Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [28]
The tension was broken. Gun ports creaked open as the officers passed the order. A deep rumble vibrated through the hull as carriages trundled forward to hit the topsides. Hands and eyes checked that recoil tackle had flaked neatly on the deck. From the sea Bonhomme Richard’s smooth hull now bristled with bronze cannon mouths, hungry to feed.
“Load one and two with heavy ball.”
The bow gunners had already placed wads and powder charges. Now, a heavy ball was lifted and rolled into the maw of each weapon. The long-handled rammers drew grunts from pigtailed gunners as they made certain the ball was firm against the cartridge. When they stood back, the gun captains ordered: “Prime.”
A second sailor stepped forward with a powder horn to prime the touchhole.
Below decks, the summer heat sucked out sweat that glistened on the naked shoulders of the gun crews clustered about their charges in the dim light admitted by the open ports. By each cannon, only one man could see the ocean, only then by squeezing sideways, bare back against cold bronze, feet awkwardly placed between carriage and tackle.
“What can you see, man?”
“Come on, tell us!”
“I told you. Two English frigates. Coming up fast.”
“How soon, for God’s sake?”
“We’ve loaded, haven’t we? Any time now.”
“We’ll show the bastards.”
“STOP TALKING THERE! STAND TO YOUR GUNS!”
On deck Paul Jones glanced along his line of cannon then across at Pallas, her slim hull spiked with ready muzzles. The advancing ships were ready too, open lower gun ports barely escaping the cat’s paws of the choppy sea hissing below them.
“Fire one and two when you come to bear!”
The gun captains nodded. “Aye aye, sir.” The cannoneer stepped forward. Under his directions the crew aimed the cannon, elevating and shifting the carriage until the top sight drew a bead on the first of the advancing frigates.
The gunner turned. “Ready, sir.”
“On the uproll – FIRE!”
CHAPTER 5
The first cannon thundered. The second fired before the explosion from the first had died away. Smoke rolled across the water as the two guns bucked back against their tackle.
“Sponge!” the gun captains ordered in unison.
A wet sponge affixed to the end of a stave was plunged into the hot bore of each weapon, twisted to kill any sparks or scraps of cartridge still alight. While the crews fell into the routine of reloading, the gunners peered through the smoke smearing the blue sea. A fountain appeared near the bows of the first English frigate.
“Short fall,” the gunner cursed, snatching away his words as the second ball howled over the Englishman’s bowsprit, carrying away rigging. Her outer jib was cut loose to flap in the wind.
“Good shot, that man!” Paul Jones called, turning to head for the poop where Richard Dale held a telescope to his eye. Jones used his own glass to survey the activity on the English man-o’-war. He swept the decks then caught sight of movement aloft.
“She’s altering her trim,” he commented.
“Aye, sir. What does she plan?”
Jones’s chuckle was drowned as Richard’s cannon barked again. A hole appeared in the enemy’s mainsail while the other ball passed harmlessly through the rigging to make a water spout on the far side.
“She’s going to run, I think,” Jones mused aloud. “She came to test our mettle and now she knows we mean business, she’s going to cut and run. Her cannon cannot have the range of ours or she would engage.”
Almost before he finished speaking, four puffs of smoke clouded the frigate’s hull. The balls fell short, sending up plumes of seawater too distant to even wet Richard’s deck. The detonations rolled toward them while Jones’s crew jeered.
“Hoist all sail. If they are going to run I want to find out how fast our Richard can fly.”
“Make all sail!” Dale shouted, leaning over the companion rail, eyes raking the upturned faces below. Cutting Lunt glanced up, made the barest of nods, and then began to bawl a steady stream of orders. While the gun crews stood by their