Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [64]
“Whitby.”
“Whitby what?” Dale barked.
Billy frowned. “Whitby…sir.”
The lieutenant flashed a smile. “Better. Much better. You are being addressed by Commodore John Paul Jones of the American Navy, so please do not forget your manners again.” At the mention of the commodore’s name, the little group of fishermen shrank closer. Dale smiled at the effect.
“Whitby,” Paul Jones repeated. “Are any of you familiar with the waters south of Scarborough?” When there was no sign of response, he shrugged. “Very well, not that I believe you. You have a choice. You are prisoners of war and as such will be chained below. Alternatively, you can join my crew and work for your keep. As crewmen you will be entitled to a share of prize money for any ship we may capture under the articles of war. What do you say? If you’d rather stay up here in the fresh air, then speak up.” He looked from one silent face to another. “Very well. If you please, Mr. Dale. Take them away.” Without further interest he stalked off.
Below decks the brig was already crowded with a harvest from the prize ships. Rows of men were chained wrist to wrist, sprawled in matted straw. Even Billy, well used to the Whitby oil factories, reeled from the stench. After the chill of fishing in the open Speedwell, the heat was almost unbearable as it rose from the crush of bodies, unwashed and surrounded by their own filth. The guards used belaying pins to force space for the new prisoners, bullying the wretched inmates who cowered away, struggling to make gaps.
“On your knees,” a petty officer ordered. “Smithy! Come on man, get to it. The stink of these pigs is going to bring up my supper.”
Jackie held out his hands onto a block for the manacles, rivets were slotted through, then hammered, closing them tight about his wrists. “Next!” the smith shouted, jerking his head so Jackie moved back against the hull timbers. The hammer rang again and again until the new prisoners were strung together like mackerel in a long line on a chain threaded through ringbolts bedded in the deck timbers.
“Reckon we won’t find out what’s in those pots off Baytown now,” Ian grunted, testing his chains as though they were fishing line.
“We’re in our own bloody pot, now,” Billy Rudd replied, massaging his shoulder where the musket butt had felled him. “The bastards. Damn Frenchies and Americans. Foreigners sailing my Speedwell.”
Someone cackled mirthlessly in the gloom before a Scots voice asked: “What kind of boat?”
Pride swelled Billy’s answer. “A sloop and a damned fine one. Whitby built and strong as a whaler, but swift as a bird.”
“I had a sloop once,” the Scot continued in a melancholy tone. “Till I was tricked into piloting for that pirate Paul Jones.” He snorted. “But my Royal Charlotte is home in Scotland. She got away. Yours’ll be at the bottom by now.”
Billy glared. “Sunk? My Speedwell?”
“Aye laddie, he can’t spare the crew to sail her. He’s manned so many prizes that everything under eighty tons is scuppered, be they pretty or not, ye ken?”
Billy’s head dropped between his forearms. “Sunk, my Speedwell.” He lifted his face, cheeks drawn tight, mouth grim. “And that American bastard asked us to crew for him. I’d rather swing.”
The Scot’s voice was low. “There’s time enough for that yet, laddie. You’re in the middle of a war now.”
***
They hoisted a Union Jack at the fore-topgallant masthead, the English signal for a pilot, and two pilot cutters came dashing out of the Humber Estuary. It was as simple as that.
Since taking Speedwell off Whitby, Bonhomme Richard had sailed south through the night, capturing a Scarborough collier before taking a brigantine within sight of Scarborough castle. Paul Jones and Richard Dale had watched the red flag—Enemy in Sight—raised above the battlements, Richard well out of range of the castle’s battery. Now they were off Spurn point on the north flank of the Humber river mouth. Tacking under a light wind, Pallas sought permission from the flagship to give