Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [46]
A man stepped forward, redhaired and bearded, his face split by a toothy grin. “Lost, are you? Well, I’ll be telling you this is Ballingskelligs Bay.”
“And who are you?” demanded Cutting Lunt, rising to his feet, a hand reaching toward his pistol.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be touching that now,” the leader said, motioning that his pistol wasn’t for show. When Cutting Lunt dropped his hand away, the man laughed, rocking back on his heels, the same mocking laugh that had risen from the fog. “And who are we, you’re asking? Oh well, I can tell you are strangers here. We’ll be being the Kerry Rangers, and I think you’ll be being our prisoners.” He raised his eyebrows. “Now, will that be answering your question?”
***
Bonhomme Richard sailed on northward. The gale Paul Jones had feared materialized, and although his men kept a lamp burning at the masthead and fired a minute gun, by morning only Vengeance was to be seen. He had expected no less of the fiery Landais commanding Alliance, but he was surprised Pallas was absent. When the gale blew itself out, the wind remained brisk enough for Richard and Vengeance to log 450 miles in the next four days, a journey that took them up the Irish coast and up the west coast of Scotland.
When the sun rose on 31 August, they were standing off the entrance of North Minch in the Outer Hebrides. Paul Jones was on the main deck when the lookout called down from the crosstrees.
“Two sails to leeward!”
The commodore grunted his dissatisfaction when the glass revealed the two vessels were making speedy headway. There was no possibility of out sailing them for they were too close inshore and would run for the nearest harbor. He pushed the telescope back under his arm and resumed his inspection of the cannon. At the last twelve-pounder he rubbed his fingers inside the bore. They came away dirty. The gun captain saw his expression and steeled himself for the tirade to come.
“Sail to windward!” the lookout called.
Paul Jones froze. Beside him Lt. Dale faced the horizon.
“Belay that! Three sail to windward!” the lookout corrected.
The dirty cannon was forgotten. The gun captain relaxed as the commodore cut across the main deck, pulling out his telescope. Dale and the two midshipmen trailed in his wake, ready to relay any orders. They waited impatiently, unable to make out any detail beyond the mere fact three small white dots lay where the sky met the sea. The commodore studied the craft for long seconds, then spoke out of lips compressed with excitement.
“Give chase,” he ordered.
Dale grinned while the gun crews standing at their posts broke into a volley of cheers before he could shout.
“Go about and make all sail!”
The duty watch who had been idling in the waist during the cannon inspection ran for the ratlines as the petty officers jumped to follow the sailing master’s stream of orders. They scaled the rigging with the agility of a troop of baboons, laughing and joking while the port watch turned out of the foc’sle to man the braces.
Lt. Amiel stood with hands on hips, head tilted back as he watched the activity on the yards. “Don’t make a donkey’s breakfast of it! Silence in the rigging! Stand to, or I’ll flog you myself, you muttonheads!”
CHAPTER 8
Bonhomme Richard came out of her tack, swinging her head west. The deck listed as she faced up to the wind, then her bow fell to leeward, filling the main and mizzen sails. Grunts and bellows were heard as the headsails were hauled around by the lines of men stamping backward, heaving on the braces. The canvas blossomed again, swollen on a feast of wind and Richard began the pursuit, bowsprit rising and dipping, pointing the way.
Midshipman Fanning had run to the flag locker to hoist the signals. Astern, Vengeance acknowledged and maneuvered to take up her new station. While Paul Jones watched the performance aloft, quietly pleased at the competence of his crew, Richard Dale strode back and forth chivying the bos’n and petty officers in a bid to speed the chase. While the seamen worked