Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [53]
“Would you like another?”
Mease was startled. He pushed the glass away. “My thanks, sir, but no.”
“Thank you for your report, Matthew. You best get yourself into some dry clothes before you catch a chill.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He rose to leave.
The commodore waved a hand. “One last thing. Would you write down everything you told me tonight? Leave nothing out. And ask M’sieur de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert to oblige me also.” He nodded. “A good night to you, Matthew.”
When the purser had left, Paul Jones helped himself to another brandy, sipping as he reflected on his position. It was best to be prepared. Three accounts of the meeting tonight would provide insurance should there be further trouble with M’sieur Landais.
And Paul Jones was sure there would be.
***
There was only the cold wind and the sea. Predominantly gray, the sky closed over the thin line of the horizon, the squall from the previous night still churning the leaden waters, whitecaps showing teeth of seething anger as Bonhomme Richard labored. Aloft, canvas slapped like pistol shots triggered by the eddying wind.
“Take in another reef on the main course,” Lt. Dale ordered of the sailing master. He watched the command relayed, the starboard watch climbing the ratlines under the scrutiny of a petty officer. Dale left the quarterdeck to stroll for’ard along the line of cannon, lashed down against heavy weather. By the manger he cast a professional farmer’s eye over the remaining livestock in the pen. Two pigs, a goat, and a handful of chickens. They would be back on salted rations soon. He grimaced at the thought, then approached the figure hunched at the rail, staring at Alliance plowing the ugly sea a cable length away.
“Good morning, Matthew.”
The purser glanced over his shoulder, face haggard in the freshening breeze. “Ah, Richard. ’Morning to you.”
“Wardroom chatter has it you had a run-in with Alliance’s skipper last night.”
Lines were etched deep in Purser Mease’s cheeks. “The wardroom has it right for a change,” he commented dryly, “and a madder man I have yet to meet. You should have heard him, Richard, like a man possessed. You would have thought he had a fever…”
“Which is what you’ll have if you stay up here in this wind,” another voice remarked, breaking into their conversation. It was the surgeon, Dr. Brooke, hat jammed on his head, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his frock coat. Silence fell between the three men.
“You were saying, Matthew?” Dale prompted.
“Ah, that Landais,” Mease continued, shaking his head, “the things he accused our commodore of…”
“I take it he thinks little of our John Paul Jones,” Dr. Brooke said. “And what do you make of our illustrious commander?”
Matthew Mease frowned. “Me? In what way?”
The surgeon pursed his lips. “As a man. As a leader of men?”
The purser was not sure if he had been asked to give testimony in defense, or whether he was supposed to confirm the surgeon’s opinion. “I think he is a fine man. I’ve never served under a finer officer. He is a gentleman. I can truthfully say he has always been direct and honest in his dealings with me. And he has the ability to command. I don’t think he would ever ask a man to do anything he would not readily do himself, and I think he is capable of getting the best than any man has to give.” He thought for a moment. “The best word, perhaps, for him is honorable.”
Brooke nodded as if he expected no less, then looked pointedly at Dale. “And you, Richard, do you not find him rash, sometimes arrogant? Do you think he is reckless and that all he thinks of is glory?”
Dale rose to the bait angrily, missing the glint in the surgeon’s eyes. “Mr. Brooke, a finer man