Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [84]
Pain bit into his back with the fangs of a rabid dog. He yelped in surprise, swinging his head to stare back over his shoulder. The American petty officer was coiling the knotted rope he had used as a whip. His mouth was an ugly slit.
“Lay on, you miserable bastards! One of the pumps is shot away. If you don’t want to see Davy Jones, lay on!”
***
Captain Pearson’s chin was almost driven into his chest as he prowled HMS Serapis’s quarterdeck. His bodyguard of marines had diminished considerably. The wounded had been carried below to the cockpit, and those who had died had been hurriedly consigned to the embrace of the dark sea. He had no idea how many fighting men he had left or in what condition they were. Estimates had to be revised every few minutes. The broadsides from the eighteen-pounders on his gun deck had long since grown ragged, and from what he could deduce there were perhaps five or six still firing. The battery of ten-pounders on his weather deck remained silent, Americans in the mast-tops of the pirate ship laying down a heavy crossfire on any man attempting to load them. Some of the pirates had even got into his own mast-tops and were dropping grenades onto the deck below and directly down the splintered hatches.
Pearson pulled his gold watch from a waistcoat pocket and prized open the lid. Without reading the heart-warming inscription from his wife, he consulted the dial. Ten o’clock! They had been fighting for three hours! And God alone knew how many dead. He shook his head as he closed the watch and absently pushed it into a pocket. They seemed the longest hours he had ever known. There was little hope for Serapis now. His beautiful new ship was burned and ripped apart, nearly a hulk. He glanced at the staff where he had ordered the Royal Navy ensign nailed to prevent it being shot away. He had never thought he would see the day when he would even consider striking it…
“Captain?”
Pearson turned. Lt. Wright was at the head of the ladder. A short sword dangled from his right hand, a smoking pistol in the left. He was tottering on his feet. Pearson could see where sweat had run furrows through the dirt on his face. “What news, Mr. Wright?”
“I have just seen Countess of Scarborough. She is almost dismasted. One of the French frigates engaged her. I’m afraid she is lost.”
“Sinking?”
“No sir. Surrendered. She’s hove-to, her colors struck and the Frenchman is alongside.”
Pearson’s mouth was a grim line. “And what of ourselves? Have you a report on our damage?”
Wright’s shoulders slumped. “Only four of the eighteen-pounders are still in commission. No man can get near the ten-pounders. We have suffered terrible explosions below decks. If we had powder left I would fear for the magazines. At present the American is firing double-headed shot at our mainmast. All the marksmen are trying for him.” He paused, shrugging. “In my opinion, sir…”
“I did not solicit your opinion, Mr. Wright.” Pearson interrupted, fixing him with a stony glare. “Kindly confine yourself to statements of fact.”
“Begging your pardon, sir.”
Pearson nodded, deep in thought. The Countess of Scarborough was lost, so Serapis stood alone. And if he eventually beat the American Paul Jones, what then? There were still the other French frigates standing off, skulking like vultures, ready to nose in and pick the bones. He walked slowly to the head of the ladder, the lieutenant stepping aside so he could look yet again at the bedlam into which his ship had degenerated. The only way he could reconcile the destruction was knowing he had accomplished what he had intended. He had given the Baltic convoy breathing space to crowd all sail