Scarborough Fair – Read Now and Download Mobi

SCARBOROUGH FAIR

Boson Books by Chris Scott Wilson

Double Mountain Crossing

The Fight At Hueco Tanks

The Quantro Story

The Copper City

Desperadoes

Scarborough Fair

From Reviewers

A staccato fast pace and the building tension of war make this audio hard to forget. G.D.W.—AudioFile web magazine

Scarborough Fair is a terrific story. You have a beautiful way with words. Of course, you English always had a better command of the language than we colonists. The Serapis and Bonhomme Richard battle was always a great adventure tale and you did it proud.—Clive Cussler

Chris’s extremely clever way of descriptive writing takes the reader right into the place where the characters live…During the battle at sea in 1779 off the coast of Yorkshire one can smell the smoke from the canons and hear the tortured voices of frightened sailors in battle, and feel the tension of warfare at sea. A good read.—Mike Eastwood

What Chris has done in this novel is slowly take the reader to a time where historical fact is skillfully woven with the author’s own brand of fiction. I was hooked after the first page, and read the whole book over three nights, just did not want to put it down!! Would love to see this book transcribed to the big screen.—John Barchan

SCARBOROUGH FAIR

by

Chris Scott Wilson

Boson Books

Raleigh

Published by Boson Books

An imprint of C&M Online Media Inc.

© 2011 C.J.S. Wilson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and storage retrieval system, without the express written consent of the copyright holder.

ISBN 978-0-917990-75-5

This is a work of fiction. Names, with the exception of historical figures, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

For information contact

C&M Online Media Inc.

3905 Meadow Field Lane

Raleigh, NC 27606

Tel: (919) 233-8164

email: [email protected]

http://www.bosonbooks.com

cover design by the author

Contents

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

EPILOGUE

When America needed a hero…

Courage…

Grit…

Determination…

One man had them all.

His name was John Paul Jones.

Born plain John Paul on July 6, 1747 at Arbigland in Galloway, Scotland, he was the son of an estate gardener. At sea by the age of 13, by 21 he was master of John, trading between Scotland and the West Indies. With the aim of becoming a Virginia plantation owner, he formed a partnership in Tobago. After killing a mutineer in self-defense and fearing a kangaroo court, he fled the island. He enlarged his name to John Paul Jones to escape detection; then in 1775 on the outbreak of the War of Independence, he volunteered for America’s infant navy.

Off Flamborough Head, just south of Scarborough on the Yorkshire coast four years later, John Paul Jones became a legend.

“…as in the words of the traditional folk song Scarborough Fair, the word fair was not the name of a market, but had been used as an adjective placed after the noun, rather the same as saying fair Scarborough, meaning beautiful.” Allinson’s English Usage, Stockton 1953.

BOOK ONE

1778

La Belle France

CHAPTER 1

JULY 15, 1778

She probably has the most delightful derrière in all France, John Paul Jones thought, watching the pale orbs of Therese de Chaumont’s bottom rotate as she walked naked to the side chamber off her boudoir. Therese’s ash blonde wig curled erotically almost halfway down her back, the ridge of her spine melting into flesh above a voluptuous posterior. She was surprisingly long-legged, slender calves enhanced as she tiptoed, half turning to beam a languid smile, dewy eyed with the aftermath of lovemaking.

“I will not be long, Cheri,” she whispered, lips once again sliding into that smile of promise. And it will not be long before I am ready again, John Paul Jones thought as he stretched lazily among the crumpled sheets of the four-poster bed. He wiggled his toes and raked his fingernails gently across his bare chest, remembering her own talons when she screamed her delight at the fusing of their bodies. She knew all the tricks too. Enough to sate a man’s hunger but still leave a handful of embers glowing in the pit of his stomach which she could fan back into desire with the merest gesture; a smile, a glance, any time she wished. Any time at all.

John Paul Jones let his eyes range around the opulence of Therese’s boudoir; expensive Chinese hand-woven carpets brought by ship from the Orient, silk drapes, row upon row of bottles containing rare scents and essences that cluttered the surface of the dressing table. Oil paintings adorned the flock papered walls and each item of carefully selected furniture bore an embossed C surrounded by a gold wreath of oak leaves as though dismissing any dispute over the room’s ownership. Although appreciative of luxury, John Paul Jones found the unashamed declaration of wealth overbearing, used as he was to the more spartan furnishings of a captain’s cabin aboard ship.

Had he come across half the oceans of the world, he thought, to become nothing more than a woman’s toy? To come wagging his tail and panting like a puppy every time she crooked a finger, offering solace with a shrug of her tanned shoulders, or promising the heat of her loins with a smoldering glance?

But perhaps a lap dog was the best thing to be right at that moment. His mistress could possibly hold the only solution to his dilemma. Their affaire had begun seven months earlier, when he had first been presented at court in Paris. He had thought her stunning and he wondered how he had known at that first meeting he could be forging an alliance to prove fruitful in months to come. In retrospect, it was almost as if the gods had planned it. How could he have chosen her from the numerous and enticing ladies he had encountered in those early months in Paris, she whose husband had the ear of King Louis XV, serving on the Privy Council, a hand in every pie whose recipe contained the French Navy?

