Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [78]
Pierre Landais wore a wolf’s head grin. His eyes glinted as he stared fascinated at the close-fought duel between warships. He reveled in each explosion, each wail of pain that pierced the night. So, it looked like the cocksure American commodore had met his match after all. It served him right after giving out orders as though instructing little boys. It should have been him, Pierre Landais, who was commodore of the squadron anyway, not the Scots-American upstart. Oh yes, he knew all about him; how he had only got his ship and then the squadron by keeping Madame Therese de Chaumont’s bed warm, and no doubt by keeping that patch of fur between her legs warm too. He had seen Jones at the Comedie in Paris, strutting like a peacock with her on his arm, all the stupid, thickheaded women making doe eyes at him in his fine uniform. All of them had been hot for him, the silly bitches.
HMS Serapis released a vicious broadside that sent timber and rigging spewing from Bonhomme Richard into the littered sea. Landais tittered, knuckles drawn into fists of delight. M’sieur Paul Jones was getting all he deserved, and there would be more. This would repay him for always keeping the best prizes for himself, always ordering Alliance where the fighting would be the least rewarding. He had promised the American that on the day he was cornered like a rat and held out his hand for help, then he, Pierre Landais would spit on him.
This was that day.
The Frenchman laughed, throwing his head back. The outburst startled his sailing master who was standing halfway down the companion, holding on to the shrouds as he watched the battle. The master twisted, balancing his weight on the line as he looked back. Landais choked off his guffaw, staring down, bright eyed.
“Take her closer. Cross on the port beam.”
“Aye aye, sir. Are we going to help?”
“Help?” Landais laughed bitterly. “Oh yes, we’re going to help.”
The master began to shout a string of orders. Alliance heeled as the wind caught her abeam when the helm went over. She responded with the grace of a gypsy dancer, sidestepping and tiptoeing over the wave tops. As they closed, Bonhomme Richard’s predicament was all the more obvious. Even Landais wondered what was keeping her afloat. There was little doubt she was lost, while the English man-o’-war looked no better. For all he knew the commodore could be already dead. Sharpshooters always tried to pick off the officers first. A ship’s crew without leadership was merely a rabble without direction or purpose. The American dead or not, it gave him an idea.
If he sailed in close he could rake the commodore’s ship and so speed her sinking. It would then be a simple matter to make the crippled Serapis surrender, and he, Pierre Landais, would take the credit. Of course he would modestly acknowledge Paul Jones had engaged Serapis first. But it would also be known the American had failed where the Frenchman had triumphed.
Should the maneuver fail and both Bonhomme Richard and Paul Jones survive, he could always claim English turncoats in Alliance’s crew had been angry at the mauling of HMS Serapis and had decided to switch allegiance again, mutinying then attacking Bonhomme Richard. Either that or a sudden switch in the wind at a crucial moment had caused a broadside to strike the wrong vessel. No, perhaps the first story was better. It could be further embellished that he had quelled the mutiny among his crew with a few sharp and decisive countermoves, and when again in control of his frigate he had taken the English warship.
The more he thought about it, the more plausible it sounded.
***
A broadside crashed out, one cannon after another, firing as they came to bear. Dale’s mouth hung open as he stared aft. Horror gripped his bowels as a cannonball screamed out of the