Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [31]
Landais watched it all, thoughts churning, anger seething. No, he had underestimated Commodore Paul Jones. The damned American or Scotsman or whatever he was, had known all along what was going to happen. That was why he had ordered Alliance to sail with the flagship in pursuit of the decoy ships. It had been deliberate so that he, Pierre Landais, the rightful commodore, would be deprived of gaining glory by engaging the enemy and proving his superiority beyond all doubt.
The Frenchman spat over the rail. That damned American, he would pay for this. One day he would be cornered like a rat and would hold out his hand to Pierre Landais for help.
And Pierre Landais would spit on him.
***
The scratching of the quill was arrested by a splash for’ard as Richard’s bow anchors plunged into the sea. Paul Jones cast a tired eye over the log entry he was completing, trying to concentrate. Painstakingly, he recaptured his train of thought, dipped the quill into the inkwell, and began to write again. The entry was terse, showing to the practiced eye his disappointment over the voyage. Not one positive engagement but for Le Cerf’s fight against the two English frigates. He had covered that topic fully in his report to the French Ministry, praising Le Cerf’s commander for his gallant stand against the English men-o’-war until they sheered away. The report was on his desk, sealed, the odor of freshly melted wax hanging in the cabin. Only the daily entry in the log remained incomplete.
He placed the quill in its stand then sat back, turning a little so he could see the sunlight sparkling on the water of Lorient’s harbor. The moment he ceased to work the weariness deep in his bones surfaced. Even the shining sea hurt his eyes, forcing him to turn away in the hope of easing the pulsating in his temples. It was a moment before he realized someone was knocking at the door.
“Enter!”
Richard Dale stood in the doorway. Jones raised his eyes to the ruddy face but found the effort draining. He waved a hand. “Sit down, will you.”
Lt. Dale read the strain on the commodore’s face. “Thank you, sir.” He stepped to a chair and sank into the velvet cushion. “A boat put out from the quay to meet us.” He held out a sheaf of dispatches and envelopes. “The boatman gave me these.”
Paul Jones idly sifted through the bundle. One letter bore Benjamin Franklin’s handwriting. Another was a missive from Therese de Chaumont, scented, while a third was from her husband, the squadron’s paymaster. He fingered the dispatches, wondering how long they had been waiting at Lorient. Perhaps he was at last to join the French Navy and army in a bid to conquer England. He opened the waterproof bags one after another, breaking seals and scanning contents. After reading the last one, disbelieving, he read it again, then dropped the document on his desk and sighed.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but do we join the fleet?”
“What?” Jones refocused his gaze. “No, we are not to be part of that. I think perhaps M’sieur Sartine intends to keep all the glory for that particular enterprise solely in the hands of his beloved French Navy. We are ordered to sail about Ireland and Scotland, before making landfall at Texel in Holland. If we sailed today as he would have us do, the voyage would last six weeks if we were to anchor at the Texel on 15 August.”
“But sir, what about provisions and repairs?”
Jones smiled ironically. “Exactly.” He fell into a brooding silence, dissatisfaction over their fruitless encounters with the enemy weighing on his mind. A rapping at the door broke into his thoughts. “Enter!”
“Begging your pardon,