Scarborough Fair

by Chris Scott Wilson

  One of the fishermen chuckled. “You’ll be Bob Rudd’s nephew out of Scarboro’? I thought as much. If you was taken in by Dorry Aim, you had to be.”

  “Dorry Aim?”

  “Aye lad. Take your mind off her. She’d take you ’tween her thighs and crack you like a nut. She’d leave pieces of you all over t’deck.”

  “That’s no way to speak about a girl…”

  The fisherman’s booming laugh cut him off. “Then you don’t know Dorry!” He laughed again, but seeing Jackie’s face was red with anger, he changed the subject. “Anyway, how’s old Bob getting on?”

  “Faring badly, I think,” he answered, his mind full of the girl.

  The fisherman pulled at his pipe then spat a stream of ochre juice into the harbor. When he looked up he grimaced. “Comes to us all, lad. Don’t you fret none, old Bob had him a fair life.” He glanced back at his weaving fingers. “And a fair life is all you can ask.”

  Jackie waved and turned away, ambling slowly along the staithe, trying to make sense of the fisherman’s comments about his uncle and the girl, Dorry Aim. He looked up at the cottages ranging along the cliff, red pantile roofs spattered by gull droppings. Above stood St. Mary’s church with the ruin of Whitby Abbey as a backdrop. It wasn’t that much different to Scarborough’s harbor with the dominating castle really, but it wasn’t home.

  Bob Rudd’s cottage was in Church Street, tiny and whitewashed, right next to the alley called Arguments Yard which ran down to the staithe side. Fastened into the wall beside the Rudd’s front door was a harpoon, a reminder of Bob’s younger days as a Greenlander when he could strike a whale with the best of them before frostbite had robbed him of three fingers from his throwing hand. Jackie touched the rusting metal as he came to the door. Before he could lift the latch, his Aunt Winnie opened it and the doctor emerged, black bag in hand.

  “Remember Mrs. Rudd. Keep him well wrapped up.” He looked down at the delicate shawl-clad woman. “Well, I’ll bid you good-bye.” He added a nod to Jackie before walking away, glancing down all the while to ensure he didn’t step on any displaced cobbles in the uneven street.

  Winnie raised a smile. “You’re back. Been walking, Jackie?”

  “Aye, I’ve been down to the harbor.”

  Her gaze shifted to the embedded harpoon, mouth turning down at the corners. “Whalers!” she said bitterly. “I wish to God there was no such things. Too many Whitby men have lost their lives chasing those big fish.”

  “It brought Uncle Bob good wages.”

  Her gaze was far away. “Mebbe when he was a young man, tall and straight with a twinkle in his eye. But it robbed him too. Look at him now.”

  “You can’t blame the whales for that.”

  “Whales, boats, the sea, I blame them all.” Tears threatened to spill onto her withered cheeks. He put an arm around her narrow shoulders and led her inside. Bob Rudd lay propped up on a small cot close to the smoking fire. He squinted at Jackie, facial muscles too weak to support a smile, but a gnarled hand tapped feebly on the bedcovers, beckoning him forward.

  “The tide?” his uncle whispered.

  “Tell him about the whalers,” his aunt prompted sourly. “That’s what he wants to hear.”

  Jackie leaned forward. He forgot the smell of the oil houses in that dim little room, assailed by the odor of death hovering close by, waiting to steal his next victim. Trying to hide his revulsion, Jackie talked of the big cat-barques lying in the harbor and of the freshening wind. He spoke of the fishermen and how they had asked after him. That raised a nod. He talked until there was nothing left to tell and his uncle’s eyes slipped shut, breath sawing softly in his chest. He watched, frightened the old man would wake if he moved. The opening door freed him.

  “Now then, our Jackie,” his cousin Billy helloed, closing out the September wind as he shut the street door. “How’s t’old man?” He jerked his head at the cot.

  Jackie made a face in reply. Billy sniffed and nodded, crossing to warm his broad backside at the fire. “Reckon I’ve got some seaboots’ll fit you. When the tide turns we’re going off. You comin’? See if you’re as good with a line as you brag.”

  “What about your dad?”

