Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [51]
She was staring into the fire, deaf to his logic.
“Listen, Mam, I won’t let you go, and that’s the end of it.” He came to his feet and paced to the table where Rose was peeling potatoes into a bowl. He rested his palms on the tabletop, leaning down over her. “She can’t go. You can see that, can’t you?”
Her knife pared the peel rapidly, expertly. She dropped the clean potato and began a fresh one. Her eyes would not meet his. When she spoke it was quietly, resigned. “Somebody’ll have to. It’s only right.”
He stared at her for a long minute before he sighed. “That leaves only me, then.”
The knife paused as Rose lifted her head. He saw the clouds had scudded away to leave her pupils clear. The smallest of smiles creased the corners of her mouth.
He gestured behind to his mother, quiet now and slumped in the chair. “You’ll stay here and look after her?”
Rose’s expression said everything. “I’ll be here as long as I’m needed,” she stated firmly, a strength he had never before noticed creeping into her voice.
***
The lookout’s cry brought Paul Jones from his cabin where he had been writing his log. When he appeared on deck he was glad he had thought to bring his cloak. The weather had turned sour. A gray sky spat drizzle at Bonhomme Richard as she lay hove-to, the captured Union a hundred yards away on the port quarter, with Vengeance beyond. Paul Jones considered the sky with distaste then took hold of the companion safety rail as a precaution against the slippery steps as he climbed to the poop. Almost at the top he coughed.
Richard Dale lowered his eyeglass to smile a welcome. “We have company, sir.”
Jones sniffed, blinking at the spatters of rain. “So I heard. Landais, I suppose, late as ever.”
“It certainly looks to be Alliance, but it seems he has brought a guest.”
The commodore grunted, accepting the offered telescope to study the two closing vessels. “She’s flying our colors. M’sieur Landais has not been altogether idle. Another ship to send back to France. No doubt he’ll have it shouted from the top of the Notre Dame in Paris that he caught himself a prize.” He handed the eyeglass back. “Well, if he can furnish one prize crew, he can furnish two. Order him to man Union too, that is, when he pleases to meet us.”
Dale frowned. “Begging your pardon, sir, but surely Union belongs to our crew?”
“She does. They’ll each have their share of prize money. They can rest easy on that, but to furnish a crew will deplete our strength and I’d rather rob Landais than myself. My men are much more use to me.” He smiled wryly. “I sometimes despair whose side our M’sieur Landais is on. Perhaps he is only on his own side, and to blazes with everyone else.” With that he turned and went below.
The wind began to rise, the drizzle persisting as Alliance with her prize, Betsy, another letter-of-marque ship, closed with the squadron. By the time the Frenchman hove-to, Bonhomme Richard was pitching uncomfortably. At mess the sailors grumbled they would rather be under way, but were silenced when a petty officer repeated Lt. Stack’s statement that they were to wait until the frigate Pallas caught up.
In his cabin, face drawn in the growing gloom, Paul Jones’s anger was mounting to fever pitch. No boat had been sent to the flagship with dispatches. After a short wait to allow Landais some leeway, Jones had ordered the signal midshipman to request information.
Landais did not bother to reply.
The commodore ordered another signal, this time demanding the Frenchman to repair on board the flagship. This too was ignored. Left with little choice, he asked Purser Mease to visit Alliance, supported by Colonel de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert with some of their marines to discover in no uncertain terms just what Landais thought he was about. They had