Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [43]
The six oarsmen bent their backs, pulling in unison. Slowly, the barge built up momentum until it was cleaving the sea at a steady rate, the towing cable dragging behind. Ten yards ahead of Richard’s bows the hawser began to ease out of the water in a lazy arc, the hemp already darkened, dripping. It grew taut until the barge crew found themselves straining against the full weight of the tide driven Bonhomme Richard. It was as if they had rowed into a brick wall. The sound of the coxswain’s voice carried over the water as he bawled crude encouragement.
On the poop Richard Dale scowled. He recognized that voice. It was the coxswain who had been flogged at Lorient for getting drunk and leaving the commodore’s barge unattended. He turned to Paul Jones. “Excuse me a moment, sir.” The commodore nodded his permission as Dale moved for’ard to the rail. “A word here, Mr. Lunt! If you please!”
Cutting Lunt was leaning out over the gunwale by the head, watching the progress of the towing boat. He turned to acknowledge the lieutenant’s call, then pushed away from the timbers to walk aft. They met by the mainmast, Lunt rubbing the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Sir?”
Dale had lost his color. “Is the coxswain in the barge the one who was flogged at Lorient?”
“Yes, sir. He’s the commodore’s coxswain. There were no orders to change that after he was punished.” He sniffed. “I think he learned his lesson.”
“What of the barge’s crew?”
“They are the same, too, sir.”
“What nationality?”
Cutting Lunt shrugged. “I’m not sure. Irish, I think.” For a moment uncertainty clouded his eyes before they cleared and he smiled confidently. “I don’t think there’s any cause for worry, sir. At heart they’re good lads. There’s no liquor out there, sir.”
Richard Dale could not hide his agitation. “But there’s liquor ashore, and it’s their home country.”
Lunt shrugged it aside. “I’d count on them. They’re sailors, sir. This is their ship. Their first duty is to her.”
***
Cutting Lunt was right. Their first duty was to the ship. But by half past ten, night had fallen and Bonhomme Richard was clear of danger. It was then the towrope parted. In the light from the lantern on the barge nothing seemed amiss. When the lantern died, the alarm was raised.
“Ahoy there! We’ve lost the tow!” a voice called from the bows.
Cutting Lunt was sipping water from a ladle at the mainmast drinking butt. His head came up and he dropped the ladle with a clatter. He strode for’ard, his thick pigtail bouncing against the nape of his red neck. At the cathead, a seaman was holding the slack hawser. Lunt gave it a cursory glance then turned and waved men forward. “Haul it in! Look lively now!”
Moments later the coil of sodden hemp lay curled on the deck. Cutting Lunt held the end in his hand, his thumb rubbing over the break. “He’s cut it, the bastard.” Indecision lasted a brief moment. “Beaumont! Launch the jolly boat! Nine men, yourself included, to crew it. Wait for me before you lower away. I’m coming too. All right, get to it.” He dropped the rope and hurried aft. On the poop Richard Dale listened white faced to Lunt’s tale, cheeks drawn tight.
Paul Jones wasted no time. “Was this not foreseen?”
Cutting Lunt grimaced, embarrassed. “Mr. Dale warned me, sir, but I thought…”
Jones cut him short. “Save that for later. Launch a boat in pursuit. Take two midshipmen.”
Lunt nodded. “It’s already being done. With your permission, sir, I should like to go too.”
“Out of the question. Your job is sailing Richard, not chasing about after…” Jones read the flashes in the sailing master’s eyes, quickly understanding Lunt felt it his duty to rectify personally his error in judgment. Jones knew he would have felt the same. “Very well, you may go with them.”
Lunt’s smile was a brilliant gleam in the lantern light. He flung a salute and turned away.
“Mr. Lunt,” the commodore said, his voice almost a whisper. The sailing master paused expectantly. “Mr. Lunt. Catch them. Whatever you do, catch those deserters.
***
Paul Jones hunched his