Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [82]
Bonhomme Richard’s sailors rallied, resolute if they could not capture the English man-o’-war then no English sailor or marine would set foot on Richard. They welcomed the invaders with hot musket balls, thrusting pikes and the cold steel of scything cutlasses. Hewing and jabbing, Dale held his ground as apparitions in striped jerseys or red uniforms appeared over the rail. His men clustered about him, lungs screaming for air, adrenaline waking exhausted bodies. The killing was over quickly. The smoke and the night cloaked the defenders. The English fell back from brutal resistance, too many of their comrades butchered on the American deck. They fled, dragging the wounded with them.
Lt. Dale passed command to a warrant officer before again starting aft. He grabbed the shattered rail to haul himself up to the quarterdeck. The commodore was laboring over the cannon. Dale noted Gardner’s body then waited for his commander to stand up.
“Boarders repelled, sir. The men are holding.”
Paul Jones rested against the for’ard rail as he considered his ragged first lieutenant. “That new uniform I bought you is almost as bad as the one you wore when I first met you,” he observed. “But at least you’ve got an excuse this time.”
“Sir, I’ve had word we’re making water in the bilges.”
Jones scowled. “I can’t spare men to man the pumps. Fire is eating us above, and water grabbing us from below.” He looked away, teeth clenched. When he turned back his expression had softened. “Send someone to the brig and tell the prisoners they’ll have to work for their keep. If they don’t pump they can stay below in chains and go down with her when she goes.”
“Richard sink, sir?” Dale looked horrified.
“It’s not unthinkable. If we’re taking on as much water as you say and we don’t beat this stubborn Englishman soon, then sinking is a possibility not to be ignored. Very well, carry on, Mr. Dale.” He turned back to his adopted cannon, rolling up his sleeves.
***
The brig was knee deep. Seawater gushed through the smashed hull timbers like a flood through open sluice gates. The prisoners nearest the door pounded their fists to pulp against solid oak. Without a hope of being heard, they competed with the fury of the raging battle above.
Jackie Rudd stood with his back to the inner sheath of planking. It was like steeping in a sewer, the prisoners’ filth floating about their knees in the icy seawater. The thought of drowning obsessed him. There seemed no escape. Each man was chained to the next, the last in line shackled to a ringbolt bedded in the submerged deck timbers.
“What do you think?” Jackie asked his cousin.
Billy moved his feet so the stinking water swirled about his legs. He glanced away into the smoke near the door, absorbing the misery around him. Desperation turned his face granite. “I think we’re in hell already,” he said. “It’s even worse than the preacher’s promise. There’s no place else to go but down.” He gestured to the gaining water. He was about to say more when a commotion at the door stole his attention.
Pressing inside the brig, two marines had to use their muskets to lever a way through. One had a bloody bandage around his head while both wore uniforms blackened and torn. The smith was with them, tools in hand, accompanied by two sailors hefting an anvil. The prisoners began to yell.
“Shut up, you damned scurvy rats!” the smith shouted. When his voice had no effect he motioned to a marine who fired a round over their heads. Those nearest the door retreated, cringing, while the remainder fell silent. “Now listen to me you muttonheads! You’re being released to man the pumps! Any man among you who won’t work will stay down here! Now, who won’t work?”
His yellowed teeth bared in an evil grin. “I thought so. Now stand quiet till you’re loose, then follow my men topside. By God, you might wish you’d stayed down here!”
The two sailors placed the anvil on the deck. With the surface almost awash, they grabbed the first prisoner’s wrists to stretch the links on hard steel. Using a cold chisel,