Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [89]
On the remains of his quarterdeck he recalled the entry he had written in his journal while the battle was still fresh, before he had succumbed to a drugged sleep: “…a person must have been an eyewitness to form a just idea of this tremendous scene of carnage, wreck, and ruin that everywhere appeared. Humanity cannot but recoil from the prospect of such finished terror, and lament that war should be capable of producing such fatal consequences…” He reconfirmed his thoughts looking down onto the weather deck, absently resting a hand on the nine-pounder he had aimed and fired so many times. Persistently, his thoughts were punctuated by a gravel voice calling time at the nearest pump. He turned away from the depressing sight of his battered ship to look seaward. Serapis stood off the starboard quarter. Dale had wasted no time setting her to rights. Through the drifting fog he could see the felled mainmast had been chopped free and figures were moving about on deck near the foremast and the remnant of the mizzen. It appeared Dale was organizing a jury-rig to enable Serapis to reach an allied port where her masts and spars could be replaced.
Pleased with his lieutenant’s progress, he crossed to the port wing to stare into the fog where his squadron lay. Just the sight of them drifting in silence angered him. Cursed Frenchmen. Where had their courage been when he needed them, had ordered them to engage? If only they were men of the same caliber as Bonhomme Richard’s crew. He had Portuguese, English, and best of all, Americans. If the French had been in dire need of education, then by today they should know beyond doubt his capability. If not, they never would. Worst of all, while the others had done nothing, Pierre Landais in Alliance—and Jones scoffed at the irony of the name—had actually been a deadly hindrance, firing into Richard as he sailed gaily past. And where was Landais now? Fled from the battleground, and so he should. If he had been here now Jones would have boarded his ship and hung him from the yardarm. If it was the last thing he did, he would see Landais court-martialled and dismissed…
“Begging your pardon, sir?”
Paul Jones banished his ugly thoughts. The Frenchman’s day would come. “Well, Mayrant, and what have you been doing?”
The midshipman glanced down at his arm suspended in a sling. “Only a scratch, sir. A careless bayonet.”
The commodore smiled, wondering the truth of the matter. “Well?”
“The carpenter begs you to excuse his impertinence, but he would like you to come below. He says there is something you had better see for yourself.”
It could only be bad news. He nodded, glancing at the fog lying heavy on the sea before looking back at Mayrant. “Very well, lead on.”
***
The carpenter was stoking his pipe. He sat halfway down the companion ladder from the orlop deck into the after hold. He stood up when the midshipman brought the commodore past the main-jeer capstan to the hatchway. Puffing clouds of aromatic smoke, he leaned against a bulkhead. He saluted without removing his pipe, speaking through teeth clenched about the stem.
“Morning, sir. I thought you’d better have a look.” He gestured down the ladder.
“Morning Carpenter,” Paul Jones replied, squeezing past and descending until water lapped within inches of his shoes. Grabbing an overhead beam he leaned out from the ladder for a better view. For’ard, the mainmast foot was submerged, and aft he was unable to see the mizzenmast step for a layer of murky water where flotsam milled disconsolately. That had to mean the bilges were under at least eight feet. “How deep is it?”
The carpenter fingered a damp sounding rod that lay against the steps. “Ten feet and two inches. And it’s gaining.”
“How fast?”
“Five inches in the last hour.” He