Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [72]
“He’s going to ram us,” Lt. Wright said in astonishment, aiming and firing his own pistol. The report was followed by the crash of twin swivels mounted by the lanterns. Seconds later, Serapis still swinging to starboard, Richard’s bowsprit plowed into their bulwarks like a raging bull, bodily lifting cannon from their trucks and tossing them across the deck. Captain Pearson lost sight of the Stars and Stripes in the confusion, thinking Paul Jones had hauled his colors down, the universal signal of surrender. Squinting through the smoke, he pushed forward to the rail, two marines moving aside. He held up his speaking trumpet and called through a lull in the musket fire.
“Paul Jones! Has your ship struck!”
On the quarterdeck Paul Jones laughed heartily, boosting the morale of the marines who stood in a protective circle about him.
“Struck?” he shouted back. “I have not yet begun to fight!”
While the men on the weather deck cheered his courage, the commodore considered his next move. He had to get Richard clear before the swivel gunners in the enemy’s stern could inflict more damage. With his own ship pointing directly at the Englishman, swivels in the mast tops were unable to bear because of Richard’s rigging and sails.
“Back topsails,” he ordered, speculating on the Englishman’s next move when Richard eased off. The answer came soon. As the bowsprit wrenched free, Serapis began to wear to port, turning on her heel to run westerly.
“Pardon, sir?” Midshipman Mayrant asked.
Jones frowned. “What, boy? No, I didn’t say anything. You see what he wants me to do? He wants me to wear ship so he can use his broadsides on me again. Very well, I shall. Pass the order.”
It was Mayrant’s turn to frown. “Sir?”
“Don’t question me! Pass the order!”
Bonhomme Richard wore, swinging parallel to Serapis, but moving much slower than the agile English frigate. Paul Jones knew Pearson would have to back his sails to allow Richard to draw level, and it was for that moment he waited, watching the enemy rigging. It was as he foresaw. Serapis backed her topsails, checking her headway. The commodore smiled.
“We have him. Let her run!”
Richard gathered way. When she drew level, her sails stole the Englishman’s wind, Pearson’s ship almost at a standstill. The American surged ahead. A staccato broadside chased them, but the commodore was grinning as they moved out of range.
“Helm hard a-weather!” he ordered. The quartermaster spun the wheel, Bonhomme Richard cutting across Serapis’s bows. “Trim the braces!” he shouted, realizing they were not going to weather with enough sea room to rake the Englishman. He glanced at the rigging and saw some of the yards’ braces had been shot away. He knew then the two ships would collide again. He had wanted it close, but not like this.
He cursed as Serapis’s jibboom and bowsprit plunged into Richard’s mizzen shrouds. For a moment he thought the rigging would be torn away and the mizzenmast would fall. It held, but Richard’s momentum, spiked by the enemy’s bowsprit, swung her so the two ships lay flank to flank, bows to stern. Still moving but unable to shake free, Richard’s topsides crashed into the English man-o’-war, American cannon muzzles jammed tight against the still unopened gun ports of the Englishman’s starboard battery.
As Paul Jones registered the fact Captain Pearson would now be unable to use his broadsides, Mayrant came back to his side from the head of the companion.
“Sir! She’s hooked us on a fluke of her starboard anchor! We’re held fast!”
Jones grinned. His mistake had turned to advantage. “Well done, lads! We’ve got her now! Throw on the grappling irons and stand by for boarding!” He strode to where one of the enemy’s forestays had fallen across the quarterdeck during the collision. He grabbed and tied it to Richard’s mizzenmast. “Make