Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [6]
“Commanded by John Barrie?” Jones queried.
Dale’s eyes flickered to the older man. “Yes sir, and a finer officer, if you’ll beg my pardon, I’ve yet to meet. He talked with me often. On his advice I joined his crew as midshipman. Later, Lexington was taken over by Henry Johnson. Last year we crossed the Atlantic to cruise around the British Isles, but when we turned for home we ran into a fight and Lexington was taken. Along with the other officers I was sent to Mill Prison at Portsmouth.”
Jones nodded. “I have heard of it.”
Dale smiled, eyes belying the merriment of his mouth. “I had heard of it too, sir, but nothing I heard prepared me for it. The stench of so many men thrown together and herded like pigs, rotting in their own filth. Even pigs would have turned up their noses at the swill we were fed. Shipboard vittles, salt beef with maggots and rotten hardtack with weevils would have been a gourmet’s delight after the slops at the Mill.” His voice trailed away while Jones noted the relish with which Dale contemplated the plain bread and cheese on the table.
“You were set free?”
Dale sighed. “I escaped. A whisper, a bribe, and one night the turnkey stood with his back to me for a few seconds longer than he should. I kept away from the port, knowing they’d expect me to try for a ship to France, but after two weeks of near starvation I was caught stealing bread.” He lifted the crust from his plate for emphasis. “When they took me back I went into the Black Hole. Evil it was. I’m a man used to wide-open spaces and a broad blue sky or a tower of billowing canvas, snowy in the sunlight. Salt spray on my cheeks and the humming of the wind in the rigging. Sunlight. A simple thing we take for granted. The Black Hole was the only name for it. Not a spark of light. Not the glow of a firefly or the crimson of a dying ember. Not even moonlight. Only darkness. So thick you could rub the substance of it between your fingers. But you couldn’t even see your fingers, not if they were touching your nose, and you wondered if you had arms and legs or if you ever had them at all.”
“I began to sing. Rebel songs my uncle taught me. He had been raised in Ireland and knew the songs the English hate. I sang them once and I sang them again, louder. And I kept on singing until I had no voice to croak the words. Every time I was ready to collapse with fear in that cold dark place, when the rats ran over my legs or their teeth nipped at my trousers, I sang.”
“When they let me out, everyone in the prison had heard of me, and when another escape was planned I was invited. We were lucky. We made it. One of the men had family connections and was able to get us onto a fishing boat. The crew did not like it, but blood is thicker than water, so they hid us under canvas and shared what little food they had. We were grateful for crumbs. And then in the cold dawn they landed us on a deserted beach near Dieppe. A brigantine flying American colors lay in the harbor so we presented ourselves to the officer of the watch.” Dale grinned, remembering the lieutenant’s horrified face. “He must have thought we were demons cast up from the bowels of Hell. With one thing and another I came to be in Paris, a messenger for the Commissioners.”
Paul Jones gazed impassively at the young man, masking his admiration. The boy told a good tale, and had confirmed first impressions. The captain drained his glass then stood. “Interesting story. Well Mr. Dale, I’ll bid you goodnight. We travel at dawn.” He crossed to climb the stairs slowly, his cloak casually slung over one shoulder.
Richard Dale watched him go. He had heard much of Captain John Paul Jones and his eagerness to be hero, but the only side Dale had seen was quiet and thoughtful. He realized then Jones had given away nothing of himself, but there had been something behind those hazel eyes, something a man could respect. Dale munched the remaining cheese, wondering if a giant lurked within the captain’s slight frame. There was something strange about him that made him different to any other man Dale had ever