Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [66]
“Here. Read this.”
First Lieutenant Wright had read many dispatches during his twenty years in the navy, mostly during ten years as a lieutenant. He skimmed the contents, eyes lingering for a second on Paul Jones’s name and the size of his squadron before offering the letter back to his captain. He refrained from commenting on the cartoon still clutched in his superior’s hand. “He’s here then, sir.”
Captain Pearson nodded. “Yes, and to the south of us. If he knows of our presence you can guarantee he’ll be waiting. He’d like nothing better than to sink a few of our merchant friends. He’s too much of a pirate to take on only British warships.” He crumpled the parchment along with the newspaper cartoon and tossed them angrily over the rail. “Well, by God, if he tries to sink my convoy he’ll find himself facing up to broadsides from an English man-o’-war. I’ve not lost a ship yet and I don’t intend to start now. We’ll stand out to seaward of the convoy, astern of the leaders. Signal Countess of Scarborough to sail astern of us, forward of the tail-enders. I want us both to be in flexible positions with plenty of options. He’ll either meet the convoy square on, or stand out to sea and nip in behind. We know nothing of how he fights so we must be ready for anything.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Captain Pearson nodded. “Very well. Let’s get this convoy under way. The day is wasting.”
***
“23rd September 1779,” Bonhomme Richard’s officer-of-the-deck wrote in his log. “09.00 hrs. Sailing north, making 6 knots. Light and variable winds under a clear sky. Alliance sighted at 05.30 hrs. First sighting for 14 days. Pallas rejoined squadron at 06.00 hrs. Now numbers 4 excluding prizes. Approximate position 20 miles S.W. of Flamborough Head, Yorkshire, England.”
Paul Jones watched his crew manipulating Richard’s sail plan as they changed course. He nodded at their efforts, drawing his watch from a waistcoat pocket. Two o’clock. He glanced ahead at the open sea, then at his squadron fantailed astern. How far away was the English convoy and how long would he have to wait? And would the Frenchmen still be sailing with him when the convoy was sighted? For a moment he envied the Royal Navy its discipline.
“Sail on the starboard quarter! Bearing south-east!”
The commodore looked up sharply at the lookout’s call, tucking away his watch with one hand while he reached for his telescope with the other. Only an uncertain patch of sail could be seen. He collapsed the telescope to wait impatiently for the next call.
“Only one sail! A brig!”
Behind the commodore, Lt. Dale snatched a speaking trumpet. “Only one? Are you sure?” he stared up at the lookout in the mainmast crosstrees as though to hang him for a liar.
“Aye sir! One brig!”
“Signal Lt. Lunt in the pilot boat to give chase,” Paul Jones ordered. “With this wind it would take Richard an eternity to overhaul a brig. If they refuse to yield to him, Lunt can hold them until we close.”
Within minutes Lt. Henry Lunt answered the flagship’s signal and the nimble pilot cutter’s profile altered as her crew crowded sail, swinging across Richard’s stern. Paul Jones could see the marines readying their weapons and the swivel guns being loaded as she raced away. He looked back to the empty sea in the north. “Bring her about and we’ll give Mr. Lunt our support…” He was interrupted by the lookout’s call, loud and clear.
“Sail off the port quarter! Large ship standing south round the head! Bearing nor’ nor’ west!”
The commodore raised an eyebrow, opening his telescope and pressing it to his right eye in one fluid movement. Flamborough Head was plainly visible, the 450-foot chalk cliffs white as fresh fallen snow against the leaden sea.
“Two sail! No! Belay that! Three, four!” They began to appear so rapidly the lookout could not keep count. “Fifteen! No, twenty! All bearing nor’ nor’ west!”
The commodore watched the