Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [52]
The purser stooped as he entered the cabin. Matthew Mease was from Philadelphia and at fifty years old, the eldest of the officers. He was a wizard with accounts and honest, a valuable man when a squadron had to be provisioned. Jones knew that when Mease bought beef, it was of the highest quality the budget could afford, not the poorest with the remainder of the cash lining his pocket. His honesty, Jones mused, would probably condemn him to living shipboard for the rest of his life. As he stood in the doorway, Mease was soaked with rain and spray, his tricorn hat sodden and shapeless. His white eyebrows carried garlands of water droplets, the light catching them above his brown eyes. He stood bowed, a puddle collecting about his shoes.
“You’ll catch your death, man!” the commodore exclaimed, ringing for his steward. A white face appeared behind the purser. “Quickly boy, bring a blanket for Mr. Mease.” He looked up. “Sit down. You a brandy man, Matthew?”
“Thank you, sir.”
While the commodore poured from a decanter the steward returned to wrap a thick blanket around the purser’s shoulders. Glass in hand, Mease drank then coughed before sipping again.
“A bad night, Matthew.”
The purser nodded.
“You saw Captain Landais?”
Mease’s eyes were guarded. “Aye sir, I did. If I did not know he was a French officer, no, an officer in the American Navy, I should think he was a madma…” He lapsed into silence.
“Go on.”
Mease shook his head. “I am not the captain of a ship. It is not for me to say. I have not experienced command.”
“You were going to say he is a madman,” Jones prompted quietly, his eyes sharp, steely.
Mease contemplated his superior, then hesitantly nodded. “If you could have heard him, sir. He ranted and raved like a man…I’ve only seen the like once before, a man dying of black water fever. Landais accused you of the most dreadful things.”
Jones pursed his lips. “Such as?”
“Gibberish mostly. Nonsense. Pure ravings.”
“You won’t upset me, Matthew. Tell me.”
“Frankly, I did not understand most of it, but he said you always stationed his ship where it appeared fighting was going to occur, but you planned it so it would actually happen elsewhere. He said it was a plot to discredit him, and that he only captured Betsy because he had gone out on his own. That…that he should have been in command of the squadron, not you…” He stumbled into silence, eyes wary.
“Please continue. I know you are only repeating what you heard.”
Mease spoke up. “M’sieur de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert both heard him, sir. When he began ranting they insisted on being present throughout the interview. All of his comments about you were highly disrespectful and insolent, and he blurted out that he would see you on shore where one of you must kill the other…” The purser took refuge in his glass, averting his eyes.
Paul Jones’s anger rose. He had expected impudence, but this? The man was stark staring mad. Frenchmen! Every one of them in authority he had encountered since delivering Ranger to France had proved cantankerous in one way or other. Were they always like that, or did they just hate Americans? Or did they despise anyone but another Frenchman? He wished to God he didn’t need Landais, but he did. At least he needed Alliance’s firepower. He could always relieve him of command and replace him with an American, perhaps Dale, but that would bring the politicians into the matter and necessitate a barrage of red tape and paperwork when he returned to Lorient. He had learned all too well that what occurred at sea could look entirely different when back on dry land. Even with his own American government. They had given Landais his commission, and that in itself seemed politic to enlist French aid.
Damn Landais. The whole thing was a mess. He wanted rid of the man, yet could not afford the luxury. It had taken long enough to