Scarborough Fair

by Chris Scott Wilson

  He stood up again, hands in his pockets, eyes measuring the horizon, white caps breaking like flurries of snow all the way in. They marched, rank upon rank, battalion on battalion, to smash in a creamy froth through the harbor entrance. They scoured the outer granite piers, collapsing, slick and oily, into a swell that left the boats nudging each other worriedly. The sea was growing even while he watched. As the clouds writhed and twisted across the sky, the wind howled down across the North Sea, tearing spindrift from the galloping waves and flinging it away with careless hands.

  There was nothing more to be done. He glanced back at the men near the Posthouse, imagining their grumbles as vividly as if he stood among them. They echoed his own. He turned his back on the wind, hunching his shoulders and set off.

  “Where’s thou off to, lad?”

  Jackie turned. “Over to the hut. There’s always work there.” He waved as he trudged away.

  Inside, the shed was dry and gloomy with a strong smell of fish bait. Lobster and crab pots were stacked along one wall, their floats standing like spears, ragged marker flags limp. Curled long lines spiky with hooks and a curtain of drying nets cast inky shadows. There were no windows so Jackie lit a hurricane lamp, then pulled a handful of dry leaves from the tinderbox to lay in the bottom of the stove. Twigs followed then slats from a splintered fish box. He lit a taper from the lamp and touched it to the tinder. A wisp of smoke before a flame sprang alive. Uncertain, it flickered before catching hold, the leaves gnarling into embers. As tongues of flame began to lick at the box slats, he patiently fed on driftwood from the stack by the door.

  Minutes later the interior of the hut was cozy, his face reflecting the glow of the fire as he warmed his hands. Tendrils of steam ventured from the kettle he had filled. He knew Harry kept a store of illicit tea hidden behind the nets. As he steeped the tealeaves in the pot he smiled, knowing how expensive the drink would have been if bought legally. The tea tax was ridiculous, but they put a heavy tax on everything. Who could blame a poor man for getting a bit here and there whenever there was opportunity? Everyone knew the squires and gentleman farmers bought as much brandy and gin as the free traders could sneak ashore. Even the Excise man turned his back when it suited, as long as a keg or a bag of tea was to be found in his outhouse the next morning.

  As he sipped, Jackie looked about the hut. The spare long lines had to be unraveled and cleaned, and the lines already baited for today and wound into their creels would have to be stripped. They had already been lying ready for several days. Now, by the time the weather turned the bait would be too ripe. He drained his mug and made a start on the first line.

  Jackie had started on the second creel when the door opened. Quietly, Rose came across the hut to stand above him, watching his nimble fingers. Her lips wore a gentle smile as she studied his face in the glow from the lamp. His tanned, sea-worn cheeks running into a strong jaw line, mouth working as he concentrated on his task. Long fair hair framed his face, curling down to hide his brown eyes skimming the line ahead of his fingers. He reminded her of a picture of a cavalier she had seen once in one of the town’s shops. They had known each other since childhood. Friends then, now it had grown into something more. She was always in and out of his cottage, helping his mother, even more often since his father had been lost at sea two years back. Everyone who knew them took it for granted one day they would be married. That was the way it went, especially with Scarborough lasses.

  Jackie wasn’t sure how he felt about it all. He was glad she took some of the strain off his mother, nursing her when her wracking cough drove her to bed, preparing Jackie’s meals in the meantime. He liked Rose almost as much as he liked his friends. But where they laughed loudly, she smiled serenely, shy as a calf. Where his pals always carried the smell of the fishing trade, Rose always seemed clean and fresh, and when he was close he ached to hold her in his arms and bury his face in her velvet skin.

  Sometimes when they walked, away from the eyes of his mates, he would take her hand and occasionally she would let him kiss her. When he tasted her soft lips a hunger would awaken, but when he tried to pull her close she would push small hands against his chest, saying “not yet.” When he asked her “When?” she would answer enigmatically “One day.” Seared by a heat he had not yet come to understand, he would turn away flushed, angry, his feelings jumbled.

