Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [24]
Without a thought Jones ran forward. The limp body was deadweight but he managed to drag him across to the port side rail. The group of sailors, embarrassed the commodore had done their work, clustered around as Paul Jones turned the officer over. His face was covered with brine-diluted blood from a gash in his forehead. It was Henry Lunt, the second lieutenant. He and his cousin, Cutting Lunt the sailing master, had not long been released from the Mill Prison in exchange for English prisoners-of-war. They had both survived the jail for two years. Henry, aged twenty-six, had served as seaman on Alfred and Providence with Paul Jones. On meeting Henry again, the commodore had signed both Henry and his cousin to sail on Bonhomme Richard.
“How is he, sir?”
Jones looked up into the eyes of Cutting Lunt, the sailing master, who at the age of thirty was four years Henry’s senior. His face betrayed concern. Jones suspected if it had been any other man stooped over Henry, then Cutting Lunt would have pushed him roughly aside.
“More blood than damage, I think,” Paul Jones replied. “Get him below to Dr. Brooke. That is, if we aren’t…” Before he could say “sinking” there was another crash for’ard. Half crouched, he twisted to peer into the gloom shrouding the bows. He scowled, and then turned back. The spar that had felled his lieutenant was still thrashing to and fro.
The commodore jumped up. “Axes here! Cut it free!” The rope work parted with a whip crack under the persuasion of sharp blades. As the sailors worked, the wind tugged at the rigging, dragging the spar over the bulwarks to disappear into the night.
The commodore saw that Henry Lunt had already been carried below, his cousin Cutting Lunt making for the quarterdeck to sail his ship out of further danger. Jones was pleased to see the master’s duty came before useless worry over his cousin.
“She’s sheered away, sir!” Lt. Dale called. He had appeared from for’ard, hair plastered against his flushed face. His uniform sleeve was torn and an axe dangled from his hand, knuckles streaked with blood.
“Damage?”
Dale looked over his shoulder then back at the commodore. “Our bowsprit carried away Alliance’s mizzenmast. I cut the braces and Alliance fell away. She took part of our jibboom, but apart from that, most of the damage appears to be superficial. Timberwork on the bulwarks and two of the cannon have torn free. Their tackle will have to be replaced.” His eyes strayed to the severed rigging where the spar that felled Henry Lunt had been chopped away. “That’s excluding whatever happened here.”
“Are we broached below decks?”
Dale blinked. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I have not yet had time to check.”
Jones nodded. “Do that now and have the carpenter sound the bilges, then again in four hours. Even if there is no visible damage we may have sprung a plank or two.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Dale turned away, still carrying the axe.
“Damned Frenchman,” Paul Jones swore under his breath. “I’ll have him strung up for this.”
***
Dawn found the ragged squadron maneuvering to regain their stations from the flagship. The merchant fleet had sailed on during the squall, ignorant of the drama played out in their wake, but more than one officer-of-the-deck trained his glass on Bonhomme Richard’s damaged bowsprit, moving on to note Alliance’s lost mizzenmast. Little imagination was needed to deduce what had happened.
Paul Jones was still angry when he rose from his bunk. He had received several reports during the night from the carpenter. Richard had sustained no leaks from the collision. That at least was something. As soon as he finished dressing he visited Dr. Brooke’s quarters. To his surprise the surgeon was alone, reading a medical book. The doctor noted the commodore’s expression with a smile.
“Better news than you expected, I dare say, sir.”
“Lunt?”
“He’s back in his own quarters, sleeping heavily I shouldn’t wonder.” He smiled at the lieutenant’s luck. “He had a tear