Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [21]
The captain’s eyes flashed from Dale’s face to the stern window and back again, the velvet cloak of sleep forgotten. He flung back the covers and pushed his feet into slippers. “Here, eh? I hope you speak the truth. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“May I offer my congratulations, sir.”
Jones smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be on deck directly.”
Twenty minutes later Dale caught a movement on the edge of his vision and twisted to see the captain appear at the head of the companion ladder. Dressed in his full uniform, complete with tricorn hat, Paul Jones climbed to the poop deck where he took a position at the port rail to survey the bay.
Only a few cable lengths distant lay Alliance, a newly built American frigate under the command of Pierre Landais. Jones knew little of him but what Franklin had included in his letters. Landais had originally been in the French Navy but had been discharged in 1775 for refusing promotion to Lieutenant of the Port Of Brest. Two years later he had gone to America with a letter of introduction to Congress that recommended him for a commission in the infant American Navy. His wish promptly granted, now he was anchoring in a French port again, this time as an American officer.
Beyond Alliance lay Pallas, a frigate carrying twenty-six nine-pounders. Paul Jones could see activity on her decks and also in the rigging. Captain de Brulot Cottineau de Kerloguen had wasted little time in ordering men aloft to dry and furl the sails. Through his glass, Jones could see the gold-frogged uniform of the captain as he personally supervised carpenters who appeared to be rectifying battle damage. Perhaps she had been in action against the English during her voyage. Jones hoped so, for blooded men would make a useful acquisition. A crew who had fought together had confidence.
“What vessels lie astern of Pallas?” Jones asked, trying to peer beyond Alliance’s quarter.
Dale had already made enquiries. “The brig Vengeance, sir, commanded by Lieutenant de Vaisseau Ricot.”
“Armament?”
“A dozen four-pounders, sir.”
Jones nodded thoughtfully. A useful support. And she looked almost as fast as the last vessel in his little squadron, which had entered the bay at sunset the evening before. Le Cerf, almost as proud looking as the stag she had been named for. A captured English King’s cutter, she carried a persuasive complement of sixteen six-pounders and two eight-pounders. Her commander, Ensigne de Vaisseau Varage, had already visited Bonhomme Richard after mooring and had met his new commodore of whom he had heard much. Varage had been suitably impressed and pleased to learn that while he sailed with the squadron he would be accorded the rank of lieutenant in the American Navy.
Paul Jones could see the Ensigne across the water, standing at the rail of his cutter as he too inspected the new arrivals. Well, Jones thought, that’s all of them now. I have my squadron. Whatever victories he had already won were behind him now. Now he could achieve much more. Five ships to hack and thrust at the English. Adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream at the thought of what lay ahead. By God, if the English already hated him, he would force them to respect him too. The very notion brought a flood of warmth. He sucked down a deep breath then compressed his telescope and tucked it under his arm. He glanced aloft at the starboard watch at work on the main yards, fixing running blocks and tackle before he turned to Richard Dale.
“How’s your signaling? Rusty?”
Dale smiled. “I believe I can manage, Commodore.”
Paul Jones blinked. It was the first time he had been addressed by his new rank. “Run me up: ALL COMMANDERS TO REPAIR TO THE FLAGSHIP. Let’s see what manner of men we have in our company.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The commodore was pleased to see the midshipman had anticipated his order. Without a glance at the code book, Dale ran up a series of flags. As they broke open in the breeze Jones smiled, his first