  Billy looked down at his dozing father. “You been here two days. Nothing you can do. Catching some fish’ll buy t’old man a fire, and we need the money. Ma?”

  Aunt Winnie nodded her agreement. “You go wi’ Billy. There’s stew in the pot, then you lads can have a pint afore you go off.”

  Jackie’s guilt evaporated. “Gear all ready?” he asked, trying to suppress his eagerness.

  Billy winked. “All set. Bait an’ everything. Just waiting on’t tide. All right Ma, dish up, I’m hungry.”

  ***

  The Dolphin was warm and smoky, the beer cold. On a full stomach Jackie sipped at his pint, eavesdropping on his cousin’s conversation with the other men lined up at the bar. Pipes drew diagrams in the air to emphasize the size of catches, the stories greeted by guffaws of disbelief. Grins split weathered faces, heads shaking. There was nothing a fisherman liked more than a bite on the end of his line, whether it was a big fish or an avid listener to a yarn. They both brought their own rewards.

  “Fresh shrimps! Caught today!”

  Jackie turned at the voice cutting through the rumble of men’s banter. It was her, the girl from the staithe side. She moved among the drinkers, selling from a basket. When she bent over a seated man, skirt drawn tight over her buttocks, Jackie couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  “That right, our Jackie?” Billy grinned. “Ned here says you’ve got a soft spot for Dorry?”

  Jackie looked away from her to see the fisherman he had spoken to during the afternoon. Ned nudged the smirking Billy which drew color into Jackie’s cheeks. His cousin laughed out loud then shouted across the room.

  “Hey Dorry! Come here, lass!”

  She straightened up and turned, caught sight of Billy then pushed through the men, hips swinging. Billy took hold of her arm, leaning close to whisper in her ear. While she listened, Dorry’s eyes twinkled as she speculatively studied Jackie. When Billy drew back she moved up to Jackie so close he could feel her warm breath. She thrust an arm through his, tugging.

  “Come outside. I’ve got something to show you.”

  Jackie felt his face burning. He tried to act nonchalant, failing miserably. She pulled insistently.

  Billy smirked. “Go on, lad. Our Dorry’s got a secret she wants to share.” He relieved his cousin of his beer glass then egged him on with a shove.

  Dorry almost dragged him to the door. Outside she coaxed him into an alley that ran up the side of the inn to the cottages behind. After a few yards she stopped, placed her basket by her feet, then leaned back against the wall. He could barely see her eyes flashing, her face framed by the wild tangle of chestnut hair.

  “Is it true Scarboro’ lads’re better kissers than Whitby ’uns?”

  Before he could speak she silenced his lips with a finger. “Don’t talk, Beauty, kiss me.” He faltered so she took his face between her hands and pressed her lips to his before he could pull away. “How’s that?” she asked. “Am I better than the Scarboro’ girls? Am I a better kisser?”

  He stuttered, suffering a pang of guilt about Rose, left behind in Scarborough. Why should Rose always be so reluctant when he wanted to kiss her, yet this girl was kissing him with barely any invitation? “I d-don’t know.”

  Dorry grinned. “Try this then.” She kissed him more slowly, teeth parting to allow her tongue to flick quickly around the edges of his mouth before her lips fused with his. Every curve of her body flattened against him. His imagination soared beyond reality into fantasy. Rose was banished like a wraith as a mist clouded his brain, his hands moving to mold Dorry to him. Eyes squeezed tight, he kissed her as best he knew until she broke away, both panting.

  “What do you think now, Beauty?” she teased, taking his hand to slip inside her blouse. Her breast was soft and w
arm in the palm of his hand and she could feel his immediate response where their bodies pressed together. She eased a leg between his, working against him.

  “Again, Beauty,” she whispered hoarsely, seeking his mouth, her breath washing hot against his face. Jackie gave in to it, his whole world shut behind his eyelids, tingling nerves concentrated in his searching, caressing hands. She worked at him until he was on fire, knees weak, a hammering in his chest. He wanted, needed more, anything and everything she had to give him.

  “Again, Beauty,” a voice mimicked from the mouth of the alley. Billy and two of his friends stood framed in the streetlight, making coarse remarks and lewd gestures.

