Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [63]
“Can’t see a damned thing,” Jackie complained.
“If he’s as big as I think he is, I don’t want to see him until he’s gaffed and landed in this boat. If I see him and he gets away, I’ll be crying in my beer down The Dolphin.” Billy grunted with effort, pulling in then letting the line go slack, fearing the fish would snap it or throw the hook. “Feels like a bloody shark.”
“Sure it ain’t a whale?” Robin laughed from the stern.
Ian, who had been fishing amidships, his back to the scuffle in the bows, stiffened. He started to mutter. “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus.”
“What?” Billy frowned, sweat running down his face as he fought the line. A jerk broke his attention from Robin, his concentration back on the taut line.
Then he saw his big fish.
CHAPTER 3
Billy’s big fish was an oar tied with a muffle of rag. His line had drifted with the current and was tangled around the blade, the baited hook fast in the cloth. And holding on to the other end was a powerfully built sailor, face split by a grin. The closing boat appeared from the night then butted into Speedwell. An instant later men swarmed over the little sloop. Lanterns were lit and the four fishermen found themselves staring into the cavernous mouths of pistols. Every one of the boarders also held a wickedly sharp cutlass, the steel gleaming in the lamplight.
“Looks like we’ve got a nice little catch here,” a seaman remarked, looking from the prisoners to the few fish on the deck. “Which looks to be more than they got.” He gathered the dead fish, skewering them through the tail with a spike. “Well, somebody might as well eat ’em.” He glanced at his human captives with equal distaste. “Right lads, into the cutter with ’em. Johnson, Crawly, and Jacko, you sail this toy boat.”
The warship loomed out of the inky night like a ghost. Only the sea lapping at her topsides declared her reality. The cutter came alongside, oars rattling as they were righted and stowed while the bowman reached with his gaff to catch the trailing painter by the ship’s main chains. Jackie stared up at the double row of gun ports aft of the ladder and then at the slack canvas spread on her yards, barely discernible. Apparently she had hove-to so a boat could be lowered away to take Speedwell. Why hadn’t he and the others seen the ship? Only now, he realized why she had seemed to be a ghost, for lanterns were being lit on deck. They had run without lights. But why bother to capture a fishing boat? The only answer was the press gang.
“All right, boyos, up the ladder.” A coxswain prodded Jackie in the ribs with the muzzle of his pistol. “Get on with you.”
They scrambled upwards and through the gangway onto the warship’s deck. With lanterns held aloft, sailors moved forward to examine the captives. Suddenly, marching feet parted the onlookers as a squad of marines arrived to form a circle about the four fishermen. Bayonets surrounded them.
Billy muttered. “These are Frenchies,”
“Jesus,” Robin groaned. “And I thought I was press-ganged. Now we’re bloody prisoners of war.”
The sailors who heard him laughed. “You heard this one, shipmates? He thought we was his Britannic Majesty’s Navy!” A fresh burst of laughter was silenced by Lt. Stack.
“Silence there! The commodore’s coming!”
Paul Jones emerged from the officers’ quarters flanked by Lt. Dale and a midshipman aide. “You’ve taken the sloop? Good, then get this ship under way.” He waited as Lt. Stack issued orders that scattered the sailors. Left only with the protection of the marines, Paul Jones moved forward, hands clasped behind his back. He inspected his prisoners. “Which is your home port?”
“What’s it to you?” Billy Rudd demanded, thrusting out his chin.
Lt. Dale gestured. A marine stepped forward from the circle, swinging his musket high. He crashed the butt down. Billy crumpled to the deck. Dale gestured for Jackie and Robin to lift him back to his feet.
“Which port?” Lt. Dale repeated. Billy