Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [74]
Paul Jones was almost deaf under the roaring of the English cannon. He wondered how either ship could withstand the crippling broadsides and fires which had broken out everywhere. It seemed Richard’s guts would be wrenched and twisted until she gave up and went to pieces. Eyes running from smoke he turned away, searching the dark sea for the rest of his squadron. Spying gunfire he used his telescope, studying until he was sure of what he saw. The other English vessel, the sloop-of-war Countess of Scarborough was being engaged. But by whom? As the squabbling ships maneuvered, blasting broadsides, he had to wait until a French ship was silhouetted against the night sky. Pallas! So Cottineau had not deserted him after all. Originally built as a privateer, Pallas fought like one now, dodging and weaving, salvos rippling from her ten-pounders.
Someone touched his arm. He lowered his glass to see Richard Dale’s dirt-streaked face. Hatless, his hair was singed and tacky with blood, and through rips in his uniform jacket his smoke blackened shirt could be seen. His white knee breeches and stockings were spotted by sprayed blood.
“Sir, we’ve lost the main battery. Two of the eighteen-pounders exploded during the second broadside, and the rest have been destroyed since. Not that there are any men left below to man guns if I had them. They’re all dead.” His right eye jerked with a nervous tic, mouth contorted into a humorless grin. “All dead. They’re all dead…” He shook his head as though to disperse the horrors he had witnessed.
The commodore nodded. “Damage control? I want you…”
Dale waved a tired hand. “I’ve got fire parties working without rest. They no sooner douse one fire before another breaks out…” He covered his ears as a ragged salvo thundered from the English guns. Bonhomme Richard protested beneath their feet while a spar fell from aloft, trailing a tangle of rigging.
Screams broke out from the starboard rail. Both officers craned necks. A man lay howling on the deck by the wreckage of a nine-pounder. A ball had demolished the gun carriage and taken the cannoneer’s legs with it. He sat stunned, staring wide-eyed at two ragged stumps where his legs had been. Nearby, an officer rocked back and forth, clutching his face where a huge splinter had torn away his cheek. Blood poured from the gaping hole, a full side of yellowed teeth exposed above the brilliant white of his jawbone. It was Purser Mease who had been in charge of the quarterdeck battery.
“Give me a hand!” Paul Jones barked, moving to the rail. He prodded a finger at two marines occupied reloading muskets. “Get these wounded men below! You and you! Get this debris cleared!” He gestured to the shattered gun carriage. When they stepped forward to carry out his orders he turned away, grabbing Lt. Dale’s sleeve to pull him over to the port rail where an unmanned nine-pounder stood silent, miraculously intact, aimed uselessly at the open sea. Without waiting for help, the two officers began to drag the cannon across the deck. When a marine joined them the commodore nodded his thanks, but when a second came up he waved him away. “Get back to your station! And use that musket!” When the soldier frowned Paul Jones remembered and repeated the order in French.
Explosions ripped across the weather deck. Sweating, the commodore straightened up in time to see the devastation of his battery of twelve-pounders. His position on the quarterdeck gave him an aerial view as cannon bucked loose from carriages, rope falls flailing the smoke-heavy air like whips. As powder kegs exploded one after another, it was hard to believe it was night, so clearly could he see the systematic destruction. It appeared the only armament he had left was the three nine-pounders on the quarterdeck where he stood. With only two trained gun crews, the third cannon was left to himself and Mr. Dale.
He was no stranger to cannon. He had worked