  “Hop it,” Jackie croaked, voice choked by emotion, hands unwilling to release the promise of her flesh.

  “Come on, Beauty, tide’s turned. We’re away off now. Howay lad, plenty more of that when you get back.”

  Her arms fell. “You go,” she whispered. “I’ll be here when you come ashore. Anytime you come ashore.” She touched his face gently in the darkness. He held her at arm’s length for a moment then snatched a quick kiss before wrenching himself away.

  They taunted him all the way down to where Billy Rudd’s sloop lay in the harbor. Speedwell rose and fell at her mooring, gear stacked ready on her deck, the smell of fresh bait almost smothered by the blanket thrown out by the oil factories. Billy lit a lantern to act as a running light and hung it from the mast as Robin and Ian cast off.

  “Grab an oar, Jackie,” his cousin grinned, “and let off some of that steam. I’ll hoist t’mainsail when we’re clear.” Speedwell eased out of her berth into open water, falling oars splashing loud in the darkness. “We’ll go off Upgang for a spell then down to Baytown to lift the pots at first light,” Billy said, his strong arms hauling up the canvas as they smoothed between the piers to the sea. “What d’you think of our Dorry, lad?”

  Jackie grunted as he stowed his oar.

  “Got you going, eh? You get your sixpence worth?”

  Jackie screwed up his eyes, trying to see Billy’s face. “What d’you mean, sixpence worth?”

  Billy laughed. “Dorry always asks for a silver sixpence. Mind you, if she likes you, then mebbe only a threepenny bit.”

  “Sixpence,” Jackie said. “She asked me for nothing.”

  Billy stopped hauling. “Nothing? Well, bugger me.”

  In the bows it was Robin and Ian’s turn to laugh.

  ***

  “You too, Cottineau?” Paul Jones leaned forward, supporting his weight on the desktop as he glared at the Frenchman. “You defy me? Are you all alike, afraid to fight, or is it that as sailors you’ll only fight at sea?”

  The color drained from Cottineau’s face, knuckles white on the arms of his chair. He spoke with a sneer. “Perhaps we French have enough brains not to risk our ships on harebrained schemes.”

  Ignoring the insult, the commodore indicated the French marine colonel sitting quietly behind Cottineau’s shoulder. “Colonel de Chamillard does not think it harebrained. His troops are ready, and he is ready to lead them.”

  Cottineau nodded as if he expected no less. “The colonel is a soldier and he fights best on land, but he does not understand war at sea. After the Firth of Forth all the English Navy will be searching for us, and I mean all the navy. If you put marines ashore at Newcastle we’ll have to stand by, and that will box us in the River Tyne. The English will blockade and sink us there.” He shook his head, lips clamped together. “Why Newcastle for the love of God?”

  Jones’s eyes were steely. “Strategy. We’ll be able to cut off London’s winter supply of coal. The capital will be on its knees.”

  “Madness. How long do you think we’d be able to hold Newcastle? A few days, maybe a few weeks at most, and that will do no good at all. The English ships will come like hungry wolves with bronze teeth. Their barks will blow us out of the water.” He rose to his feet. “No, M’sieur le Commodore, no.”

  “I am ordering you.”

  Cottineau snorted. “Like you ordered Captain Landais? And where is he and his precious Alliance now? Perhaps he was right to depart.”

  “I order you to obey. If you refuse I’ll break you.”

  Cottineau’s voice was silky, almost unbearably reasonable. “No, M’sieur. You do not have the authority. And if you do not turn the squadron south today, then I and Ricot will leave you to sail alone. Without Pallas and Vengeance you can do nothing. You will be like a neutered tomcat. That is my final word.” He strode to the door, pausing only for a moment. “South.”

  When Cottineau had gone, Paul Jones turned his back on the room, glaring out at the North Sea. The coast was visible on the starboard quarter, a smoke haze betraying South Shields. He felt sure it was possible to sail in and capture Newcastle and hold it until the citizens squealed a surrender. But that chance was gone now. Bonhomme Richard could not do it alone. If only there was some way to effectively maintain discipline among the French officers. Behind him, the marine colonel cleared his throat. Slowly, Paul Jones looked over his shoulder.

