Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [57]
By morning there was a steady blow and a swell too heavy to risk the marines’ boats being swamped. It was time for a decision. Paul Jones glanced up at raw clouds racing across a gunmetal sky. They offered no solace. His hope of a surprise attack had evaporated. There had been ample time for Leith to organize a solid defense and call for help. Disgruntled, he returned to his cabin and ordered breakfast.
Shortly after the noon sighting the sea began to grow alarmingly. Richard began to pitch, her bowsprit goring the firth’s murky tide, spray showering the foc’sle as the squadron came about onto the port tack. Before the braces could be hauled the full might of the shrieking wind fattened the mizzen topsail. It burst, the canvas ripped from top to bottom. The crew, dripping wet and blinking from the spray, stared aloft as the tatters blew away from the yardarm. When the foremast topsail went, the tearing was so horrific they heard it even above the howl of the wind.
“Fasten down all gun ports and batten the hatches!” a lieutenant yelled. “And haul, damn you!” The line of sailors lost their footing on the swimming deck and went down in a heap.
“Get her off the wind!” the sailing master bawled. “Shorten sail!”
Paul Jones and Lt. Dale observed from the quarterdeck, confident of the crew’s ability under the right direction. Persistent drilling in calmer weather had instilled a spirit of competence, orders obeyed instantly without question. To a seasoned commander it was obvious Richard would soon be under control. The commodore’s concern lay with the rest of the squadron. The gale was blowing them off station, crews fighting rioting canvas and rebellious helms. A collier Richard had captured only days before was wallowing badly, her thin prize crew novices at handling the small brigantine. As the two officers watched, she heeled until her main deck was awash then swung broadside to the sea which pummeled her beam ends. She recovered clumsily, way off station.
The cutter Vengeance was head up into the wind, her graceful lines buffeted by wave after wave. Men could be seen aloft, scrambling to reef the sails. The frigate Pallas wasn’t managing nearly so well. Pitching badly, her bowsprit cut a feather through oncoming seas. While a ragged stream of sailors clawed their way up the ratlines, she fell away to leeward, crabbing, the sea broaching her decks to stream from the scuppers. She shuddered under the onslaught of a huge wave, hundreds of tons of wild water piling against her bulwarks. A handful of men were shaken out of her rigging to plunge into the firth.
“We can forget Leith,” Paul Jones said. “This is…” He fell silent as the wallowing prize collier heeled again, sea pounding angrily at her beam-ends until she surrendered. She made no recovery, the masts collapsing like felled trees until they were swallowed by the spume. Where she had struggled the sea was empty. Paul Jones’s gaze swung to his own crew, knee deep in icy water skirling across the decks as they fought to control Richard. He glowered, wiping away spray from his cheeks. “This is madness. Give the order to go about. We’ll run before the wind.”
He had no other choice.
***
The smell was everywhere. It hung over Whitby like a nauseous blanket that stuffed wool into a man’s lungs. If it turned strong men pale and made brave men weep, then they would have to endure until the last blubber from the Greenland fishery had been rendered down. Columns of evil smoke rose from the chimneys of the oil factories bordering the inner harbor and spread out over the little Yorkshire fishing town. A cluster of pantiled cottages huddled under the cliff along the banks of the river Esk, defiantly facing the North Sea.
Jackie Rudd turned his back on the factories, hunching his shoulders against the nip in the September air. At least walking past the Angel Inn toward the sea put the north wind in his face, its numbing caress preferable to the stench of whale oil. He passed the drawbridge that straddled the harbor’s narrowest point and continued along the staithe side, eyes