Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [86]
“Sir, I have orders to escort you on board the ship alongside.”
Captain Pearson pursed his lips as he met Richard Dale’s eyes. So young, he thought. Most of them boys, hardly men. This one had the look of a plowman with his ruddy face. If ill-organized yeomen could achieve what these had in their battered old East Indiaman, then what heights would the Americans eventually scale when properly equipped?
“Sir?”
“Yes,” Pearson said absently, “I heard you. Very well.” He turned and walked to the staff where the ensign was nailed. With his own hands he wrenched it away from the wood, leaving scraps of cloth still attached to the embedded nails. He about-faced and held out the symbol of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy. Dale took the tattered flag, rubbing the heavy cotton between his fingers.
“If you please, sir.”
A marine fell in on either side of the Englishman. The captain looked at the deck then gave his first lieutenant a sad smile. “Carry on, Mr. Wright.” Slowly, he straightened his back and began to walk.
Paul Jones had put on his uniform jacket over his blackened shirt and cursorily tidied his hair. The two commanders looked each other over. Each had heard the other’s voice during the battle but neither had seen his opponent.
“Sir, this is Captain Pearson of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy,” Lt. Dale offered. “Captain Pearson, may I introduce Commodore John Paul Jones of the American Navy.”
Pearson said nothing. Slowly, he unfastened his sword scabbard then offered it as a token of surrender. Paul Jones accepted it solemnly, weighing it in his hands. He raised his head to speak, only to be interrupted by a crack like a clap of thunder from HMS Serapis. All eyes swiveled to the English warship. Her mainmast, punished by so many charges from the commodore’s own nine-pounder, split like a thunderstruck oak. Groaning, it toppled slowly. Yards swung loose then crashed to the deck. Braces and shrouds were entangled. The mizzenmast, too, shivered like an aspen in the wind, before its topmast splintered away. The whole mess collapsed overboard into the North Sea. A ravel of rigging trailed after. When the dust and the sea settled, the commodore turned his attention back to Captain Pearson.
“I accept your surrender.” He handed back the sword. “You have fought gallantly, sir, and I hope your king will give you a better ship.”
Pearson’s face was haggard, set to disguise his self disgust and shame. Only his eyes betrayed the lie of pride written on his face. The American felt for him, imagining their positions reversed. “You cost me the Baltic fleet, sir,” Jones stated, a compliment.
A glimmer of small triumph flared quickly in the Englishman’s eyes. A moment later, it had died away. “And you, sir, cost me my command.”
Jones ignored the retort, wondering which of them had lost the most. “Would you care to accompany me below to my cabin?” He switched his gaze to Lt. Dale who had witnessed the exchange. “I would like a report on HMS Serapis’s condition, and of Richard’s too. At your convenience. Carry on, Mr. Dale.” His tone implied he wanted it as quickly as possible.
Dale saluted. “Very good, sir.”
***
Lt. Dale remained on deck for a few minutes after the two senior officers disappeared below. Without the urgency necessary under fire, his gaze skittered over the two men-o’-war, still grappled together. He walked slowly down to the main deck where a water butt was lashed to the foot of the mainmast. Miraculously, the dipper still hung from a nail. He scooped it full and drank deeply. When his thirst was slaked he pulled out his handkerchief, dampening it to wipe his face and hands. Refreshed, he wondered where to begin his task. Every hatch, hold, and compartment of both vessels had to be examined. He trusted only his own eyes and the carpenter’s for accurate assessment.
Dead and dying lay everywhere. While the deck pumps sloshed and fire fighters formed bucket chains, burial parties cleared the decks. Here and there a man thought dead would suddenly moan, then be carried to wait in line for the surgeon