Which was one of the reasons John Paul Jones thought her a bitch. It was a paradox, he admitted reluctantly, considering her a bitch for cuckolding a husband that he respected. Perhaps it alleviated his own guilt.

Sieur de Chaumont had not always been her husband’s name. Born Jacques Donatien le Ray, he had gambled heavily in the East India trade and made his fortune. Now, while serving on the Privy Council and holding other honorary appointments, he owned a fleet of merchant ships and procured vast numbers of supplies for the French Navy. With his current status had come his title and ownership of the mansion where John Paul Jones now lay in bed, the Hotel Valentinois in the western Paris suburb of Passy. Benjamin Franklin also lived at the hotel, a strong link with America during these years of the War of Independence, as America struggled to throw off the stifling yoke England was determined to keep fastened on her fast expanding colonies. Like a mother reluctant to admit her children can fend for themselves, England refused to untie the apron strings.

Right now, without a ship, Therese’s friendship could be the most worthwhile he pursued. She was younger than her husband and had a way of getting what she wanted. If protocol and the power of the infant American Congress could not obtain John Paul Jones a ship, then perhaps Therese tickling her husband’s ear, and through him the ear of King Louis…

He grimaced at the elaborate woven canopy of the four-poster. What if she wanted to keep him in her bed so much she did nothing to procure him a berth, only whispered empty promises as she held him to her soft breasts and clasped him in the warmth of her thighs? It had been two months now since Ranger was taken from him, and now she lay at anchor being refitted and supplied for a voyage back to America. A ship he could have done so much with, and already had done.

Ranger had been only two months old when Paul Jones took command. 318 tons, built at Portsmouth in New Hampshire, she lay 100 feet long overall. Square rigged on her three masts with her black topsides slashed by a yellow stripe, Jones had admired her rakish bows and undercut stern. Although he’d had to modify her masts, the original sail plan more suitable for a sixty-four gunner than the 18 nine-pounders she carried, Jones had been pleased with her. An American ship with which to fight the stubborn English, and she had served him well.

He had set sail from America in November 1777 and shortly after his arrival in France, the affaire with Therese had begun. By April the following year he had sailed out of Camaret and Ranger had shown her mettle. After only four days at sea, the brigantine Dolphin had fallen to Ranger’s hooded charm. Jones had scuttled Dolphin, reckoning her valueless as a prize, but if his men grumbled, their disappointment was erased two days later with the capture of Lord Chatham, a 250-ton ship. His exploits did not end there. After a brush with a king’s revenue cutter, Ranger sank a Scots coasting schooner off the Mull of Galloway. Later the same day he sank a Dublin sloop to prevent the Admiralty in London learning his whereabouts, anxious as they were for their men-o’-war to find and destroy Ranger before Paul Jones could cause any more havoc in England’s shipping lanes. After two abortive land raids and a hard won victory over HMS Drake, he had taken another brigantine, Patience, before a victorious return to France.

And then the news he was to lose command of Ranger. His orders on leaving America had been to take command of a new frigate, which would be bought in France by the American Commissioners in Paris and then operate under their instructions. That he should use France as a base was an openhanded gesture of support by King Louis to the youthful nation, although it well suited his purpose that the Americans were snapping at English throats. But when Paul Jones arrived on French soil, the Commissioners sidestepped and paper shuffled, muffling the possible acquisition of L’Indien, a ship at Amsterdam on the Zuider Zee that Jones thought a capable vessel. While he was at sea in Ranger, a political wrangle broke out between the Dutch, French, and Americans. On his return he relinquished command of Ranger to Lt. Simpson who received orders to make ready and sail home, then Jones found out L’Indien was not to be his.

And now he had no ship at all. Jones squirmed under the caress of the satin sheets at the indignity of it all. If the war was left to soldiers and sailors they would damn well get on with it. Politicians would waggle silver tongues forever. Meanwhile the English were sinking American ships, and with them the hopes of a young and free country.

Angry, he swung his bare feet to the floor, his soles settling into the luxury of the Chinese carpet. He would go and see them again. Franklin would help him. God knows, he had promised often enough. Jones trusted him, which was more than he could say for Monsieur Sartine, the French Minister of Marine. That man could sidestep with all the speed and grace of a thoroughbred mare threatened by a puff adder. He stood up abruptly and strode to the chair where he had hung his uniform coat. His breeches, underwear, and white shirt lay neatly folded on the seat.

“Where do you go Cheri?”

He turned at Therese’s throaty purr. She stood in the doorway, one hand playing idly on the wooden doorjamb. Her powder and lip rouge had been repaired and her body glistened with a light coating of oil. She wore only a gold neck chain he had given her, booty from Ranger’s voyage. He gazed at the links hanging low over her perfect breasts, then across the gentle swell of her stomach to the lush triangle nestling at the junction of her thighs. Still angry, he jerked his eyes back to her face, trying to hide his approval.

“I go to find a ship.”

