Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [93]
“I think I’m going to be sick…sir.”
A glimmer of a smile passed the midshipman’s lips. “A seasick sailor? Well, you’ll just have to be sick. There’s plenty more work before this job’s over.”
Jackie’s eyes met Tom Berry’s for a second, then he glanced at Billy who nodded he had heard. If they were going to make a move, it had better be soon, before Bonhomme Richard was abandoned and they were imprisoned on Serapis instead.
“All right!” the midshipman called. “Nearside oars! Fend off!” The wooden blades clattered against Serapis’s topsides before they were clear. “Starboard oars, trail. Port oars, pull!” The boat swung out, turning her bows toward Bonhomme Richard. “All oars, stroke!” Blades splashed in unison as the oarsmen resumed their work. “Come on! Pull! You’d think you’d been working all night!” Mayrant grinned, his own eyes dark ringed from lack of sleep.
Ease the oar out of the water. Swing it backward, arms straight, pushing, buttocks moving on the hard bench. Dip it, pull. Pain flashed like a tongue of lightning from the inside of Jackie’s wrist to his elbow. He let his breath go in a hiss, surprise confusing his timing.
“Watch out there, man!” Mayrant was quick to call. “I’ll have your name taken.”
Jackie looked over his shoulder to catch his stroke from the other crewmen. He slid into it easily while he gauged the distance to Bonhomme Richard. Halfway. Another few minutes before the next rest. As dawn’s gray light encroached on the remainder of the night, he could see the mist was growing more solid. The listing flagship’s riding lights bore fuzzy haloes and at the waterline the loading boats were barely visible.
The sound of retching brought his attention back to his own boat. The American sailor had both hands supporting his weight on the gunwale, his musket forgotten across his knees as he vomited into the sea. Both the midshipman and the other sailor were watching, amused by their comrade’s malady. Quickly, Jackie met Tom Berry’s eyes. The older man shook his head tersely, no, supported by a downward pushing motion of his hand; wait. The fact that Tom had even considered the moment as a possible one for action was enough to set Jackie’s nerves tingling. Exhaustion drained away, his toil at the oars nothing, motions automatic. From that second he was ready. A glance affirmed Billy was ready too.
Jackie forgot all the misery of his aches and the hunger gnawing at his belly. His vitals contained a flicker of flame ready to be fanned into a blaze. Information crowded his senses. Their position. The tide’s pull. The distance to Bonhomme Richard. The whisper of the breeze too feeble to disperse the growing fogbank. The hunched figure of the midshipman, wounded arm cradled against his chest. The set of the sailor’s shoulders as he hung over the side of the boat, dribbling vomit. The neglected musket. The other sailor, bored. The double bank of oarsmen, pulling stroke after stroke.
He was ready.
If a minute had seemed like ten when manning the pump, now each minute seemed like an hour. His chest felt tight, caught in a band of iron that coiled around him in a spring waiting to be released. A pulse hammered in his temple. His throat was suddenly parched. He rolled his tongue across his teeth behind his top lip to damp his nervous grin. Soon.
Midshipman Mayrant glanced at the doubled-over sailor in distaste. “When we come alongside Richard you go on board while the prisoners are being transferred. Then you’ll only have the return journey to make later.”
“I’ll be all right,” the sailor mumbled, as if he had no such belief.
“No, I’ll get another man to replace you.” Mayrant turned to the other American. “It looks as though the nearside has a long queue waiting to load. We’ll go around the stern. Fog’s coming up strong. I’ll go aboard and get a lantern.” He