“I take it he thinks little of our John Paul Jones,” Dr. Brooke said. “And what do you make of our illustrious commander?”
Matthew Mease frowned. “Me? In what way?”
The surgeon pursed his lips. “As a man. As a leader of men?”
The purser was not sure if he had been asked to give testimony in defense, or whether he was supposed to confirm the surgeon’s opinion. “I think he is a fine man. I’ve never served under a finer officer. He is a gentleman. I can truthfully say he has always been direct and honest in his dealings with me. And he has the ability to command. I don’t think he would ever ask a man to do anything he would not readily do himself, and I think he is capable of getting the best than any man has to give.” He thought for a moment. “The best word, perhaps, for him is honorable.”
Brooke nodded as if he expected no less, then looked pointedly at Dale. “And you, Richard, do you not find him rash, sometimes arrogant? Do you think he is reckless and that all he thinks of is glory?”
Dale rose to the bait angrily, missing the glint in the surgeon’s eyes. “Mr. Brooke, a finer man I have yet to meet,” he stated emphatically. “A seeker of glory and self-advancement? No. Every man who has a brain has ambition in some degree or other, but Paul Jones is not a glory hunter who would crush the bones of another man to take it.” He stopped, looking lost for words, raising a hand to rub forefinger and thumb together to illustrate what his mind sought. “He has an essence, yes essence, that I have detected in no other man. There is no doubt in my mind he is special. Not just me, either. I have watched men when he has spoken to them. They may not understand it, just as I do not, but it is there, and they come under his power.”
He took a deep breath. “I have given it much thought. The nearest I can come is that Paul Jones personifies what America is all about. Untamed, yes, but capable of so many things. And his officers, I swear, would follow him to a man. Wherever he went.” Dale was flushed as he fell quiet, as though astonished he had made the speech. When he looked again at the surgeon, if was as if he was defying him to contradict his opinion.
Matthew Mease was nodding. “Richard, I could not have put it better myself.”
Dr. Brooke wore the smile of a teacher whose pupil has absorbed his lessons well before forming his own conclusion.
“I agree with Matthew. For a farmer, Richard, you have a good mind. And your tongue bears its first coat of silver. You’ll make a politician someday.”
It was then Richard Dale realized it had been a test. His eyes sparked before he broke into a smile. “Thank you sir, but unlike a politician, I meant every word.”
***
Fifteen days later off the Inchcape Rock on the east coast of Scotland, Paul Jones derived little pleasure when he captured two colliers bound from Leith who had sailed blindly under Bonhomme Richard’s guns. He was still smarting from Landais’s outright disobedience. After the incident with Purser Mease and the two French marine officers, Landais had again parted from the squadron without permission. While the commodore sailed back and forth among the Shetland Isles, waiting for Pallas to catch up, Landais took Alliance out on his own initiative and returned with two small prizes. When ordered aboard the flagship for a conference he had flatly refused and again sailed off to hunt. In bad weather, the squadron made headway south. After taking the two colliers they found themselves at the mouth of the Firth of Forth.
The estuary was choppy, wind flicking the wave tops so they broke white like a million gulls flexing their wings. Paul Jones walked the length of Richard’s deck, the wind coloring his cheeks. Listening with half an ear to his heels rattling on the quarterdeck, he glanced at the boats on the sea as they took prize crews to the two colliers. Their return journey would bring more prisoners to crowd Richard’s ’tween decks. The loss of fighting men in a trade for worthless passengers annoyed him. And what for? Two little colliers probably infested by rats and with rotting timbers worth a bare few pounds. If only he could take a prize whose loss would be keenly felt by the enemy.
He paused to lean on the rail. If he didn’t do something soon, he would have no men left to do it with; they’d all be crewing captured colliers and fishing boats. He wondered how the war was faring in America. He had received little news since his days in Paris when Benjamin Franklin had kept him informed. In Lorient there had been little to hear, and since setting sail, nothing. He wondered whether the Royal Navy had been plundering ports. His last news had been that Sir George Colliers had landed at Chesapeake in May, taking the war at sea to the land.
Why not? Why couldn’t he do it too? The very audacity of it, the American Navy taking an English town and demanding ransom. By God, that would hurt them; cut them to the very heart. They valued nothing more highly than freedom. Weren’t they always bragging they had never been invaded since 1066? Well, it would not be an invasion, certainly not by Norman standards, but the shock value would be tremendous. It would show them that the war could come to them too, threatening their homes and families.
