Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [67]
***
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Captain Pearson said irritably, leaving his late lunch half eaten. He took a last mouthful of ale to wash the scraps of salt pork from between his teeth, rising to buckle on his sword. Heading for the deck he straightened his belt to alter the hang of his scabbard, then the set of his hat, stooping to avoid the low timbers. On HMS Serapis’s main deck he glanced aloft, noting the light wind, almost too feeble for maneuvers, before turning to mount the companion ladder.
Although off-watch, Second Lt. Stanhope and Third Lt. Shuckburgh were both standing with Lt. Wright on the quarterdeck. The three officers saluted before Wright moved forward.
“My apologies for disturbing your lunch, sir, but the lookout has just called down a sighting to the south.” He paused. “I thought you should be informed, sir.”
“Very well, Mr. Wright.” He moved to the rail to use his telescope but could see nothing.
“Ahoy the deck! Four ships hull down on the horizon! Fifteen miles!”
Lieutenant Wright watched the captain expectantly.
Pearson glowered. “Seeing how everything that floats has been locked in a safe harbor since Mr. Jones was sighted off Scarborough, it may just be that these four ships are the pirate himself.” He paused, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “It’s too soon to tell for certain. Call me when they can be seen clearly from the deck and what colors they are flying.” He peered landwards at the white cliffs of Flamborough Head three miles distant. There were treacherous shoals off the point, the worst known as Flamborough Steel where the tide split north and south, churning the sea into a froth. At their present position the charts marked ten fathoms, and Captain Pearson liked to keep plenty of water beneath his keel. With a glance at the slack sails above, he turned to Lt. Wright. “Plan your tacks to give us plenty of sea room when we come up on those ships. If the wind does not improve I fear Serapis won’t be able to give what I may demand of her.”
Within two hours Captain Pearson was back on deck. The nearing ships were plainly visible. His lieutenants stood in silence as he scrutinized the strangers.
“They fly our colors,” he muttered, shaking his head. “If ever I saw an old East Indiaman, that leading vessel is one. And if it’s not Paul Jones, I’ll resign my commission. Two frigates with him and a brig too. No doubt Frenchmen by their lines. I hope to God they sail like Frenchmen.” He lowered the telescope slowly. “There’s little doubt. It looks like we’ve got a fight on our hands, gentlemen.”
Cannon fire erupted from the leading merchantman of the convoy. A second shot followed, smoke billowing from the freighter’s bow gun ports. Men scrambled aloft to loose topgallant sails in a bid to capture every puff of wind as she began to come about.
Pearson pursed his lips. “Our merchantman is going to make a run for Scarborough. Signal the rest of the fleet to follow him, then bring Serapis to and order Countess of Scarborough to join us.” He smiled grimly. “What is it the men say? One Englishman is worth five Frenchies or three Yankees? It appears today we are going to find out.”
***
Paul Jones restrained himself from hammering his fists on the taffrail. With teeth clenched he watched the slow motion maneuvers of the Baltic convoy as they went about to run for shelter. The English warship Serapis was sliding into the gap between the convoy and his own squadron.
“Curse them,” he muttered. “Always the wind. At Leith I wanted none and got a storm, and now when all I ask is enough to make my sails draw, there’s scarcely a breeze.” He twisted away from the rail. “Mr. Dale. Crack on