Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [22]
Paul Jones hoped that was not an omen.
CHAPTER 4
Day was dissolving into night on 12 June when the squadron slipped out of Lorient on the evening tide. Their mission was to escort a small fleet of French merchant vessels to landfall at various ports on the Bay of Biscay. Paul Jones stood at the weather rail on the poop, legs adjusting to the rolling deck as he watched his ships spread out behind Bonhomme Richard. Lanterns threw hazy circles of light in the crosstrees, flickering as sails caught the wind, furled canvas shaken out to stretch and billow with the promise of a voyage. What little pleasure the sight afforded was dispelled by the anger that writhed like a cobra in his gut.
Le Ray de Chaumont had done it again. Jones was sure the Frenchman knew more than he cared to admit about his wife’s feelings for the dashing American. Here he was, sailing out to escort a handful of merchant ships, when he should have been sailing to join Lt. General D’Orvilliers’s fleet which had cleared Brest a week earlier to combine with a Spanish fleet to scour the English Navy from the Channel. There was little doubt they were going to invade Britain while the English were busy with the war in America. Reports had reached Jones that 40,000 French infantry had been massing ready to embark.
He grimaced into the wind then became aware of footsteps behind him. Richard Dale appeared, newly promoted to first lieutenant, looking a little uncomfortable under the weight of his new responsibility. Paul Jones’s own uniform had acquired two shoulder epaulets that proclaimed his own new rank of commodore. He glanced away from Dale, aloft where the masts disappeared into the growing gloom, then down to the main deck where marines were idling, some working at their equipment while others watched the international band of sailors as they manned the braces to trim the sails. He turned back toward the spangle of glittering jewels that was the receding lights of Lorient.
“We are free of port at last.”
Dale stood beside him. “Yes, sir.” He sniffed the breeze like a hound seeking scent. “With your permission, sir, it looks as though we’ll get some weather soon.”
Jones nodded. “On that we agree. Order another two points west. The sooner we clear this lee shore the better.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Dale passed the order to the helmsman, then the deck canted as Richard obeyed her rudder. Below, on the main deck, commands were shouted as the crew jumped to trim the sail plan to reap the maximum benefit of the wind.
Paul Jones turned to speak but saw Dale had moved on past the helmsman and down into Richard’s waist where he was showing his new authority as first lieutenant by berating the watch for their slow handling of the braces. Alliance had responded to the lead shown by Richard, heeling as she altered course. Jones noted with a professional eye that she had not corrected enough to maintain a steady station from his flagship. More adjustment was necessary if she was not to come too close. He was not worried, but Captain Landais should be wary of falling foul of his new commodore so soon.
The commodore smiled and turned to gaze astern at the encroaching weather. Moisture dampened Jones’s cheek, drawing his eyes to the sky, now pitch dark. The squall had caught them quicker than expected. Almost immediately he was blinking as the wind drove the full force of the rain against his face. He squinted aloft at the towers of canvas. The sails were rippling, spilling before filling out as the sharp eddies swirled and battered at the frail material. A glance told him the helmsman was fighting the wheel as Bonhomme Richard began to lose headway in the cross sea.
“You there! What’s your name?” Jones shouted at a young midshipman climbing the companion ladder to the poop.
“Fanning, sir!” the boy called back, cupping a hand about his mouth.
“Well Fanning, lend a hand there!” He pointed to the struggling