The problem was to select a target where there would be minimum risk to his ships. He looked away into the distance where the mouth of the Firth offered a welcome. He smiled then abruptly turned aft. At the foot of the quarterdeck companion ladder, he beckoned the midshipman standing duty by the helmsman.
“Signal M’sieur Cottineau of Pallas and M’sieur Ricot of Vengeance to repair on board the flagship immediately. Pass the word for Mr. Dale and ask him to bring the French officers to my cabin when they arrive.”
While he waited for the captains to transfer, Paul Jones went over his maps and charts, dredging his memory for every detail he could remember about Scotland’s east coast, and the Firth of Forth in particular. He was lost in speculation when Richard Dale knocked and entered. The commodore rose to greet his guests, the two Frenchmen in their best undress uniforms.
“Welcome gentlemen. Please sit down. I have news. We are going to effect a landing.” He stabbed a finger at the chart. “We are going to capture the town of Leith.”
Cottineau flashed a smile. “Well M’sieur, then why not take all Scotland?”
Paul Jones’s eyes were cold as he studied Cottineau’s face. “The French have always wanted to invade England. Well here is your chance. I’m giving it to you on a plate.”
Cottineau’s breath hissed between his teeth. “But M’sieur, I wonder who will be doing the eating. Us or the English?”
CHAPTER 2
“Boat off the starboard side!”
Richard Dale glanced aloft in acknowledgement of the lookout’s cry then crossed to the rail. A thirty-foot sloop was closing, cleaving through the choppy firth, her sail plan capable of manipulating the wind quickly to her advantage. Dale was forced to catch his hat before it was whipped away over the whitecaps. Astern, Vengeance and Pallas wallowed in Richard’s wake. Followed by prizes they had taken, the three warships beat against the wind, so fair at the mouth of the firth but now turned against them. Dale studied the closing sloop. It had all the appearance of a pleasure boat. No working tackle cluttered her decks and her paintwork was fresh.
“Ahoy, HMS Romney!” The sloop swung under Richard’s lee, five men on her deck squinting up at the lumbering man-o’-war. Dale silenced a petty officer’s laugh with a curt gesture and leaned out.
“What vessel are you?”
“Ahoy, Romney! This is Royal Charlotte, yacht of Sir John Anstruther! We come to ask a favor for our master!”
Dale suppressed a smile. “Come aboard, then!” He turned to Lt. Stack, lowering his voice. “Get ready to lower a boat away. If they find out their mistake they’ll run to tell all Scotland we’re here.” He glanced up at the English ensign flying from the yardarm above. “I’d rather catch them quietly. If they believe that ensign, others will too. If we have to run out the guns to stop them we might as well sail out of the firth now.”
Dale kept an eye on Lt. Stack’s discreet organization of a boat party as he watched the visitor from the pleasu
re sloop climb aboard. He was a thickset Scot with a weathered face and a mouth short of teeth. He exposed the gaps with a grin.
“Andrew Paton, sir.” He executed a mock naval salute.
Richard Dale smiled. “Lieutenant Dale. What can I do for you?”
Paton compressed his lips, eyes twinkling. “Well sir, my master Sir John Anstruther of Elie House, y’ken?” He gestured to the north shore of the estuary. “The master had a report that Paul Jones’s squadron is going to come up the firth. Now, he has a brass cannon and a goodly supply of ball, but all the powder is spoilt. A bad blow a week since took the slates off the store house and the rain wet it all down, y’ken?” He paused and shuffled to emphasize his awkward position. “Well sir, he sent me out to ask you for the loan of a barrel. He said you’d be pleased to know you’ve support on land.”
“That I am.”
The Scot swiveled to face the new speaker. The commodore, hands clasped behind his back in the Royal Navy tradition, showed an indulgent smile. Paton glanced at Richard Dale then back at the newcomer.
Dale jumped into the silence. “Andrew Paton, this is my commanding officer.”
“And pleased to meet you, sir, I am,” the Scot said.
“You need powder?” Paul Jones asked. “Then powder you shall have.” He stroked the side of his nose. “However, I need a favor too. You know the firth well?”
Paton nodded. “Sailed it man and boy. I know every shoal, every current. All the bad, and all the good too.”
