Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [94]
They pulled so close to Bonhomme Richard they could see right inside her hull where English cannonballs had smashed through. Mist drifted like smoke over her rails, tumbling down her topsides in tendrils. They continued past the line of boats loading at the foot of the ladders before Mayrant called for the port oars to trail. The boat swung under Richard’s transom, the windows of the stern cabins like blind eyes staring at them.
“Besides,” the midshipman said, “I want to collect a few things of my…”
“Now!” Tom Berry ordered in a harsh whisper.
Before Jackie had digested the word, Tom launched himself forward. Landing square in front of the armed sailor, he swung a punch. The surprised American only had time to raise his arms in defense. The fist caught him above the ear. As he fell sideways into the midshipman, Tom seized the musket and brought it to bear.
An instant after Tom moved, Jackie lunged at the seasick sailor. He snatched the musket from his knees. The steel barrel was icy as it touched his blisters, but he had no time to listen to protesting nerves. In a maneuver rehearsed twenty times in his mind, he reversed the musket and crashed the butt across the sailor’s shoulders. The American slumped over the side, arms dragging in the sea. One-handed, Jackie hauled him inboard then dumped him on the seat.
Billy was right behind them. Too late to join the fight in the narrow boat, he spun around to face the oarsmen.
“Dip oars! Stop her dead!”
The crew obeyed, so dulled by authority that nobody questioned him.
Midshipman Mayrant hugged his wounded arm protectively as he stared into the wide bore of the musket then up at Tom Berry. “You’ll hang for this.”
“Say another word and you’re dead,” Berry said grimly, his ginger curls shaking. He leaned forward to relieve the officer of his sword and pistol. “I’m a prisoner-of-war escaping, so don’t give me any speeches.” He glanced sideways at Jackie. “For a fisherman you don’t fight so bad.”
“Fight, yes, kill no,” Jackie answered. “What do we do with them now?”
Berry stared at the three Americans for a moment. Hollow-eyed, they glared back at him. The boat drifted in to bump against Bonhomme Richard. They could hear voices up on deck still calling time at the pumps, but under the stern there was only the sound of water lapping at the hull. The seasick sailor regained consciousness. He sat up slowly, rubbing the nape of his neck. He glowered at his captors then uttered a groan. Turning away, he began to retch over the side again.
Billy made a face. “Well, I’m not going to listen to that fat bastard spewing up all the way in.”
His comment broke the tension. Jackie leaned out of the boat, hooking his fingers into a partially opened window in the stern lights. He prized it fully ajar then stuck his head in for a second. “Some sort of fancy cabin,” he said when he emerged. “We could put them in there, out of the way.”
Tom Berry shook his head. “They’d be found too quick.”
Billy disagreed. “They’ll only be trouble for us if we take ’em ashore. I say leave ’em here.”
“What about us?” an oarsman asked.
“If you want to come along, you’re free,” Billy replied. “Or,” he gestured up to the ship and shrugged. “They’ll take you to France and you’ll rot in prison until the war’s over. And God knows when that’ll be.”
Berry made up his mind. “Watch them,” he said, making sure Jackie’s musket had the Americans covered. He handed his own to Billy, then took hold of the sill and quickly levered himself through the port. Already adjusted from staring into the gloom outside, he had no problem making out the cabin’s contents. All personal possessions had been removed, so perhaps the three Americans would not be found for a while. If he had his way, they would not be found at all. He bolted the door, jamming a chair against it as insurance. Back at the window he leaned out.
“Billy, get in here to help me. Jackie, you stay out there.