Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [29]
Ahead, the English frigates possessed the grace of dancers as they halted their advance and swung broadside, only a moment wasted as they poised to flee. Spars swung under the guidance of expert hands, braces taut as their sails gorged on the wind. In that moment of stillness, smoke poured from the gun ports as both men-o’-war loosed broadsides. Cannonballs whirred overhead, a hole smacking through a foresail before the sound of cannon was audible to Richard’s crew.
“They’ll not have time for more,” Dale observed. Then the two Englishmen showed their heels, sterns swinging toward Richard as they shook free the reins to gallop away on the charger of the wind. It was soon apparent Richard could not catch them, even with the added power of her stun’sails. Lt. Dale took his eyes from the receding ships to look at his commodore.
Paul Jones’s face was a mask of fury. He spoke in a bitter whisper. “It is not enough I have an old hulk as a flagship, but she drags enough weed to make her as sluggish as a collier.”
Dale pretended not to hear. “Shall I order Pallas to continue the pursuit?” It was obvious to them both by the activity on her yards Pallas was holding herself in check to maintain support for the flagship. In all fairness she was more evenly matched to the enemy frigates.
Jones shook his head. “No, let them run. No point in allowing them to lead Pallas a dance, and then box her in. The way those English captains sail, they would make short work of her. Our job is to protect the merchant fleet. By running them off we have executed our duty.”
Dale pursed his lips. What the commodore said made sense, but he had been ready enough himself to give chase and fight it out. For a moment Dale wondered if it was a case of jealousy. If Paul Jones could not fight them, then he would not allow anybody else the honor. The thought worried him for a moment before he pushed it aside. “Very good, sir. We return to the fleet?”
Paul Jones nodded as he glared at the English frigates, their grace and beauty taunting him, their fleet-footedness a thorn in the tender flesh of his pride. He forced himself to look away. There would be other days. Dale was shouting orders as Jones moved to the rail to look down at the main deck. The men seemed crestfallen as they began to coil the cannon handling tackle ready for stowage. Powder monkeys hefted the unused cartridges to return them to the hanging magazines below decks. M’sieur de Chamillard’s French marines who had stood rigidly at attention throughout the all too brief encounter now stood at ease, talking in low voices. Above, the top men furled the stun’sails and altered the sail plan as the wheel went over and Bonhomme Richard came about onto a new course to run back on the wind and rejoin the fleet. Paul Jones watched silently until all the gear was stowed, tompions jammed in the cannon muzzles, carriages relashed to the deck, gun ports closed and secured. As the men started to drift away he gestured to Dale.
“Order the marines to beat to quarters and have the guns run out again.”
“Sir?”
Jones studied the lieutenant’s quizzical expression. “We may not be able to match the enemy for speed, but when we catch them I want to know we will be ready to fight. The men were too slow. I want them ready for anything.”
Dale cleared his throat, his own disappointment equal to the commodore’s. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought they did well.” When Paul Jones stared him down, he qualified his statement. “I admit there is always room for improvement, sir, but I thought they were tolerably quick.”
Paul Jones looked away.