  Now she stood in front of him, delicate in her homespun frock covered by a large green apron which ran almost to the floor. Her fair hair was tied back under her bonnet. But this morning her eyes were cloudy as a rainy sky, cheeks pale. As if she didn’t trust them free, her fingers were intertwined tightly.

  “Harry told me you were in here,” she blurted.

  “What’s the matter, pet?” Jackie frowned. “You don’t look well.” He put down the long line and stood up, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  “You’d better come home. I think your mam’s had some bad news. She’s taken on, crying her heart out and coughing like you’ve never heard.”

  First the sea keeping him ashore and now this. “Right. You go on back up. I’ll just go down and tell Harry. There’s work to be done in here and he’s out there jawing.”

  ***

  Her eyes reminded him of a rabbit with one foot caught in a snare, Jackie thought as his mother turned to face him. She looked tiny in her chair by the open fire, her shawl clutched about her as though it was deep midwinter. Her cheeks appeared sore where tears still lurked, the puffy skin shiny. As he crossed the room from the street door, Rose shot him a look followed by a shrug. He hovered over the chair as his mother sniffed, dabbing her eyes with a sodden handkerchief.

  “Now, our Mam, what’s all this?”

  Her voice was feeble, quaking like the bleat of a spring lamb. “We’re nearly all gone now. Won’t be none of us left soon.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  She sobbed. “First your Dad. Now it’s our Bob. And then it’ll be me. There’ll only be you.”

  “This something to do with Uncle Bob?”

  She whimpered. “He’s dying, just like me.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mam, you’ll outlive us all.” He looked at Rose.

  “The carter brought a message this morning, not long after you left. He’d just come from Whitby,” Rose explained.

  So that was it. He knelt down, one hand covering both his mother’s in her lap. Her fingers felt thin and cold.

  “What do you want me to do about it, Mam?”

  “I just wanted to see him again. Just once more, you know.” Her eyes implored him to understand. “He was your Dad’s favorite brother. Now he’s the only one left.”

  Jackie scowled as she began to cough, her narrow shoulders jerking in spasms. “You know you’re not well enough to go, Mam. A trip across the moors in John Williams’s open cart would be the death of you. The sea’s coming away like mountains, and you know what it’s like up on high ground when it’s like that. And the wind doesn’t look like it’s going to come round for a few days.”

  She was staring into the fire, deaf to his logic.

  “Listen, Mam, I won’t let you go, and that’s the end of it.” He came to his feet and paced to the table where Rose was peeling potatoes into a bowl. He rested his palms on the tabletop, leaning down over her. “She can’t go. You can see that, can’t you?”

  Her knife pared the peel rapidly, expertly. She dropped the clean potato and began a fresh one. Her eyes would not meet his. When she spoke it was quietly, resigned. “Somebody’ll have to. It’s only right.”

  He stared at her for a long minute before he sighed. “That leaves only me, then.”

  The knife paused as Rose lifted her head. He saw the clouds had scudded away to leave her pupils clear. The smallest of smiles creased the corners of her mouth.

  He gestured behind to his mother, quiet now and slumped in the chair. “You’ll stay here and look after her?”

  Rose’s expression said everything. “I’ll be here as l
ong as I’m needed,” she stated firmly, a strength he had never before noticed creeping into her voice.

  ***

  The lookout’s cry brought Paul Jones from his cabin where he had been writing his log. When he appeared on deck he was glad he had thought to bring his cloak. The weather had turned sour. A gray sky spat drizzle at Bonhomme Richard as she lay hove-to, the captured Union a hundred yards away on the port quarter, with Vengeance beyond. Paul Jones considered the sky with distaste then took hold of the companion safety rail as a precaution against the slippery steps as he climbed to the poop. Almost at the top he coughed.

  Richard Dale lowered his eyeglass to smile a welcome. “We have company, sir.”

  Jones sniffed, blinking at the spatters of rain. “So I heard. Landais, I suppose, late as ever.”

