Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [61]
The color drained from Cottineau’s face, knuckles white on the arms of his chair. He spoke with a sneer. “Perhaps we French have enough brains not to risk our ships on harebrained schemes.”
Ignoring the insult, the commodore indicated the French marine colonel sitting quietly behind Cottineau’s shoulder. “Colonel de Chamillard does not think it harebrained. His troops are ready, and he is ready to lead them.”
Cottineau nodded as if he expected no less. “The colonel is a soldier and he fights best on land, but he does not understand war at sea. After the Firth of Forth all the English Navy will be searching for us, and I mean all the navy. If you put marines ashore at Newcastle we’ll have to stand by, and that will box us in the River Tyne. The English will blockade and sink us there.” He shook his head, lips clamped together. “Why Newcastle for the love of God?”
Jones’s eyes were steely. “Strategy. We’ll be able to cut off London’s winter supply of coal. The capital will be on its knees.”
“Madness. How long do you think we’d be able to hold Newcastle? A few days, maybe a few weeks at most, and that will do no good at all. The English ships will come like hungry wolves with bronze teeth. Their barks will blow us out of the water.” He rose to his feet. “No, M’sieur le Commodore, no.”
“I am ordering you.”
Cottineau snorted. “Like you ordered Captain Landais? And where is he and his precious Alliance now? Perhaps he was right to depart.”
“I order you to obey. If you refuse I’ll break you.”
Cottineau’s voice was silky, almost unbearably reasonable. “No, M’sieur. You do not have the authority. And if you do not turn the squadron south today, then I and Ricot will leave you to sail alone. Without Pallas and Vengeance you can do nothing. You will be like a neutered tomcat. That is my final word.” He strode to the door, pausing only for a moment. “South.”
When Cottineau had gone, Paul Jones turned his back on the room, glaring out at the North Sea. The coast was visible on the starboard quarter, a smoke haze betraying South Shields. He felt sure it was possible to sail in and capture Newcastle and hold it until the citizens squealed a surrender. But that chance was gone now. Bonhomme Richard could not do it alone. If only there was some way to effectively maintain discipline among the French officers. Behind him, the marine colonel cleared his throat. Slowly, Paul Jones looked over his shoulder.
De Chamillard was a tall man with a weathered face. As a marine, he had spent his entire military career at sea, on board the smallest cutters to the hulking three-decker line-of-battle warships. He sat forward on his chair, elbows on thighs, hands dangling like a prizefighter’s between his knees. Throughout the confrontation he had quietly studied Paul Jones as he had studied lieutenants, captains, and flag rank officers in many such conferences.
He had just about reached his conclusions about the American. Perhaps Jones was a little rough around the edges, like a freshly molded boy’s lead soldier. But when the flashing was rubbed away, underneath lay a solid man. The marine had watched him work. He had an ability to draw men to him like a magnet with no visible effort, and once drawn they were his forever. De Chamillard had felt it himself. Only two meetings and he had fallen under Jones’s spell. Another of his qualities was his capability to command without being arrogant or condescending. Bad tempered he may be, but in the Frenchman’s experience men who were experts and who strove for elusive goals did not suffer fools and incompetents who hindered their pursuit. A man had to be strong willed, like Cottineau, to resist the commodore’s charm.
When the right combination was achieved; ship, crew, the time, and place, de Chamillard was convinced Jones would prove lethal. Under pressure he was decisive, and if his means did not fail him, he would deliver a crushing blow to his adversaries.
“Do not take M’sieur Cottineau’s refusal