Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [56]
Dale jumped into the silence. “Andrew Paton, this is my commanding officer.”
“And pleased to meet you, sir, I am,” the Scot said.
“You need powder?” Paul Jones asked. “Then powder you shall have.” He stroked the side of his nose. “However, I need a favor too. You know the firth well?”
Paton nodded. “Sailed it man and boy. I know every shoal, every current. All the bad, and all the good too.”
The commodore nodded. “In return for your master’s powder will you stay on board and act as pilot?”
The Scot grinned. “T’would be my pleasure, sir.”
“Good. Lieutenant, have a hundredweight of powder brought up, and take Mr. Paton below while I write a letter to his master explaining my need for a pilot.” A smile briefly crossed his lips.
Fifteen minutes later the commodore, flanked by Dale and the Scot, stood on the quarterdeck as the powder was lowered into the sloop. With a wave, Royal Charlotte pushed away, drifting slowly out of Richard’s lee until she caught the wind. Like a dancer, she pirouetted then raced for the land, mocking the whitecaps that snatched at her heels.
“She sails well,” Paul Jones commented.
Paton winked proudly. “She’s a good ’un, my Charlotte. Only we don’t get to sail her much nowadays, what with all the trouble an’ that.” He spat over the rail. “Bloody war.”
The commodore showed interest. “What’s the news?”
Paton grimaced. “Why, that rebel and pirate Paul Jones is off the coast, and he ought to be hanged if you ask me.”
Lt. Dale’s expression hardened. “Do you know whom you are addressing?”
Paton looked from one to the other. His gaze settled on the commodore. “Are you not Captain Johnson of HMS Romney?”
“No,” the commodore said quietly.
“This ship isn’t Romney?”
“This is an American ship. The Bonhomme Richard.”
“So you are…” The Scot’s mouth fell open, horror distorting his face. He looked away quickly to where Royal Charlotte sped away, far beyond recall, then back at the two Americans.
“Yes, I am John Paul Jones.”
The Scot fell to his knees, clutching at the commodore’s shoes. “My God, forgive me sir! I did not know! I have a wife and six children. Please God, sir. Have mercy on me.”
Paul Jones laughed, stepping back from Paton’s grasping hands. “Get up, man. I won’t hurt a hair on your head, but you are my prisoner.”
***
The wind was against them from the start. Even before the commodore had pressed Andrew Paton into service as a pilot, the squadron had tacked. Close hauled to use a little of the wind’s might against itself, the American ships crawled up the Firth of Forth. They swung to and fro across the estuary in a series of doglegs, inching toward Leith. Ashore, the natives to the south were not as gullible as Sir John Anstruther’s yacht crew. During the late afternoon the task force was sighted from Edinburgh castle. Drummers and buglers sounded warnings. Townsmen gathered wives and children and property to make escape. The citizens of Leith, acutely aware that Paul Jones would have to make landfall at their town before storming the ramparts of Edinburgh, armed themselves with claymores, pikes, muskets, and even pitchforks. When there appeared little hope for material support, they resorted to prayer.
But always the wind. Paul Jones cursed it silently, screwing up his eyes to make out Leith’s silhouette in the dying afternoon. Inside his coat lay the ultimatum he had written to be delivered by Colonel de Chamillard to the Provost of Leith demanding ransom of 100,000 pounds sterling. Half was to be paid within the hour while 130 marines would take six hostages until the remainder could be raised. If not, then Leith was to be left in ashes.
But the damned wind. It would soon be dusk and too late. His only hope was the weather would calm overnight to make the marines’ journey safer as they landed from the ship’s boats. He watched the sinking sun kill off the day then left the rail to join Lt. Dale who was staring morosely at the sea. “Mr. Dale, I’m, going below. We’ll try for a landing at first light.” He grimaced. “If the cursed wind allows.”