Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [32]
“Very well, Mr. Fanning. Carry on.”
The midshipman left and Dale stared for a moment at his superior’s pale face. He ventured warily: “Excuse my impertinence, sir, but you look rather tired.”
Jones snorted. “I will not excuse your impertinence, but you are right.” He slapped a hand against Bonhomme Richard’s hull. “I am as tired as this old East Indiaman.” He turned away from his subordinate’s scrutiny, taking refuge in the view of the silvered sea through the stern lights.
Behind him, Richard Dale’s eyes skimmed over the commodore’s meager frame, the hunched shoulders straining to hold up the weary head. If ever a man looked like he was sickening for something, the commodore did.
“Well Dale,” Jones’s voice suddenly boomed. “Let’s go and see what disaster the carpenter has unearthed.” He came to his feet and reached for his hat. As if he read the lieutenant’s thoughts, he added: “I need the air.”
***
The carpenter sucked on his unlit clay pipe, one hand cupping the cold bowl while his other manipulated a tool, one thumb hooked in the pocket of his leather apron. He scowled, drawing the pipe from his mouth, and then used the back of his hand to rub at his cheek whiskers.
“Show me,” Paul Jones prompted, Richard Dale looking on.
“Aye, sir.” Obediently, the carpenter clamped his pipe between yellowed teeth, holding the bowsprit with one hand while the other plunged the dowelling drill into the wood. Almost three inches of blade disappeared. With a scowl, he twisted the handle then levered down. The drill’s tip crunched upward before it emerged, pulling long splinters of timber away from the spar. Deftly, the carpenter dropped the drill back into his apron pocket. He pulled a shard away from the gouge and handed it wordlessly to the commodore. Paul Jones took it, working it between his fingers. It crumbled into a damp mess, one step removed from sawdust.
“Rotten, sir,” the carpenter said aloud, stating the obvious.
Neither of the officers commented, both well aware how important the bowsprit was to Bonhomme Richard. A delicate balance was achieved in the rigging of a sailing vessel, the bowsprit practically the kingpin that held it all together.
“It will have to be replaced. How long?”
The carpenter shrugged. “We carry no spare. One will have to be bought ashore. Two, if we are to sail shortly.”
Paul Jones pursed his lips. “Attend to it, Mr. Dale. Another bill for M’sieur de Chaumont, I think. He will not quibble about this one. Without a bowsprit we cannot sail.
***
The mare’s hooves thundered, positive, surefooted on the rich earth. Paul Jones gave her more rein, leaning forward so her mane almost lashed his face as he exulted in the wind’s wild fingers tearing at his hair. It stung his eyes and tugged at his coat. He adjusted his knee grip slightly, simultaneously shortening the right rein. She knew her moves, danced to his tune, swinging in a wide arc toward the gap in the hedge spanned by a five-foot gate. Her stride never faltered, long and even. At the last moment he touched her with his heels, rising in the saddle. She left the earth. Fore hooves flying, she cleared the gate with inches to spare. Then she was down with a jar, his feet hard in the stirrups. Laughter bubbled in his throat, the joy of being alive.
He was happy as the mare slowed to walk, shaking out her mane, ribs heaving. He felt sure Richard Dale could handle any problems that might arise aboard Bonhomme Richard for the next few days while repairs were under way. If not, they knew where to find him. Sick of the incessant motion and the groaning of the vessel’s aged timbers as she rolled at her mooring, Paul Jones had felt the need to be free of his ancient charge and had taken a room at a hotel ashore. There he was able to turn his back on the sea if he chose, his direction unhampered by the length of a ship’s deck, freed for a few moments from the eyes of his men. Here he was alone, no man looking to him for guidance