Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [25]
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Paul Jones looked around the small cabin with its shelf of reference books and solid chest of surgeon’s tools. Although the lid was down, Jones could visualize the contents. Drills and saws and needles more suitable for stitching canvas than frail human flesh. He had seen them before, and would no doubt see them again. Rather later than sooner. He repressed a shudder.
“Will you dine with me tonight, Dr. Brooke? I should like the pleasure of your company. We may not have the opportunity later.”
Brooke smiled again. “I should deem it an honor, sir.”
Jones nodded. “Tonight, then.”
On deck, men were moving purposefully about. As he climbed to the poop, he noted the presence of more marines than usual, mainly tending to their weapons. At the weather rail Richard Dale was alternately pointing to the horizon and directing comments to Colonel de Chamillard, the Officer of Marines, conspicuous in his scarlet uniform. Close by stood two midshipmen, hands clasped behind their backs, almost a parody of the senior officers. Dale peered aloft while reaching for a speaking trumpet.
“Lookout! Make a report!”
From the mainmast crosstrees a voice bellowed. “A brace of ships, sir! Carrying all sail!”
“Nationality?”
“I cannot tell, sir!”
“Is the man blind?” Dale muttered, waving one of the midshipmen to his side. “Fanning. Get aloft and make a report. Your young eyes might make them out.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The fourteen-year-old was off and running. Almost without touching the steps he was down to the main deck and threading between the sailors and marines crowding the rail. Like a monkey he swung up on the bulwarks, heedless of the sea pounding along Richard’s hull below his feet; then he scampered up the ratlines as though he had done it from birth. Paul Jones smiled as he watched the boy, remembering his own youth when he had forced himself to conquer his heaving stomach, shaking with fear when he had looked down to the miniature deck far below, the sway of the masts exaggerated by the roll of the ship. The image faded. The boy, Fanning, showed willing.
“Good morning, sir.” Dale’s face was serious. At his side De Chamillard eyed the commodore in speculative silence.
Jones nodded. “Good morning to you both. What news?”
“Two ships coming over the horizon, sir, on course for the merchantmen. We have not been able to ascertain whether they are friendly.”
“So I gather. M’sieur, are your men fit?”
The French marine officer’s shoulders stiffened slightly before he nodded sternly. “Yes sir, I trained them myself.”
“Good, I may have need of them.” It was said as a dismissal. De Chamillard caught the inflection.
“If you will excuse me, sir, I will see to my men.” He retreated to the main deck. Dale watched him go then looked to his superior.
“You think we will have need of the marines, sir?”
Jones snorted. “Perhaps for repelling boarders. I may remind you we have not yet tested our gun crews. If those are English ships we had better be ready for anything.” He peered up at the midshipman at the masthead. “Do you think that boy has got his breath back yet? Let’s test his eyes.”
Dale lifted the trumpet. “Fanning! Report!”
There was silence for a moment as though the boy was unsure, the wait punctuated only by the whispering of the breeze in the shrouds and the swish of the ocean kissing Bonhomme Richard’s hull.
“Englishmen, sir!”
How young he sounds, Jones thought. A child in a man’s war. “Ask him to verify that.”
Dale glanced at him, nodded, and raised the trumpet again. In reply, Fanning’s voice rode over the wind and sea with the purity of a choirboy taking his solo in church. “Englishmen, sir! Men-o’-war! They are showing colors now and crowding sail!”
Dale looked expectantly to the commodore. Jones could plainly see the excitement on the young lieutenant’s face. Anticipation uncoiled restlessly in his own belly. “Signals,” he said, a grin beginning to crease the corners of his mouth.
Dale waved impatiently