Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [18]
When the jollyboat came alongside, Midshipman Dale was already at the foot of the steps to take command, but his poor French only led to confusion. Jones took over smoothly, taking a seat in the stern sheets, his back ramrod straight. He waved the red-faced midshipman into the boat. As he sat down, Dale apologized for his sparse French. The captain ignored him, instead commanding the boat crew to cast off before smiling indulgently.
“Mr. Dale, there are two ways of learning French. Either go to the Comedie, or take a mistress.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “Preferably, do both.”
Duc de Duras was a shambles. A jumble of spars impeded a speedy survey of the main deck. Blocks and tackle lay in tangles of cordage that snared unwary feet. Pots of tar and abandoned shipwright’s tools were strewn in the companionways. Saws, mallets, caulking irons, clamps, reeming chisels, and wring staffs were scattered on top of ragged canvas that a sailmaker had attempted to patch into sails. Jones moved forward cautiously, absorbing the unfinished work, his main pleasure the rolling of the vessel beneath his feet and the vision of tall masts arrogant against the sky. Gingerly, he lifted the corner of a tarpaulin near the main hatch. Bronze gleamed dully. The eighteen-pounder cannon the owner had acquired from the French navy. He stooped to examine the bore of the top weapon, then the next, noting their ill care with distaste. M’sieur Berard had received a raw deal, whatever he had paid. The American glanced up at the ship again. Every inch of her required a great deal of work.
With Dale trailing in his wake, he examined her full upper decks, poop, and quarter, before moving below, inspecting mast footings and capstans before roaming the holds, trying to imagine them divided into quarters and gun decks. Having commanded a lower gun deck in battle, he tried to estimate the number and placement of cannon she could withstand without the timbers shaking to pieces after the first broadside. He picked up a loose spike and used all his strength to drive it into the topsides. He pursed his lips and nodded, the familiar excitement rising in his chest. If her superficial condition was ignored, underneath lay a sturdy ship. He left the embedded spike as testament to his decision and climbed back up the companion ladder to stand in the breeze.
She was the best he would get, and she could give him victories. Neither Sartine nor de Chaumont was going to steal this chance from him. However she looked now, she would make a fighting ship.
When Paul Jones turned, Dale was startled by his devilish grin. “Well, Mr. Dale. I will need a lot of help to make her ready for the sea. Trustworthy men.”
Dale drew back his shoulders, cheeks ruddy as he blushed. “I should like to volunteer, sir.”
“An officer would have to speak French well enough to supervise carpenters and crew.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but mine could be improved.”
Jones’s smile was like sunshine. “Mr. Dale, I’m counting on it.”
***
Christmas came and went. There was no word to confirm Duc de Duras was to be his. Paul Jones continued to accept the hospitality of James Moylan’s home. Deskbound, he sharpened his quills, writing letter after letter to Benjamin Franklin, all but pleading for command of the ship that lay deserted at her moorings in the bay. If he thought his days wasted while the war raged without him, there were distractions, the chief one unwittingly supplied by James Moylan. For such an unattractive man, he had a surprisingly pretty young wife, obviously acquired by wealth and position. Although tempted, Paul Jones tactfully kept her at arm’s length, loath to upset the business relationship he had built with her husband. Mrs. Moylan recognized his reluctance and gracefully retreated. Jones’s notoriety also brought invitations from every wealthy household in Lorient. Wives assuaged curiosity about the American in his dashing uniform, while husbands were keen to solicit