Scarborough Fair

by Chris Scott Wilson

  “Remember me to one who lives there…”

  “You mean in Whitby, don’t you?” Billy crowed from the bow. “Our Dorry with the hot kisses, eh, my Beauty?”

  “Stow it, Billy,” Jackie muttered. “Besides, I thought you knew where the fish were round here. There’s nothing running here but your mouth.”

  “Hah, cousin. It’s your howling that scaring them off.”

  “God, I’m hungry,” Robin said from the stern. “Any of you got a butty left? I could eat a scabby cow.”

  “Like Dorry, you mean?”

  Jackie wound his line around the oar thole and rose, fists bunched. “I meant it. Stow it, Billy.” The sloop rocked, the mast lantern flickering as Jackie moved forward. Billy was hunched over his line when his cousin came up behind. Casually he swung back an arm. It chopped Jackie’s legs out from under so he went down in a heap. Without a pause he was up on his feet, but before he could strike, Billy was standing, his eyes on his line.

  “I’ve got a bite.” He hauled. “By God it’s a big ’un. Lend a hand here, Jackie.” Their quarrel overshadowed by the prospect of a big fish, the two cousins laid hold, the line biting into their numb fingers.

  “Can’t see a damned thing,” Jackie complained.

  “If he’s as big as I think he is, I don’t want to see him until he’s gaffed and landed in this boat. If I see him and he gets away, I’ll be crying in my beer down The Dolphin.” Billy grunted with effort, pulling in then letting the line go slack, fearing the fish would snap it or throw the hook. “Feels like a bloody shark.”

  “Sure it ain’t a whale?” Robin laughed from the stern.

  Ian, who had been fishing amidships, his back to the scuffle in the bows, stiffened. He started to mutter. “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus.”

  “What?” Billy frowned, sweat running down his face as he fought the line. A jerk broke his attention from Robin, his concentration back on the taut line.

  Then he saw his big fish.

  CHAPTER 3

  Billy’s big fish was an oar tied with a muffle of rag. His line had drifted with the current and was tangled around the blade, the baited hook fast in the cloth. And holding on to the other end was a powerfully built sailor, face split by a grin. The closing boat appeared from the night then butted into Speedwell. An instant later men swarmed over the little sloop. Lanterns were lit and the four fishermen found themselves staring into the cavernous mouths of pistols. Every one of the boarders also held a wickedly sharp cutlass, the steel gleaming in the lamplight.

  “Looks like we’ve got a nice little catch here,” a seaman remarked, looking from the prisoners to the few fish on the deck. “Which looks to be more than they got.” He gathered the dead fish, skewering them through the tail with a spike. “Well, somebody might as well eat ’em.” He glanced at his human captives with equal distaste. “Right lads, into the cutter with ’em. Johnson, Crawly, and Jacko, you sail this toy boat.”

  The warship loomed out of the inky night like a ghost. Only the sea lapping at her topsides declared her reality. The cutter came alongside, oars rattling as they were righted and stowed while the bowman reached with his gaff to catch the trailing painter by the ship’s main chains. Jackie stared up at the double row of gun ports aft of the ladder and then at the slack canvas spread on her yards, barely discernible. Apparently she had hove-to so a boat could be lowered away to take Speedwell. Why hadn’t he and the others seen the ship? Only now, he realized why she had seemed to be a ghost, for lanterns were being lit on deck. They had run without lights. But why bother to capture a fishing boat? The only answer was the press gang.

  “All right, boyos, up the ladder.” A coxswain prodded Jackie in the ribs with the muzzle of his pistol. “Get on with you.”

  They scrambled upwards and through the gangway onto the warship’s deck. With lanterns held aloft, sailors moved forward to examine the captives. Suddenly, marching feet parted the onlookers as a squad of marines arrived to form a circle about the four fishermen. Bayonets surrounded them.

  Billy muttered. “These are Frenchies,”

  “Jesus,” Robin groaned. “And I thought I was press-ganged. Now we’re bloody prisoners of war.”

  The sailors who heard him laughed. “You heard this one, shipmates? He thought we was his Britannic Majesty’s Navy!” A fresh burst of laughter was silenced by Lt. Stack.

