Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [7]
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Le Havre bustled in the July sunshine. Fishing boats bobbed at their moorings while crews mended nets and sorted gear on decks slippery with fish scales and fresh blood. Their catches had been transferred to the stalls that stood shoulder to shoulder between the capstans where shouts of invitation could be heard to inspect the wares laid in handwoven creels. The smell of fish and sea hung over the people moving to and fro on the quayside, buying and selling, coins and smiles and curses changing hands.
Paul Jones’s heart filled with joy as he saw the ocean, the mistress whose demands outstripped even those of Therese de Chaumont. But it was only a glimpse, sunlight sparkling from the water, spied through an alley between tall stone buildings. The coach rattled on through the wide streets that racked away from the harbor. He had endured indescribable discomfort in the bucking coach since dawn. Only to grab a hasty meal and change horses had they stopped. His face felt grimy and the thin coat of road dust powdered his uniform.
As they neared the quay the streets grew more crowded, the driver threading between carts laden with fish returning from market. Tinkers and hawkers bartered on every corner. Women carrying baskets looked up as the coach passed, faces prematurely aged by the strain of childbirth and hard work. Ragged urchins ran alongside begging alms, eyes wide at the blue finery of the two officers. It seemed everywhere dirty cherubs stared and grinned cheekily.
Paul Jones ignored them all, eyes above their heads toward the ocean and the ship he had come to see. Slower now, the horses shambled to a walk, rattling harness bits between stained teeth and tossing tangled manes. In the center of the market where the harbor steps led down to the water, the driver hauled back on the reins and wound them around the brake lever. The team came to a stamping halt, iron shod hooves scraping sparks from the cobbles.
Brisk now, Jones threw open the coach door and stepped down. Faces turned to him as he doffed his tricorn hat to smooth back his hair before firmly placing the hat back on. His step was so confident people moved instinctively from his path as he walked to a capstan wrapped with the painter of a ship’s boat moored at the steps. A sailor in a blue shirt with a belaying pin stuck in the waistband of his canvas trousers guarded it. When he saw the captain approaching, he unfolded his arms and came to attention. Richard Dale materialized from the captain’s wake to confront the sailor.
“Seaman, where lies Epervier?” the midshipman demanded.
The sailor’s head moved a fraction. “Yonder in the bay, with the black and yellow topsides, sir.”
Dale looked out to where a captured English corvette bravely held her head into the breeze as though remembering better days. Her topsides were holed and scarred by ball, her gunwales splintered by grapeshot. Shrouds and ratlines were ragged, a tangle of blocks and pulleys. The mainmast remained as a cracked stump, standing six feet above the bloodstained deck. Her foremast carried depleted yards, hastily jury-rigged under storm canvas, now furled. She wore the desolate air of a captive, her weary timbers deaf to the enticing whispers of the open sea, miserable among the cluster of fishing boats and coasters. Richard Dale’s mouth tightened as he stepped closer to John Paul Jones.
“That’s her, sir. L’Epervier.” The midshipman felt like a child beside the captain. It wasn’t the difference in years, more the quiet oozing confidence, an assurance of capability. Jones revealed little, but there was a certainty about his slim shoulders. Show him a problem and he would smooth it away. Dale tried to fathom the aura and came no closer to an answer. He noted Jones’s relaxed stance but suspicion nagged that he was looking at a purring cat that could turn into a tiger in a bare instant.
Unaware of Dale’s perusal, Paul