Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [69]
“Pardon, sir?” Mayrant frowned.
Paul Jones turned his back on the squadron’s insubordination. “Haul up the lower courses so we can see what we’re about.” He fixed his gaze on the patient Serapis while Richard’s crew toiled to reef and furl the lower sails, hampered by the cargo nets strung six feet or so above the deck, ready to catch any debris blown down by cannon fire. Under the canopy of nets the gun crews stood by their charges.
Henry Gardner, an Englishman turned American, wore his rank as Chief Gunner seriously. He prowled the decks checking the rope falls, testing tackle everywhere before any senior officer could find cause for complaint. Muzzle lashings had been cast off, the eighteen-pounders drawn down parallel to the deck before the tompions were withdrawn from their snouts. The powder monkeys had ferried up cartridges of black powder from the magazines, then on command a wad and cartridge had been rammed down each muzzle to make a bed for the shot.
“Run out your guns!” Gardner ordered when the lieutenant caught his eye. He watched closely as the ports were hauled up and lashed, before the barebacked crews put their shoulders against dull bronze, heaving until trundling carriage wheels thudded against hull timbers. The tackle falls flaked neatly on the deck, ready to handle the recoil. Bonhomme Richard’s flanks bristled with cannon.
“Prime!”
A gunner stepped forward with a powder horn to fill each weapon’s touchhole.
“Point your guns!”
Under the direction of the cannoneers the crews grunted, manhandling the long barrels and driving in wedges until the top sight hovered in line with the nearing image of HMS Serapis as Richard rounded onto the enemy’s weather quarter. The two ships were sailing side by side, slowly converging. The day had died, darkness falling over the ocean. Between the ships the sea shone, smooth as a lake, reflecting the rising moon. Opposite, Serapis had triced up her gun ports to reveal a formidable double row of cannon. Those of Richard’s gun crews who had not broken out into a sweat setting their cannon now found chests and armpits soaked, mouths suddenly parched. No easy merchantman faced them now.
When the two ships were almost within pistol shot, a voice hailed: “What ship are you?”
Midshipman Mayrant followed his instructions to the letter. “The Princess Royal!” he shouted in reply.
“Where from?”
The answer was a muffled shout and the next statement was called with all the authority of a King’s officer well used to being obeyed. “Answer immediately or I shall open fire on you!”
How formal he sounds, Paul Jones thought as he gripped Mayrant’s arm to still any reply. The boy looked up at him, face and lips bloodless. He saw green fire leap and flash in the commodore’s eyes.
“Sir?”
“We’re close enough. Strike the English colors and hoist the American ensign.” He released the boy who passed the order. Only the swish of Bonhomme Richard’s passage through the sea could be heard to accompany the squeal of the halyard running through the blocks. When the colors fell open into the breeze, Paul Jones started for the rail.
“Starboard broadside! FIRE!”
CHAPTER 4
The first broadsides were deafening.
Gunpowder thunder rolled over the sea, cannonballs searing the sky before shredding canvas and wrenching away rigging. The distance between the two ships was so narrow there was little chance of missing. The eighteen-pound shot smashed into decking, spears of white wood rearing up as planks were ripped from crossbeams and flung into the air like firewood. The thunder drowned the screams of agony as men’s limbs were torn from their bodies while the red-varnished timbers of the gun decks disguised spurting blood.
HMS Serapis did not suffer