  “Silence there! The commodore’s coming!”

  Paul Jones emerged from the officers’ quarters flanked by Lt. Dale and a midshipman aide. “You’ve taken the sloop? Good, then get this ship under way.” He waited as Lt. Stack issued orders that scattered the sailors. Left only with the protection of the marines, Paul Jones moved forward, hands clasped behind his back. He inspected his prisoners. “Which is your home port?”

  “What’s it to you?” Billy Rudd demanded, thrusting out his chin.

  Lt. Dale gestured. A marine stepped forward from the circle, swinging his musket high. He crashed the butt down. Billy crumpled to the deck. Dale gestured for Jackie and Robin to lift him back to his feet.

  “Which port?” Lt. Dale repeated. Billy rubbed at his shoulder, glowering. Lt. Dale glanced at the marine again, prompting an answer.

  “Whitby.”

  “Whitby what?” Dale barked.

  Billy frowned. “Whitby…sir.”

  The lieutenant flashed a smile. “Better. Much better. You are being addressed by Commodore John Paul Jones of the American Navy, so please do not forget your manners again.” At the mention of the commodore’s name, the little group of fishermen shrank closer. Dale smiled at the effect.

  “Whitby,” Paul Jones repeated. “Are any of you familiar with the waters south of Scarborough?” When there was no sign of response, he shrugged. “Very well, not that I believe you. You have a choice. You are prisoners of war and as such will be chained below. Alternatively, you can join my crew and work for your keep. As crewmen you will be entitled to a share of prize money for any ship we may capture under the articles of war. What do you say? If you’d rather stay up here in the fresh air, then speak up.” He looked from one silent face to another. “Very well. If you please, Mr. Dale. Take them away.” Without further interest he stalked off.

  Below decks the brig was already crowded with a harvest from the prize ships. Rows of men were chained wrist to wrist, sprawled in matted straw. Even Billy, well used to the Whitby oil factories, reeled from the stench. After the chill of fishing in the open Speedwell, the heat was almost unbearable as it rose from the crush of bodies, unwashed and surrounded by their own filth. The guards used belaying pins to force space for the new prisoners, bullying the wretched inmates who cowered away, struggling to make gaps.

  “On your knees,” a petty officer ordered. “Smithy! Come on man, get to it. The stink of these pigs is going to bring up my supper.”

  Jackie held out his hands onto a block for the manacles, rivets were slotted through, then hammered, closing them tight about his wrists. “Next!” the smith shouted, jerking his head so Jackie moved back against the hull timbers. The hammer rang again and again until the new prisoners were strung together like mackerel in a long line on a chain threaded through ringbolts bedded in the deck timbers.

  “Reckon we won’t find out what’s in those pots off Baytown now,” Ian grunted, testing his chains as though they were fishing line.

  “We’re in our own bloody pot, now,” Billy Rudd replied, massaging his shoulder where the musket butt had felled him. “The bastards. Damn Frenchies and Americans. Foreigners sailing my Speedwell.”

  Someone cackled mirthlessly in the gloom before a Scots voice asked: “What kind of boat?”

  Pride swelled Billy’s answer. “A sloop and a damned fine one. Whitby built and strong as a whaler, but swift as a bird.”

  “I had a sloop once,” the Scot continued in a melancholy tone. “Till I was tricked into piloting for that pirate Paul Jones.” He snorted. “But my Royal Charlotte is home in Scotland. She got away. Yours’ll be a
t the bottom by now.”

  Billy glared. “Sunk? My Speedwell?”

  “Aye laddie, he can’t spare the crew to sail her. He’s manned so many prizes that everything under eighty tons is scuppered, be they pretty or not, ye ken?”

  Billy’s head dropped between his forearms. “Sunk, my Speedwell.” He lifted his face, cheeks drawn tight, mouth grim. “And that American bastard asked us to crew for him. I’d rather swing.”

  The Scot’s voice was low. “There’s time enough for that yet, laddie. You’re in the middle of a war now.”

  ***

  They hoisted a Union Jack at the fore-topgallant masthead, the English signal for a pilot, and two pilot cutters came dashing out of the Humber Estuary. It was as simple as that.

