Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [85]
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“Can you see it?” Paul Jones asked.
Lt. Dale rubbed his eyes, watering from the smoke of the nine-pounder. He and the commodore were still working the cannon in the absence of a proper crew. His vision clearing a little, he squinted into the night. Paul Jones was stooping over the piece, supervising the marines as they loaded again with double-headed shot. Watching them work, he shouted for a powder monkey to fetch up more cartridges.
“Well, Mr. Dale, can you see it or not?”
“I think so, sir. It looks to me as though it’s trembling. Yes, I believe it is.”
“Is it, by God,” the commodore grinned. “I thought my days of gunnery were over, and here I am, trying to knock down the mainmast of an English man-o’-war.” He gestured for the marines to get a move on, glancing at his lieutenant. “I’ll have that ship yet and win this…” He fell silent, frowning, before his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Did you hear it, or was it a trick of my mind?”
Richard Dale was rigid, ears strained. Suddenly, all the musket fire from Serapis stuttered to a halt. Only sporadic shots from Richard’s mast-tops continued. Then they both heard it again, loud and clear.
CHAPTER 7
“Quarter! Do you hear me? Quarter!”
Paul Jones stood up to his full height, brushing away strands of chestnut hair from his smudged face.
“Do you ask for quarter?” he called back, pushing to the bulwark for a view of the English decks. Musket fire broke out from the English marines when they sighted the American officer.
“CEASE FIRE!” Captain Pearson bellowed. “I have asked for quarter! CEASE FIRE!”
The shooting stopped. Paul Jones could see the red-jacketed marines throwing down their weapons. Muskets, pistols, cutlasses, hangars, and pikes clattered to the deck. The beaten men clustered into groups where they had fought, sullen, shoulders slumped in defeat. The commodore surveyed them, his cheeks drawn, steely eyed, but he broke into a weary smile when his crew began to cheer. Voices rose from every corner of Bonhomme Richard, hoarse with victory. Paul Jones peered aloft where arms waved from the mast crosstrees. Even the prisoners at the pumps stopped, slumped against the winch handles to massage drained muscles while their overseers moved to the rail.
Paul Jones quelled the wild laughter that threatened to bubble up in his throat, nodding when Richard Dale came to stand with him. When he spoke, his tone was formal but with an underlying humor.
“Mr. Dale, would you kindly go aboard and take possession?”
Dale could not suppress his grin. He drew himself to attention, then saluted, a grubby, cheeky-faced farmer. “With the commodore’s permission?”
Jones answered his smile briefly. “When you have taken command, escort the English captain to me here, then organize the prisoners into fire control parties. If we can’t hold back the water, at least we can douse the flames. And have all the wounded attended to by Surgeon Brooke.”
Lt. Dale took a detail of French marines and American sailors over the bulwark onto the foc’sle of Serapis. They worked aft in formation, collecting prisoners as they went. Surrounded by the remainder of his officers, Captain Pearson waited on the quarterdeck. Lt. Dale approached the ladder, mounting it slowly under the wary gaze of the Englishmen. Pearson ignored him, staring instead at the ragged bunch of prisoners who had been his men. They had fought long and hard and deserved better than to be herded like animals by the French marines. He could not help feeling he had betrayed them, although he had surrendered to save their lives. But for a flaw in his character or better judgment, they could have been the victors,