Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [47]
“Stand by your guns! We may be giving chase but this inspection is not over!”
Paul Jones could not resist a smile. “I’m going below. Carry on.”
Dale gestured to the midshipman beside him to follow, then crossed to the starboard side where the commodore had noticed the ill-cleaned bore. The gun captain’s face fell when he realized his reprieve had been in vain.
“Take that man’s name!” the lieutenant barked, scowling at the smudge on his fingertips, mimicking the commodore’s example. He completed the inspection, aware of the midshipman’s shuffling behind him. They were moving along the starboard battery, the fleeing craft invisible from their position. Even as he stooped over each weapon, studying the fall of the tackle, he could detect the gun crew’s eyes wandering to the port side, hoping for a glimpse. When he was satisfied there was no more to be seen or criticized, he called up one of the junior lieutenants.
“Mr. Stack, you will supervise gun drill.” He glanced about the deck, smiling at the crestfallen expressions of the men.
While Richard tacked steadily against the wind, going about to leave a trail on the map like a series of doglegs, she was shadowed the day long by Vengeance. The corvette skipped and danced across the wave tops like a colt held on a tight rein, rattling the bit impatiently between her teeth, forced to travel at the more sedate pace of her sister ship. On her decks, as on Richard, the gun crews practiced running out their weapons while the red-jacketed marines formed squares and lines abreast, one rank kneeling to take aim while the second rank reloaded, ready to step forward before moving on to more specialized maneuvers necessary for shipboard combat hampered by gear and rigging that blocked fields of fire.
As the minutes dragged into hours, glances at the horizon told of Richard’s reluctance to overhaul her quarry. The distant scraps of white canvas seemed no closer. The morning sun climbed to its zenith then began the afternoon descent. Only at twilight did they seem to have made any headway and nightfall stole the distant ships from the telescope’s reach. The dark hours held frustration, eyes strained into the blanket of night, searching for a glimpse of a riding light or the faint calling of an order carried across the water. Men slept uneasily below, while on the weather deck the duty watch paced restlessly, fingers fretfully knotting and splicing ropes before pulling the fraying ends apart once more.
The eagerly awaited dawn found men lingering by the rails, eyes to windward. Two of the ships had vanished under the cloak of night but the third was still ahead. Muttered voices urged Richard to skim the waves with every ounce of speed.
They were closing.
Faces turned to the quarterdeck when the commodore and his first lieutenant appeared to stand at the weather rail, eyeglasses and sextant in hand to take the morning sighting. The commodore’s lips were pressed into a thin line, blood drained, eyes dark ringed after a restless night. He looked long and hard at the horizon, then aloft to the spread of the ship’s glutted canvas. His voice, although low, carried to the ears of the nearest crewman.
“Sail her hard, Mr. Dale, and hoist the English ensign. We will have her before noon.”
***
Three hours brought them within hailing distance. The fleeing ship’s stern cabins could be seen clearly, her name Union boldly painted and edged with gilt below the taffrail. A group of worried officers lined the rail, staring as Richard closed the gap with each minute, their gaze straying from the English flag at the yardarm to the lines of the old East Indiaman as they tried to decide who she was. Vengeance suffered the same scrutiny.
“Ahoy there!” Lt. Dale hailed. “Heave-to! Prepare to accept a boarding party!”
The officers on Union’s quarterdeck looked at each