  Since taking Speedwell off Whitby, Bonhomme Richard had sailed south through the night, capturing a Scarborough collier before taking a brigantine within sight of Scarborough castle. Paul Jones and Richard Dale had watched the red flag—Enemy in Sight—raised above the battlements, Richard well out of range of the castle’s battery. Now they were off Spurn point on the north flank of the Humber river mouth. Tacking under a light wind, Pallas sought permission from the flagship to give chase to sails bearing north. Paul Jones assented, standing off the estuary, the captured brigantine keeping company with Richard. He walked the quarterdeck, restless before ordering the signal for the pilot.

  Lt. Dale frowned. “Sir?”

  “A pilot will know what is going on in these waters and I want to know too.” Jones gestured to the prize brigantine. “Colliers and sloops and brigantines. Nothing of importance. For all the sail we have taken, not one that will hurt the English. Not a solitary one.” He peered off the port bow where several pilot cutters showed billowing sails above the estuary’s choppy water. “Too much activity. Something is going on and I mean to know what. If one answers the signal, get him aboard and find out. When he discovers we are the enemy, he may need persuasion. You have my permission to use any means necessary.” He waited until the Union Jack fluttered from the halyard and a cutter responded, her bow cleaving toward Richard. “I’m going below. Call me when you know.” He glanced again at the approaching cutter. “I have a feeling, Mr. Dale.”

  An hour passed before the commodore looked up from his papers to Richard Dale’s smiling face. “Yes?”

  “Sir, a convoy is expected from the Baltic, and by the pilot’s description, a big one. He expects it to be escorted by at least two warships, perhaps three, probably frigates.”

  “When?” Paul Jones’s fingers toyed with his quill, a hint of a smile curling his lips.

  “Anytime now, today or tomorrow. That’s why all the pilots are on the water. They’re all eager to secure the contract.”

  The Commodore consulted a chart. “So, knowing the Royal Navy, they’ll make landfall as soon as possible then hug the coast south. What’s more, if they’ve been at sea they won’t know I’m here. That’s my little surprise.” He fingered the chart then stabbed a finger at the coastline. “And we’ll be waiting here. We’ll hang in the shadow of the land and when they clear the point we’ll sail into them like trawlers into a shoal of herring.”

  Dale leaned forward over the chart. “Where?”

  Jones stabbed the map again. “Here. Flamborough Head.”

  ***

  “So now we know,” Captain Richard Pearson said, refolding the parchment the cutter had carried out from the commander of Scarborough garrison. Along with the dispatch was a cartoon cut from a London newspaper. It portrayed “the pirate” Paul Jones drawn like a circus clown with flapping pantaloons and baggy jacket, face caricatured into a scarred buccaneer topped by a plumed hat more suited to a merchant from Genoa than an American.

  Captain Richard Pearson allowed himself a mirthless laugh and glanced at the land where the red danger flag flew over Scarborough’s silent gun battery. His gaze swiveled north at the empty horizon, as though he could still see the thirty ships which had left his convoy at Whitby for the last leg of their journey to Scotland. He had protected them throughout the eight-day voyage from Christiansund in Denmark and now he was left with forty-two merchantmen to be escorted to London. Their cargo was badly needed stores for the Royal Navy, and he had only two ships to ensure their arrival. His own, HMS Serapis, was a fast new frigate, extra speed gained by a copper bottom which discouraged marine growth. Rated at forty-four guns, she carried fifty. The main armament was twenty eighteen-pounders mounted on the lower gun deck with twenty nine-pounders on the covered deck, while the quarterdeck carried ten six-pounders. His support vessel was HMS Countess of Scarborough, a sloop-of-war boasting twenty guns, commanded by Captain Thomas Piercy.

  Captain Pearson stared south. He had served in the Royal Navy for thirty years and had experienced combat on several occasions. At the siege of Pondicherry he had been caught in a blast of grapeshot. Suffering broken ribs and internal bleeding, he had bravely stood to his post until the action had terminated. For the last nine years he had held the post of captain, commanding two frigates before being handed Serapis. For a moment his thoughts wandered to his wife and two daughters at home in Appleby, Westmorland, wondering whether he would see them again. Reluctantly, he put them out of his mind. He handed the dispatch to his first lieutenant who was covertly watching him.