The commodore nodded. “In return for your master’s powder will you stay on board and act as pilot?”
The Scot grinned. “T’would be my pleasure, sir.”
“Good. Lieutenant, have a hundredweight of powder brought up, and take Mr. Paton below while I write a letter to his master explaining my need for a pilot.” A smile briefly crossed his lips.
Fifteen minutes later the commodore, flanked by Dale and the Scot, stood on the quarterdeck as the powder was lowered into the sloop. With a wave, Royal Charlotte pushed away, drifting slowly out of Richard’s lee until she caught the wind. Like a dancer, she pirouetted then raced for the land, mocking the whitecaps that snatched at her heels.
“She sails well,” Paul Jones commented.
Paton winked proudly. “She’s a good ’un, my Charlotte. Only we don’t get to sail her much nowadays, what with all the trouble an’ that.” He spat over the rail. “Bloody war.”
The commodore showed interest. “What’s the news?”
Paton grimaced. “Why, that rebel and pirate Paul Jones is off the coast, and he ought to be hanged if you ask me.”
Lt. Dale’s expression hardened. “Do you know whom you are addressing?”
Paton looked from one to the other. His gaze settled on the commodore. “Are you not Captain Johnson of HMS Romney?”
“No,” the commodore said quietly.
“This ship isn’t Romney?”
“This is an American ship. The Bonhomme Richard.”
“So you are…” The Scot’s mouth fell open, horror distorting his face. He looked away quickly to where Royal Charlotte sped away, far beyond recall, then back at the two Americans.
“Yes, I am John Paul Jones.”
The Scot fell to his knees, clutching at the commodore’s shoes. “My God, forgive me sir! I did not know! I have a wife and six children. Please God, sir. Have mercy on me.”
Paul Jones laughed, stepping back from Paton’s grasping hands. “Get up, man. I won’t hurt a hair on your head, but you are my prisoner.”
***
The wind was against them from the start. Even before the commodore had pressed Andrew Paton into service as a pilot, the squadron had tacked. Close hauled to use a little of the wind’s might against itself, the American ships crawled up the Firth of Forth. They swung to and fro across the estuary in a series of doglegs, inching toward Leith. Ashore, the natives to the south were not as gullible as Sir John Anstruther’s yacht crew. During the late afternoon the task force was sighted from Edinburgh castle. Drummers and buglers sounded warnings. Townsmen gathered wives and children and property to make escape. The citizens of Leith, acutely aware that Paul Jones would have to make landfall at their town before storming the ramparts of Edinburgh, armed themselves with claymores, pikes, muskets, and even pitchforks. When there appeared little hope for material support, they resorted to prayer.
But always the wind. Paul Jones cursed it silently, screwing up his eyes to make out Leith’s silhouette in the dying afternoon. Inside his coat lay the ultimatum he had written to be delivered by Colonel de Chamillard to the Provost of Leith demanding ransom of 100,000 pounds sterling. Half was to be paid within the hour while 130 marines would take six hostages until the remainder could be raised. If not, then Leith was to be left in ashes.
But the damned wind. It would soon be dusk and too late. His only hope was the weather would calm overnight to make the marines’ journey safer as they landed from the ship’s boats. He watched the sinking sun kill off the day then left the rail to join Lt. Dale who was staring morosely at the sea. “Mr. Dale, I’m, going below. We’ll try for a landing at first light.” He grimaced. “If the cursed wind allows.”
By morning there was a steady blow and a swell too heavy to risk the marines’ boats being swamped. It was time for a decision. Paul Jones glanced up at raw clouds racing across a gunmetal sky. They offered no solace. His hope of a surprise attack had evaporated. There had been ample time for Leith to organize a solid defense and call for help. Disgruntled, he returned to his cabin and ordered breakfast.
Shortly after the noon sighting the sea began to grow alarmingly. Richard began to pitch, her bowsprit goring the firth’s murky tide, spray showering the foc’sle as the squadron came about onto the port tack. Before the braces could be hauled the full might of the shrieking wind fattened the mizzen topsail. It burst, the canvas ripped from top to bottom. The crew, dripping wet and blinking from the spray, stared aloft as the tatters blew away from the yardarm. When the foremast topsail went, the tearing was so horrific they heard it even above the howl of the wind.
