Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [17]
“What constitutes a reasonable offer?”
Moylan pursed his lips. “Perhaps 200,000 livres would tempt him.”
“How much is that in dollars?”
“Give or take a dollar, about $40,000.”
Jones sat back. “Whatever currency you say it in, that’s a lot of money.”
Moylan’s ugly face twisted into a wistful smile. “It is in the nature of things that if she cost any less she would not be worth having.”
“And is she?”
Moylan winked and nodded. “I fancy she’ll be suiting you fine.” He studied the captain’s expression, then continued. “I’ll make arrangements for you to see her tomorrow.” He consulted his timepiece. “The hour is late. It is fortunate I had papers to attend to or you would have missed me. Tell me, do you favor well-spiced continental food?”
Paul Jones shook his head. “I’m a man of simple tastes, used to the tantrums of a sea cook. I have a liking for plain food.”
The Irishman grinned. “So have I, and my cook spares the herbs or my stomach keeps me awake all night. Then you shall be staying at my house. The food at the local inns is liable to disagree with you. I fear you see enough fish at sea without eating it three times a day when you’re ashore.” He tinkled a small bell which summoned the clerk. Moylan squinted into the light. “Have the captain’s luggage transferred to my coach and call us when the driver is ready to leave.”
As the clerk closed the door, Jones leaned forward. “My thanks for your offer of hospitality, Mr. Moylan. I hope I can repay you.”
The merchant eyed him, then a smile kissed the corner of his lips. “Captain, I will be well satisfied if the ship I have found suits your purpose. Us Irish were never too fond of the English.”
***
The Duc de Duras was visible from the quayside. Anchored by bow and stern, she lay idly at her moorings, ignoring the fretful pull of the morning’s flowing tide in the bay. Using his telescope Paul Jones stood in the freshening breeze, eyes raking her. She was a three-master, complete with topgallant and royal masts. Her paintwork was shoddy and her rigging incomplete, but as she rolled on the swell, a scattering of wood shavings was visible along with stacks of white timber by the bow hatches where carpenters had been working. She boasted only one row of gun ports on the level of the main deck, but she stood clear enough from the water for another row to be cut to present a formidable broadside. Built as a trader, accommodation would be cramped for a fighting ship. The sailors, of course, would sleep on the gun decks in hammocks, but a roundhouse would have to be built on deck for a marine detachment, as necessary for enforcing discipline on the crew as for attacks on the enemy. On first sight Duc de Duras had distinct possibilities.
He collapsed his telescope and waited impatiently. Where was the boat Moylan had promised? He had said ten o’clock. Irritable, he pulled out his pocket watch, then smiled at his own impatience. Still nine minutes before the hour. As he tucked the watch away he heard footsteps behind him and turned.
“Good morning, sir.”
Jones frowned, then surveyed the farmer’s face as he returned the salute. “Midshipman Dale, isn’t it? You traveled to Le Havre with me to inspect a ship?”
“Yes, sir.” Dale broke into a smile, flattered the captain should remember him. His smile was infectious, drawing one from Paul Jones.
“Are you here on orders?”
“Delivering dispatches, sir, to a vessel that sailed with the tide. I came down for one last look at the sea before returning to Paris.”
“You still have no berth?”
“No, sir.”
The captain looked off into the bay. “You said you are about to leave?”
“Not immediately, sir,” the midshipman answered, his eyes following the captain’s to where Duc de Duras lay.
Jones glanced sideways at him. “Would you like to accompany me on a short trip?” He waved an arm. “Out there, to look at a ship. As I recall we did not even go aboard the last one we went to visit together.”
Dale smiled. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”
Jones