  “Here. Read this.”

  First Lieutenant Wright had read many dispatches during his twenty years in the navy, mostly during ten years as a lieutenant. He skimmed the contents, eyes lingering for a second on Paul Jones’s name and the size of his squadron before offering the letter back to his captain. He refrained from commenting on the cartoon still clutched in his superior’s hand. “He’s here then, sir.”

  Captain Pearson nodded. “Yes, and to the south of us. If he knows of our presence you can guarantee he’ll be waiting. He’d like nothing better than to sink a few of our merchant friends. He’s too much of a pirate to take on only British warships.” He crumpled the parchment along with the newspaper cartoon and tossed them angrily over the rail. “Well, by God, if he tries to sink my convoy he’ll find himself facing up to broadsides from an English man-o’-war. I’ve not lost a ship yet and I don’t intend to start now. We’ll stand out to seaward of the convoy, astern of the leaders. Signal Countess of Scarborough to sail astern of us, forward of the tail-enders. I want us both to be in flexible positions with plenty of options. He’ll either meet the convoy square on, or stand out to sea and nip in behind. We know nothing of how he fights so we must be ready for anything.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Captain Pearson nodded. “Very well. Let’s get this convoy under way. The day is wasting.”

  ***

  “23rd September 1779,” Bonhomme Richard’s officer-of-the-deck wrote in his log. “09.00 hrs. Sailing north, making 6 knots. Light and variable winds under a clear sky. Alliance sighted at 05.30 hrs. First sighting for 14 days. Pallas rejoined squadron at 06.00 hrs. Now numbers 4 excluding prizes. Approximate position 20 miles S.W. of Flamborough Head, Yorkshire, England.”

  Paul Jones watched his crew manipulating Richard’s sail plan as they changed course. He nodded at their efforts, drawing his watch from a waistcoat pocket. Two o’clock. He glanced ahead at the open sea, then at his squadron fantailed astern. How far away was the English convoy and how long would he have to wait? And would the Frenchmen still be sailing with him when the convoy was sighted? For a moment he envied the Royal Navy its discipline.

  “Sail on the starboard quarter! Bearing south-east!”

  The commodore looked up sharply at the lookout’s call, tucking away his watch with one hand while he reached for his telescope with the other. Only an uncertain patch of sail could be seen. He collapsed the telescope to wait impatiently for the next call.

  “Only one sail! A brig!”

  Behind the commodore, Lt. Dale snatched a speaking trumpet. “Only one? Are you sure?” he stared up at the lookout in the mainmast crosstrees as though to hang him for a liar
.

  “Aye sir! One brig!”

  “Signal Lt. Lunt in the pilot boat to give chase,” Paul Jones ordered. “With this wind it would take Richard an eternity to overhaul a brig. If they refuse to yield to him, Lunt can hold them until we close.”

  Within minutes Lt. Henry Lunt answered the flagship’s signal and the nimble pilot cutter’s profile altered as her crew crowded sail, swinging across Richard’s stern. Paul Jones could see the marines readying their weapons and the swivel guns being loaded as she raced away. He looked back to the empty sea in the north. “Bring her about and we’ll give Mr. Lunt our support…” He was interrupted by the lookout’s call, loud and clear.

  “Sail off the port quarter! Large ship standing south round the head! Bearing nor’ nor’ west!”

  The commodore raised an eyebrow, opening his telescope and pressing it to his right eye in one fluid movement. Flamborough Head was plainly visible, the 450-foot chalk cliffs white as fresh fallen snow against the leaden sea.

  “Two sail! No! Belay that! Three, four!” They began to appear so rapidly the lookout could not keep count. “Fifteen! No, twenty! All bearing nor’ nor’ west!”

  The commodore watched the first blurs of canvas drift slowly into the lens of his telescope, reluctant to believe the lookout’s frantic calling. He watched them for a full minute before lowering the glass with a knowing smile. “It’s them, Mr. Dale. The Baltic convoy. We have them. Wear ship, set royals and stun’sails then give chase. Hoist the English colors to give them something to think about before we start blowing holes in them.”