Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [62]
“You would think they did not like to fight the English,” Jones commented.
The colonel bit off a laugh. “A Frenchman is born to hate the English, M’sieur. We have made war against them from the beginning of history. And of course, with them shackling your country as a colony, you must hate them just as much.”
Jones’s eyebrows raised. “Hate the English? Not blindly, only when I fight them as I hate everyone I fight in the heat of battle.”
De Chamillard smiled. “My own thoughts. Not so much who you fight against, but that you win. It is really all that matters.” Jones eyed him, wondering at the truth of it. The Frenchman shrugged, smiling as he spoke again. “On land, objectives and how to achieve them are more clearly seen. As Cottineau pointed out, at sea things are different.”
Paul Jones nodded as he opened the door. “Steward! Ask Mr. Dale to come below at once!” He glanced at de Chamillard. “Keep your men ready. In the meantime we’ll stand off the coast.”
Only an hour after the squadron had stood out to sea, the first of the shipping slipped out of the Tyne. Before they could run, the Bonhomme Richard squadron came about and was down among them like hawks stooping into a flock of sparrows. A brig and two small sloops fell prey within an hour of the chase. Their capture was small consolation for the loss of Newcastle, but proved a boost to the morale of Richard’s crew. On reflection, perhaps Cottineau had been right. If Newcastle could not be held for at least three months, sacrificing their ships was futile.
“Mr. Dale,” he said, “We will sail south. If the English come looking for us here, we’ll surprise them. We’ll nip at their heels and run, then come back and nip again until they know how sharp our teeth can be.”
***
“Are you going to Scarborough fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there,
She once was a true love of mine…”
Jackie’s melancholy voice drifted out over the calm sea. He was thinking how different Rose and Dorry were. With all he felt for Rose, he wondered how she could have been driven from his mind so easily by the first touch of Dorry’s warm lips. And now, afterwards, why did he feel no guilt? It was as if one thing had nothing at all to do with the other.
The moonless night hung about the boat like a curtain. He sat amidships, staring at his slack line where it dipped into the sea. The two fish laid on Speedwell’s deck beside him had long since ceased their death throes and lay still. Fishing was slow. None of the men in the sloop had caught much. Billy had most to show, only four. Without the excitement of a bite to erase his circling thoughts, Jackie had begun to feel cold and hungry. He started to sing again, hoping the effort would warm him and exorcise the hollowness in his stomach.
“Remember me to one who lives there…”
“You mean in Whitby, don’t you?” Billy crowed from the bow. “Our Dorry with the hot kisses, eh, my Beauty?”
“Stow it, Billy,” Jackie muttered. “Besides, I thought you knew where the fish were round here. There’s nothing running here but your mouth.”
“Hah, cousin. It’s your howling that scaring them off.”
“God, I’m hungry,” Robin said from the stern. “Any of you got a butty left? I could eat a scabby cow.”
“Like Dorry, you mean?”
Jackie wound his line around the oar thole and rose, fists bunched. “I meant it. Stow it, Billy.” The sloop rocked, the mast lantern flickering as Jackie moved forward. Billy was hunched over his line when his cousin came up behind. Casually he swung back an arm. It chopped Jackie’s legs out from under so he went down in a heap. Without a pause he was up on his feet, but before he could strike, Billy was standing, his eyes on his line.
“I’ve got a bite.” He hauled. “By God it’s a big ’un. Lend