Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [68]
“I’ve elected to command the main battery, sir.”
Jones nodded. “Who will be here with me?”
“Midshipman Mayrant, sir. A good lad.”
The commodore nodded again, loosing a brief smile. “If you picked him, I believe you. I rely on you to maintain the standard you’ve set so far, more especially today.”
Lt. Dale came to attention, eyes locked with his commander’s, aware that something special was about to happen. Perhaps today was that day he had earlier prophesied, the day he would follow Paul Jones wherever he would lead. “Thank you, sir. I shall try to justify your faith in me.” He saluted formally, then about-faced with a click of his heels before marching to head of the companion. He stood silently for a moment, registering one or two upturned faces on the weather deck. Slowly, he drew a deep breath.
“Clear for action!” he bellowed. “All hands stand to their posts!”
There was barely a murmur from the men as they moved quickly to their stations. Since the convoy had been sighted Bonhomme Richard had carried an atmosphere of apprehension so thick it was almost visible. Now, throats constricted with tension, wagging tongues stilled, their eyes rested silently on the horizon where HMS Serapis blocked their path like a bulldog on a chain. Each man knew his place, second nature from frequent drills. While Richard Dale descended to the main gun deck, Lt. Stack climbed to the main-top where twenty sailors and marines stood to swivel guns and small arms. Midshipman Fanning took up his station in the fore-top with fourteen men while the mizzen-top held Midshipman Coram with nine men. On the poop deck Midshipman Mayrant joined the commodore as his aide, glancing behind him for reassurance at the twenty marines under the personal supervision of Colonel de Chamillard. In the waist, the marine drummers stared straight ahead as they beat out “General Quarters,” crisp snare drums rattling out the music of war.
An hour later Paul Jones glanced astern at his following squadron then for’ard to where HMS Serapis was matching him tack for tack. Fear crawled somewhere in his stomach, its ugly hand twisting his bowels, but confidence lay harbored there too; that today would be a day of all days. He smiled, half fearful, half exhilarated, as though he had cast the dice of his fate and now he would have to see it to the end. Now was the time.
“Signal: FORM LINE OF BATTLE.”
“Aye aye, sir,” his aide, Mayrant replied, his high voice cracking from nervous strain as he turned to call down the command. Within moments a blue flag opened at the fore followed by a blue pendant at the main truck. The mizzen sported the final part of the order, a blue and yellow flag.
Bonhomme Richard sailed on, the light wind nudging her so slowly she seemed stationary, bow wave sluggish. Almost as if we have all the time in the world, Paul Jones thought.
“The squadron does not acknowledge the flag, sir,” Mayrant said timidly as though somehow it was his fault.
“What?” The commodore twisted to glare astern. Alliance, closest to Richard, had hauled her wind, veering away landwards onto the flagship’s port quarter. “Landais, the damned fool. He complains I don’t give him the chance to fight. I give him a battle on a plate. Not just any battle but an English man-o’-war, and what does he do?” Farther astern, Pallas was sheering off to starboard and the open sea, plainly declaring her neutrality. Paul Jones’s whisper was bitter. “Cottineau, you too? You refused me Newcastle because you wanted to fight at sea. Now you deny me that.” His