Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [97]
Remember me to one who lives there,
She once was a truelove of mine…”
***
The night was long gone. Serapis rolled gently with the tide. Paul Jones had breakfasted, shaved, and donned his uniform before mounting the ladder to his new quarterdeck. At the staff, his commodore’s pennant now flew, proclaiming Serapis the new flagship of the squadron. It was ten o’clock. Lieutenant Richard Dale was standing with the sailing master at the foot of the mizzenmast, discussing the jury-rig to see if improvements could be made. He saw the commodore from the corner of his eye, excused himself, then approached the quarterdeck. He saluted.
“Good morning, sir.”
“And to you, Mr. Dale.” Paul Jones looked off to Bonhomme Richard. Her lower gun ports had been lashed down but were almost awash. “Is there anyone left aboard?”
“No sir. The last boat was hoisted in only minutes ago. All the wounded were aboard by dawn before the prisoners were brought off. Another search of her was made before the last boat left. I was worried there might be others left aboard after we found Midshipman Mayrant and two sailors locked in your old cabin.”
“What happened?”
“He was in command of one of the boats. Near dawn one of his sailors was taken ill and while his attention was diverted some prisoners took over the boat. Mayrant and his men were bound and gagged, then hidden in your cabin.”
“Mayrant had a wounded arm, didn’t he? Is he all right?”
“Yes sir. They knocked out one of the seamen, but otherwise they harmed nobody.”
Jones nodded thoughtfully. “Did we lose any more boats?”
“No sir.”
“I’m surprised. Did you instigate a search?”
“No sir, the weather was too thick. I thought it best not to send out boats in case they got lost. With none of our own men at risk…” He faltered.
The commodore nodded. “You made the right decision.”
“Have you any orders, sir?”
“Yes, stand by to make sail for Holland. We have a rendezvous at the Texel.” He glanced at the French ships of his squadron. “If this rabble will follow me.”
An hour later Paul Jones consulted his fob watch. Eleven o’clock. He peered down at the men working on the weather deck before craning his neck to see aloft where sailors straddled spars, lashing new canvas and rigging.
“Sir?”
He twisted to see Lt. Dale at the rail, arm outstretched. Bonhomme Richard was settling. Her head dipped slowly until her bowsprit grazed the sea. Motionless, she listed sharply to lie on her side until they were virtually looking down onto her decks. Ruined masts pointed accusing fingers at Serapis. For a moment she seemed to hover, undecided, then with a shudder she slid beneath the North Sea. Black water closed over her, leaving only flotsam bobbing above her grave.
Paul Jones looked for a long time at her resting place. Soon, even the last ripple had dissipated. He turned to the quarterdeck rail. Below, his crew lined the bulwarks, all staring at the empty sea. He fancied he could read in their faces some of his own emotions. Silently, one by one, they drifted away to resume work. One or two turned to look up at the commodore on the quarterdeck.
“You won a great victory. I doff my hat to you,” Colonel de Chamillard said at his shoulder. “You have achieved the impossible. You fought and beat an English man-o’-war within sight of England. To my knowledge, it has never been done before. You will be a hero now.”
Paul Jones turned to study the Frenchman. “We shall see about that,” he commented tonelessly, trying to hide his feelings. “I may have won, but I lost too.” He looked away, back at the leaden sea. Suddenly he straightened his shoulders as though leaving it all behind him. “Mr. Dale, are the anchors hoisted? Then set a course for Holland!”
Moments later, men scrambled as petty officers issued threats. Canvas billowed aloft and the captured Serapis, under her new master, set sail for the open sea.
EPILOGUE
1787
Paul Jones sighed, staring morosely out of the window high over the rooftops of Paris. Would he ever have another victory as great, he wondered, as that day he captured HMS