“Fasten down all gun ports and batten the hatches!” a lieutenant yelled. “And haul, damn you!” The line of sailors lost their footing on the swimming deck and went down in a heap.
“Get her off the wind!” the sailing master bawled. “Shorten sail!”
Paul Jones and Lt. Dale observed from the quarterdeck, confident of the crew’s ability under the right direction. Persistent drilling in calmer weather had instilled a spirit of competence, orders obeyed instantly without question. To a seasoned commander it was obvious Richard would soon be under control. The commodore’s concern lay with the rest of the squadron. The gale was blowing them off station, crews fighting rioting canvas and rebellious helms. A collier Richard had captured only days before was wallowing badly, her thin prize crew novices at handling the small brigantine. As the two officers watched, she heeled until her main deck was awash then swung broadside to the sea which pummeled her beam ends. She recovered clumsily, way off station.
The cutter Vengeance was head up into the wind, her graceful lines buffeted by wave after wave. Men could be seen aloft, scrambling to reef the sails. The frigate Pallas wasn’t managing nearly so well. Pitching badly, her bowsprit cut a feather through oncoming seas. While a ragged stream of sailors clawed their way up the ratlines, she fell away to leeward, crabbing, the sea broaching her decks to stream from the scuppers. She shuddered under the onslaught of a huge wave, hundreds of tons of wild water piling against her bulwarks. A handful of men were shaken out of her rigging to plunge into the firth.
“We can forget Leith,” Paul Jones said. “This is…” He fell silent as the wallowing prize collier heeled again, sea pounding angrily at her beam-ends until she surrendered. She made no recovery, the masts collapsing like felled trees until they were swallowed by the spume. Where she had struggled the sea was empty. Paul Jones’s gaze swung to his own crew, knee deep in icy water
skirling across the decks as they fought to control Richard. He glowered, wiping away spray from his cheeks. “This is madness. Give the order to go about. We’ll run before the wind.”
He had no other choice.
***
The smell was everywhere. It hung over Whitby like a nauseous blanket that stuffed wool into a man’s lungs. If it turned strong men pale and made brave men weep, then they would have to endure until the last blubber from the Greenland fishery had been rendered down. Columns of evil smoke rose from the chimneys of the oil factories bordering the inner harbor and spread out over the little Yorkshire fishing town. A cluster of pantiled cottages huddled under the cliff along the banks of the river Esk, defiantly facing the North Sea.
Jackie Rudd turned his back on the factories, hunching his shoulders against the nip in the September air. At least walking past the Angel Inn toward the sea put the north wind in his face, its numbing caress preferable to the stench of whale oil. He passed the drawbridge that straddled the harbor’s narrowest point and continued along the staithe side, eyes raking the forest of masts cluttering the outer harbor. The rising tide had lifted the big whalers upright out of the mud to stand proud, naked masts tall and straight as though aching to be clothed with canvas to taste the wind. They had barely returned from the north, names easily read. The Jenny, Hope, Delight, Volunteer, Loyal Club, and Providence. While supping at the Dolphin he had heard the season had been poor. The fourteen ships to sail had brought only twenty-seven whales home between them. The Greenlanders who manned the three ships, which had come home clean, without a catch, faced a bleak winter, their wages based on performance. Around the whalers were clusters of fishing cobbles, fastened bow to bow so one could almost walk the breadth of the harbor across their gear-cluttered decks.
Jackie wished he was at home in Scarborough, out among the herring shoals with his friends in the Gin, but here he was in Whitby, idle and restless, his mother’s representative to his sick uncle’s bedside. Still casting an eye at the whalers, he wandered past a group of fishermen mending nets. Solid men dressed in stained smocks and heavy seaboots, pipes clamped between yellowed teeth, were dark eyed and watchful under the peaks of their caps. A glance told them he was a foreigner so they bent to their work. Jackie looked away as a girl came toward him. Her scarf could not contain a halo of wild chestnut hair framing her cheeky face. She moved in a long-legged gait, hips swinging beneath billowing skirts. Clutching a basket of bread, her arm drew a loose blouse taut across her breasts. She wore threadbare clothes like a princess, head up proud as she skipped barefoot. For an instant their eyes met, hers coal black, teasing, before she looked away. He turned as she passed, captivated by the hint of firm buttocks beneath the homespun frock.
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