Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [90]
“Then the others will have to pump harder.”
The carpenter shook his head. “If we get under way, the slightest squall or heavy sea will tear her apart.”
Paul Jones’s eyes were hard. “You’re saying she’s lost?”
The carpenter scowled before pursing his lips to blow a smoke ring that crumbled into thin air. He watched it disintegrate then looked steadily at the glowering commodore. “She’s a good ship, sir, but before God and Providence, I don’t think working every man in the squadron at the pumps would keep her afloat.”
“You say, you say.”
Withdrawing his pipe, the craftsman pressed his lips into a thin line as he studied the officer. “That’s my opinion, sir. For what it’s worth.”
Paul Jones nodded grimly. “Yes, for what it’s worth.” He looked back at the gaining water. Nobody liked to be told the ship they had come to love was sinking. When he faced the carpenter again, his eyes searched the man’s face. “Just do your best. Keep pumping until I give the order to stop. She’s served me well, and by God, if I can I’ll save her.”
***
Paul Jones had to admit he had been stubborn. As he returned from inspecting Serapis in the late afternoon, sitting in the stern sheets of his barge, he studied Bonhomme Richard’s trim as they neared. She was settling slowly. The carpenter had been right. The pumps were losing ground. From the sea she looked even worse than when aboard. What was worse was knowing her exterior damage was nothing compared to her shattered interior. The whole appearance of the warship was one of dejection. She had given him everything the previous night and now it seemed her spirit had called enough and departed. Her hull, listing to port, was pockmarked by English cannon shot. Gun ports hung crookedly like house shutters after a West Indian hurricane. She carried little rigging and few spars on which to hang canvas if he could find any left undamaged. Great ragged gaps had been hewn in her bulwarks by ball, grape, and chain, through which he could see lines toiling at the pumps.
He experienced a great sense of loss. Only after months of searching had he found her, painstakingly fitted her out, even begging cannon. His officers hand chosen, he had then scavenged for crew and foraged for supplies, constantly battling for the money to finance it all. Now, after his long-awaited victory, he could not deny she had amply repaid his efforts. He had come to think of her as alive. The way she heeled angrily when the helm was put hard over, or her fickle handling in a cross sea. Her coquettish manner when she entered port, skittish and strutting like a vain woman, or how she joyously spread her sails like fluttering wings to fly over the wave tops at the prospect of a chase. Perhaps, he reflected, it was better to let her go with dignity and grace…
The barge bumped against the hull by the main chains. He peered up at her looming above. He could almost hear her groan, pleading earnestly for compassion. He perceived her fatigue, her readiness to surrender and slide under the black sea. With a start he realized his barge crew were watching, oars ported, waiting for him to alight. He kept them waiting no longer.
Midshipman Mayrant welcomed him aboard. He answered the boy’s salute then waited for the bos’n’s pipes to fade before he leaned forward. “Mr. Mayrant, send the carpenter to me. I’m going below to see the surgeon.”
Below decks, the companionways were still lined with casualties waiting for treatment. As he passed he offered one or two a hopeful smile when they turned sheep eyes upward. Leaving a trail of murmurs behind, he entered the gun compartment that had been taken over as a makeshift surgery to accommodate the overwhelming demand for Dr. Brooke’s services.
“Hold him, for God’s sake!” the surgeon shouted as his patient thrashed about on the blood-drenched table. “Here, take these.” He handed a dripping bone saw and the remains of a leg away. The