  De Chamillard was a tall man with a weathered face. As a marine, he had spent his entire military career at sea, on board the smallest cutters to the hulking three-decker line-of-battle warships. He sat forward on his chair, elbows on thighs, hands dangling like a prizefighter’s between his knees. Throughout the confrontation he had quietly studied Paul Jones as he had studied lieutenants, captains, and flag rank officers in many such conferences.

  He had just about reached his conclusions about the American. Perhaps Jones was a little rough around the edges, like a freshly molded boy’s lead soldier. But when the flashing was rubbed away, underneath lay a solid man. The marine had watched him work. He had an ability to draw men to him like a magnet with no visible effort, and once drawn they were his forever. De Chamillard had felt it himself. Only two meetings and he had fallen under Jones’s spell. Another of his qualities was his capability to command without being arrogant or condescending. Bad tempered he may be, but in the Frenchman’s experience men who were experts and who strove for elusive goals did not suffer fools and incompetents who hindered their pursuit. A man had to be strong willed, like Cottineau, to resist the commodore’s charm.

  When the right combination was achieved; ship, crew, the time, and place, de Chamillard was convinced Jones would prove lethal. Under pressure he was decisive, and if his means did not fail him, he would deliver a crushing blow to his adversaries.

  “Do not take M’sieur Cottineau’s refusal as a judgment of your leadership, Commodore,” he said. “His kind of insubordination is common enough in European fleets. If a commander is ready to attempt the unexpected, then captains like Cottineau become afraid for their men. To lose their men is to lose authority. Sadly, one day they will pay dearly for it.”

  “You would think they did not like to fight the English,” Jones commented.

  The colonel bit off a laugh. “A Frenchman is born to hate the English, M’sieur. We have made war against them from the beginning of history. And of course, with them shackling your country as a colony, you must hate them just as much.”

  Jones’s eyebrows raised. “Hate the English? Not blindly, only when I fight them as I hate everyone I fight in the heat of battle.”

  De Chamillard smiled. “My own thoughts. Not so much who you fight against, but that you win. It is really all that matters.” Jones eyed him, wondering at the truth of it. The Frenchman shrugged, smiling as he spoke again. “On land, objectives and how to achieve them are more clearly seen. As Cottineau pointed out, at sea things are different.”

  Paul Jones nodded as he opened the door. “Steward! Ask Mr. Dale to come below at once!” He glanced at de Chamillard. “Keep your men ready. In the meantime we’ll stand off the coast.”

  Only an hour after the squadron had stood out to sea, the first of the shipping slipped out of the Tyne. Before they could run, the Bonhomme Richard squadron came about and was down among them like hawks stooping int
o a flock of sparrows. A brig and two small sloops fell prey within an hour of the chase. Their capture was small consolation for the loss of Newcastle, but proved a boost to the morale of Richard’s crew. On reflection, perhaps Cottineau had been right. If Newcastle could not be held for at least three months, sacrificing their ships was futile.

  “Mr. Dale,” he said, “We will sail south. If the English come looking for us here, we’ll surprise them. We’ll nip at their heels and run, then come back and nip again until they know how sharp our teeth can be.”

  ***

  “Are you going to Scarborough fair?

  Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

  Remember me to one who lives there,

  She once was a true love of mine…”

  Jackie’s melancholy voice drifted out over the calm sea. He was thinking how different Rose and Dorry were. With all he felt for Rose, he wondered how she could have been driven from his mind so easily by the first touch of Dorry’s warm lips. And now, afterwards, why did he feel no guilt? It was as if one thing had nothing at all to do with the other.

  The moonless night hung about the boat like a curtain. He sat amidships, staring at his slack line where it dipped into the sea. The two fish laid on Speedwell’s deck beside him had long since ceased their death throes and lay still. Fishing was slow. None of the men in the sloop had caught much. Billy had most to show, only four. Without the excitement of a bite to erase his circling thoughts, Jackie had begun to feel cold and hungry. He started to sing again, hoping the effort would warm him and exorcise the hollowness in his stomach.