Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [81]
“Silence!” Lt. Dale barked. “Get to your post and do your duty! The commodore is the only man who can order us to strike the colors. This battle’s not over yet!”
Henry Gardner glared at him for a long second, scowled, and pushed himself erect. “I’ll strike the colors myself! I’m the only man here with a head on my shoulders!” Then he was gone, silhouetted by flames from a nearby fire before his running figure was swallowed by gun smoke.
On the quarterdeck Paul Jones pulled the plug of a powder horn with his teeth and sifted black powder into the touchhole of the nine-pounder he had rescued from the port side. He pushed the plug back in, glancing around to make sure the marines were clear of the rope falls. A hand offered a slow match. He nodded his thanks, too exhausted to waste words. He bent wearily over the cannon to line up the back and foresights on the Englishman’s mainmast. Satisfied, he stepped aside then put the match to powder. The gun roared, recoiling to slam against the tackle. The rail was shrouded in smoke. He motioned for the marine with the sponge to prepare for the next charge, taking a moment to wipe the grime from his forehead. The battle was still raging the full length of both ships. Smoke, explosions, flames, barking muskets. It went on and on. Below, on the weather deck a man moved through the drifting smoke like a wraith. The commodore smiled when he recognized him.
“Gardner? Just the man. Come up here. You can take over this…”
The gunner stormed onto the deck and pushed the commodore aside without a glance. Single-mindedly, he stepped through the French marines. At the taffrail he reached the stump of the ensign staff then stopped. His head swung to and fro as he searched for the colors which had been carried away by shot. When he realized he could not surrender the ship himself, he confronted Paul Jones.
“Quarters! Quarters, for God’s sake!” he shouted.
The commodore’s eyes flashed at the insubordination. “Hold your tongue, man! Are you mad?” he snapped.
Gardner seemed not to hear him. “Quarters, I say!” He paced forward, arms outstretched in supplication. “Surrender, or we’ll all die.”
A marine rammed home double-shot into the nine-pounder. Seeing the commodore was busy he began to prime the cannon from his powder horn. Gardner saw him from the corner of his eye and switched direction. He lunged, knocking the horn from the bewildered Frenchman’s hand. “No! No! Quarters, I say!”
Seething, Paul Jones pulled an empty pistol from his belt. He threw without pausing to aim. The steel barrel crashed into the gunner’s skull. Felled, Gardner collapsed over the cannon, limp. Paul Jones grabbed his jacket by the scruff of the neck and tipped him casually on the deck. He retrieved his pistol before bending to finish priming the cannon as though nothing had happened. As he aimed, he heard the voice he had come to recognize as the English captain’s, calling out between the two ships.
“Sir, do you ask for quarter?”
Jones spared a disparaging glance at the inert Henry Gardner, unconscious on the deck, then began to line up the nine-pounder’s sights.
“Sir, do you ask for quarter?” Captain Pearson repeated.
Aggravated, Paul Jones straightened up. Hands on hips, legs planted wide apart, he shouted back. “No sir, I hadn’t even thought of it! I’m determined to make YOU strike!”
Among the bedlam on Richard’s weather deck, Lt. Dale had been moving aft to try and stop Henry Gardner from hauling down the American colors. He heard the commodore’s reply and failed to repress a smile. It quickly disappeared when instead of a retort, the English captain called: “Boarders away!”
In mid stride, Dale swung back. “Cutlasses! Pikes! Stand by to repel boarders!” He pulled free his own short sword, brandishing it above his head in encouragement. Men materialized, looking to him for leadership. “Hold the rail!” As he spun to face HMS Serapis the enemy came leaping over the rail, yelling to bolster flagging hearts. “Have at them!” Dale screamed, swinging his blade