Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [42]
“A curse on the wind, wherever it is,” Richard Dale mumbled as he climbed the companion ladder to the poop deck.
The commodore’s gaze swept from the men aloft to the lieutenant’s ruddy yeoman face. He echoed Dale’s curse wholeheartedly. The sea all about Richard showed not a ripple, no whisper of breeze to ruffle the leaden waters. Eight days out from Lorient and this morning they had sighted land. By noon they were five miles south-south-west of Great Skellig which guarded the south entrance of Dingle Bay, the gateway to southern Ireland.
“What time is it?” Paul Jones’s eyes were fixed on the coast in the distance.
“Four o’clock, sir.”
The commodore glanced at the sun as though to check Dale’s answer. “By my reckoning those outcrops are the Blaskets at the north entrance of Dingle Bay. That’s if I judged the wind right. What there was of it.” He extended his telescope and made a quick survey of his squadron. Every vessel was on station, each as motionless as Richard, all drifting with the tide. Canvas hung limp like wet sheets on washing day. Nothing as depressing as a hopeful spread of empty sails, he thought.
For a moment Paul Jones felt deflated. Even the deck was still beneath his feet. He compressed the telescope and tucked it under his arm. “I’m going below to study the charts. If we drift too far let me know.”
“Aye aye, sir.” As the commodore crossed the deck to the ladder, Dale saluted smartly, then turned his attention to the men of the port watch who were idling on deck. “Mr. Fanning!” he bellowed at the midshipman who was deep in conversation with a petty officer. His face swung to the bridge.
“Ah, Mr. Fanning, I have your attention! Find those men some chores before their hands grow too soft to work this ship!”
***
“What do you suggest, Mr. Dale?”
The lieutenant peered at the land closing on the starboard quarter, the breakers at the foot of the Skelligs clearly visible. There was still no wind but the sea was growing, the swell pushing Bonhomme Richard inshore. It was now eight o’clock and there was the likelihood that unless checked, the tide would drive them ashore during the night. He looked back at Paul Jones who seemed to be repressing a smile.
“Well sir, I think we should put out a boat to tow us clear. We can’t be too careful.”
Jones nodded. “A wise decision. Better make it my barge. It should suffice with this sea running. If it starts away, then there’ll be wind to use.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Dale grinned, pleased to earn praise. In a second he was leaning over the rail, shouting orders. Cutting Lunt, the sailing master, moved to the topsides to supervise personally the launch, glad to have work for his men. A tarpaulin was removed and lashing freed. The rattles and squeaks of the pulleys mingled with the grunts of the sailors, strangely loud in the stillness of evening as the barge was lifted clear and swung out on its davits. A coxswain and six men climbed in. They pulled free the oars, propped them vertical to avoid contact with Richard’s hull while the coxswain took a thick coil of spare cable should they need a longer tow.
“Clear those falls there! Right-o, lower away!” Blocks squealed, a line of hands easing the fall tackle. The barge sank slowly, jerking against the tension in the thick hemp. With a splash she was down. Over the side Richard Dale could see the tops of the sailors’ heads as they stove off, their oars dipping a ragged line, churning white foam from the dark ocean. They rowed for’ard to catch the hawser by the bowsprit trailing from a bridle port. Deftly, the coxswain took hold and wound it around the stern cleats of the barge. He took his seat then waved.
“Haul