  “It certainly looks to be Alliance, but it seems he has brought a guest.”

  The commodore grunted, accepting the offered telescope to study the two closing vessels. “She’s flying our colors. M’sieur Landais has not been altogether idle. Another ship to send back to France. No doubt he’ll have it shouted from the top of the Notre Dame in Paris that he caught himself a prize.” He handed the eyeglass back. “Well, if he can furnish one prize crew, he can furnish two. Order him to man Union too, that is, when he pleases to meet us.”

  Dale frowned. “Begging your pardon, sir, but surely Union belongs to our crew?”

  “She does. They’ll each have their share of prize money. They can rest easy on that, but to furnish a crew will deplete our strength and I’d rather rob Landais than myself. My men are much more use to me.” He smiled wryly. “I sometimes despair whose side our M’sieur Landais is on. Perhaps he is only on his own side, and to blazes with everyone else.” With that he turned and went below.

  The wind began to rise, the drizzle persisting as Alliance with her prize, Betsy, another letter-of-marque ship, closed with the squadron. By the time the Frenchman hove-to, Bonhomme Richard was pitching uncomfortably. At mess the sailors grumbled they would rather be under way, but were silenced when a petty officer repeated Lt. Stack’s statement that they were to wait until the frigate Pallas caught up.

  In his cabin, face drawn in the growing gloom, Paul Jones’s anger was mounting to fever pitch. No boat had been sent to the flagship with dispatches. After a short wait to allow Landais some leeway, Jones had ordered the signal midshipman to request information.

  Landais did not bother to reply.

  The commodore ordered another signal, this time demanding the Frenchman to repair on board the flagship. This too was ignored. Left with little choice, he asked Purser Mease to visit Alliance, supported by Colonel de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert with some of their marines to discover in no uncertain terms just what Landais thought he was about. They had been gone two hours and still no word. He did not envy them the journey in an open boat on the growing sea, but that was their duty. They would have to endure. His reverie was broken by a knocking at the door. “Enter!”

  The purser stooped as he entered the cabin. Matthew Mease was from Philadelphia and at fifty years old, the eldest of the officers. He was a wizard with accounts and honest, a valuable man when a squadron had to be provisioned. Jones knew that when Mease bought beef, it was of the highest quality the budget could afford, not the poorest with the remainder of the cash lining his pocket. His honesty, Jones mused, would probably condemn him to living shipboard for the rest of his life. As he stood in the doorway, Mease was soaked with rain and spray, his tricorn hat sodden and shapeless. His white eyebrows carried garlands of water droplets, the light catching them above his brown eyes. He stood bowed, a puddle collecting about his shoes.

  “You’ll catch your death, man!” the commodore exclaimed, ringing for his steward. A white face appeared behind the purser. “Quickly boy, bring a blanket for Mr. Mease.” He looked up. “Sit down. You a brandy man, Matthew?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  While the commodore poured from a decanter the steward returned to wrap a thick blanket around the purser’s shoulders. Glass in hand, Mease drank then coughed before sipping again.

  “A bad night, Matthew.”

  The purser nodded.

  “You saw Captain Landais?”

  Mease’s eyes were guarded. “Aye sir, I did. If I did not know he was a French officer, no, an officer in the American Navy, I should think he was a madma…” He lapsed into silence.

  “Go on.”

  Mease shook his head. “I am not the captain of a ship. It is not for me to say. I have not experienced command.”

  “You were going to say he is a madman,” Jones prompted quietly, his eyes sharp, steely.

  Mease contemplated his superior, then hesitantly nodded. “If you could have heard him, sir. He ranted and raved like a man…I’ve only seen the like once before, a man dying of black water fever. Landais accused you of the most dreadful things.”

  Jones pursed his lips. “Such as?”

  “Gibberish mostly. Nonsense. Pure ravings.”

  “You won’t upset me, Matthew. Tell me.”

