quartermaster Towers’s face he saw the same flagrant disrespect that the mutineer in Tobago had flaunted.

  “That concludes the case for the defense, sirs,” Lt. La Brune said, shuffling his papers into a tidy pile before sitting down without a glance at the prisoners.

  The commodore stirred. “Thank you, Lieutenant. The court will now retire to consider its verdict.” He rose to lead the company of officers below decks to his cabin. There were only two chairs so they all stood, grateful to be released from the sun’s glare. Paul Jones scanned their faces. “Is there anyone who disagrees with a verdict of guilty?” When there was no response, he nodded. “Good. Let it be known for the record.” He took a glass from a silver tray then gestured for the officers to help themselves to drinks.

  Leaving them to talk, the commodore stood alone with his back to the cabin while he stared out over the water. When it was all cut away, he thought, it was all so simple really. The sea, a ship, men to crew her and the stars to navigate by. A thing of beauty, taut canvas, and every man pulling together toward a commun
al goal. He sighed. As ever, it was up to him to make the pieces fit, using any tool at hand. Even if he had to start from the beginning and create each component before welding them together to convert the illusion into reality. He swung around so suddenly the waiting officers were startled.

  “Are you ready, gentlemen?” Without waiting for a reply he strode through the gathering toward the door that would lead to a table in the sun where three men waited to hear their fate.

  CHAPTER 7

  All eyes swiveled as the officers filed onto the main deck to take their places behind the table. Not one member of the crew spoke. When they were seated, Paul Jones wasted no time.

  “It is the considered opinion of this court-martial that the 100 Englishmen of Bonhomme Richard’s crew be discharged and put ashore to prevent further confrontations between different nationalities on board this ship. They will be disembarked at dusk tomorrow evening.” He paused and surveyed the company, allowing his gaze to linger here and there. “William Laurence Sturgis. Step forward.”

  One of the prisoners shuffled his feet, head hung low.

  “Sturgis, you alone of the prisoners, cannot have been a prime motivator in the act of mutiny as you had already been confined to the brig for the previous six weeks. It is apparent you were released only after the mutiny began. You have, however, been found guilty of disobedience for refusing to surrender when ordered to do so by your superiors. You will be put ashore with the rest.”

  The commodore shifted his gaze to the smallest of the three prisoners, a thin weasel-faced man with dark restless eyes. “Jean Rousseau. You are French but allied yourself with the Englishmen. This has not been conclusively proved, but you have been found guilty of the theft of a cutlass belonging to the American Navy, appropriated from the ship’s armory. For this you will receive thirty-three lashes. The punishment will be given tomorrow.”