  “Frankly, I did not understand most of it, but he said you always stationed his ship where it appeared fighting was going to occur, but you planned it so it would actually happen elsewhere. He said it was a plot to discredit him, and that he only captured Betsy because he had gone out on his own. That…that he should have been in command of the squadron, not you…” He stumbled into silence, eyes wary.

  “Please continue. I know you are only repeating what you heard.”

  Mease spoke up. “M’sieur de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert both heard him, sir. When he began ranting they insisted on being present throughout the interview. All of his comments about you were highly disrespectful and insolent, and he blurted out that he would see you on shore where one of you must kill the other…” The purser took refuge in his glass, averting his eyes.

  Paul Jones’s anger rose. He had expected impudence, but this? The man was stark staring mad. Frenchmen! Every one of them in authority he had encountered since delivering Ranger to France had proved cantankerous in one way or other. Were they always like that, or did they just hate Americans? Or did they despise anyone but another Frenchman? He wished to God he didn’t need Landais, but he did. At least he needed Alliance’s firepower. He could always relieve him of command and replace him with an American, perhaps Dale, but that would bring the politicians into the matter and necessitate a barrage of red tape and paperwork when he returned to Lorient. He had learned all too well that what occurred at sea could look entirely different when back on dry land. Even with his own American government. They had given Landais his commission, and that in itself seemed politic to enlist French aid.

  Damn Landais. The whole thing was a mess. He wanted rid of the man, yet could not afford the luxury. It had taken long enough to secure Richard and the squadron. A move like replacing Landais could lose him the squadron if the French decided to withdraw their support. In which case he would likely find himself transferred to command a bucket on the Missouri river. Jones shuffled his papers and refocused his gaze on the purser who was discreetly plumbing the depths of his empty glass, teeth clenched to stop them chattering.

  “Would you like another?”

  Mease was startled. He pushed the glass away. “My thanks, sir, but no.”

  “Thank you for your report, Matthew. You best get yourself into some dry clothes before you catch a chill.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He rose to leave.

  The commodore waved a hand. “One last thing. Would you write down everything you told me tonight? Leave nothing out. And ask M’sieur de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert to oblige me also.” He nodded. “A good night to you, Matthew.”

  When the purser had left, Paul Jones helped himself to another brandy, sipping as he reflected on his position. It was best to be prepared. Three accounts of the meeting tonight would provide insurance should there be further trouble with M’sieur Landais.

  And P
aul Jones was sure there would be.

  ***

  There was only the cold wind and the sea. Predominantly gray, the sky closed over the thin line of the horizon, the squall from the previous night still churning the leaden waters, whitecaps showing teeth of seething anger as Bonhomme Richard labored. Aloft, canvas slapped like pistol shots triggered by the eddying wind.

  “Take in another reef on the main course,” Lt. Dale ordered of the sailing master. He watched the command relayed, the starboard watch climbing the ratlines under the scrutiny of a petty officer. Dale left the quarterdeck to stroll for’ard along the line of cannon, lashed down against heavy weather. By the manger he cast a professional farmer’s eye over the remaining livestock in the pen. Two pigs, a goat, and a handful of chickens. They would be back on salted rations soon. He grimaced at the thought, then approached the figure hunched at the rail, staring at Alliance plowing the ugly sea a cable length away.

  “Good morning, Matthew.”

  The purser glanced over his shoulder, face haggard in the freshening breeze. “Ah, Richard. ’Morning to you.”

  “Wardroom chatter has it you had a run-in with Alliance’s skipper last night.”

  Lines were etched deep in Purser Mease’s cheeks. “The wardroom has it right for a change,” he commented dryly, “and a madder man I have yet to meet. You should have heard him, Richard, like a man possessed. You would have thought he had a fever…”

  “Which is what you’ll have if you stay up here in this wind,” another voice remarked, breaking into their conversation. It was the surgeon, Dr. Brooke, hat jammed on his head, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his frock coat. Silence fell between the three men.

  “You were saying, Matthew?” Dale prompted.

  “Ah, that Landais,” Mease continued, shaking his head, “the things he accused our commodore of…”