She smiled, teasing. “Put your trust in me, my Captain. Sail in me and I will find you a ship.”

“A voyage of delight?” he asked, thinking only a French woman could say something like that and not sound ridiculous.

Her smile tipped the corners of her mouth. “As the Greeks said, we will ride the wine dark sea together.” She shifted her balance onto one foot, accentuating the swell of her hips. The ash blonde wig coupled with the painted-in beauty spot on her left cheek declared her breeding, but her eyes and sensual mouth together with her stance provoked heady images of gutter lust.

Paul Jones felt the heat rising as he toyed with his shirt. Slowly, he slid one arm into the soft cotton sleeve, tearing his eyes away from the threat of imprisonment. “I must have a ship. That is why I came to France.”

She soft footed over the carpet to him, standing so close he was forced to look at her. She brushed a hand across his shoulder, stroking his chest as though he was a wild animal that could savage her at any moment. Her fingertips sent delicious shivers through his skin. As she gauged her effect on him, Therese’s nimble fingers feathered across to his other shoulder, edging the single shirtsleeve down his arm. It crumpled unnoticed to the floor. His eyes were again captive.

“My ship?”

“You shall have your ship, Captain. I promise it.”

He did not believe her, but at that moment he had other, more urgent needs. He raised a hand to cushion a rounded breast, weighing it for the precious thing it was. The rosebud of a nipple sprang alive at his touch. His nostrils flared with the fragrance of her oiled body and his hands involuntarily began to brush and stroke her sculptured back as she molded against him. When she turned up her face he silenced the pout of her lips with a kiss that reached long and deep into the moist cavern of her mouth. Her hands slid to his waist, talons gently raking, hungry. He broke free of her greedy lips and flung his head back, laughter bubbling in his throat.

“Therese, you have the way, my lady.”

She squinted a little, her dark eyes sparkling at the victory within her grasp. “Do you yield, Captain?”

“Yield?” His laughter was a joyous ring. He scooped her into his arms, took three steps, and then lowered her onto the rumpled sheets of the bed. Playfully, she pulled the satin across her hips, gripping the material tightly. He hung over her, plumbing the mysterious depths of her eyes for long seconds. “One day, Therese, your husband will come home at the wrong time, then I will never get a ship. And you will no longer have a husband.”

She smiled knowingly. “But not today. Today he is at the ministry, fighting for you.”

“And I am here, fighting for you?”

She tilted her head back arrogantly, clinging to the protection of the sheet. “I repeat. Do you yield, Captain?”

His eyes glinted mischievously then he took his weight on one hand while the other ripped away the sheet to expose her.

“Yield?” he grinned. “I have not yet begun to fight!”

***

The knocking at the door was low but insistent.

John Paul Jones was instantly alert. He freed himself from the tangle of Therese’s sleepy arms to sit bolt upright. “Who in God’s name is that?” he demanded in a whisper.

Therese made a face. “My chambermaid, I think.”

“And if it is not?”

She came awake then, aware of their compromising position, but still sure of the caller. She curled an arm about his neck and pulled him down to her face, eyes wide. “My gallant Captain! Caught in flagrante delicto with the lady of the house!” She covered her mouth with a hand. “Oh the shame! We shall be the scandal of Paris.”

He shrugged her away angrily, springing from the bed to pluck his shirt from the floor where it had fallen an hour earlier.

“If we are caught, my Captain, I shall tell them it was worth it,” she smiled, amused.

“Enough of your jokes,” he replied in a fierce whisper.

The knocking resumed, louder than before. Therese’s smile faded. She waved to the side chamber that served as a bathroom. “In there quickly, and do not forget your shoes.”

Paul Jones had already begun moving before she finished speaking. He stopped in mid stride, arms full of clothes as he looked back at his buckled shoes still resting beneath the chair. With a muttered curse he shifted his bundle under one arm before scampering back to grab the offending shoes. He was aware of how ludicrous he must look while she lay serenely composed in bed. As he squeezed into the bathroom he heard her call, then came the sound of the door opening.

“Excuse me, Madame,” the chambermaid apologized, “but an important dispatch has been delivered for Captain Jones.”

“From whence? And why do you come to tell me?” Therese demanded in the haughty voice she reserved for the servants.

“From the Minister of Marine, Madame. The captain is not to be found in either the hotel or the grounds. I thought perhaps Madame might know his whereabouts.” The implication was plain enough as she paused, and Paul Jones thought he detected a hint of conspiratorial amusement in the girl’s voice as she continued. “But of course, Madame, I did not know you were in be…resting. Excuse my interruption. I will look elsewhere.” She turned to leave but halted at a wave of Therese’s hand.

“Did I excuse you?”

“No, Madame.”

“Where is this dispatch?”

“An officer of the American Navy brought it. He is in the lobby downstairs. What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him he is to wait until the captain is found. Very well, you may go.”

Paul Jones heard the door close as he tucked his shirt into his breeches. He stepped into his shoes and after a glance to make sure his stockings were straight, he ventured back into the bedroom. He couldn’t help thinking how perfect Therese looked, naked to the waist, dominating the room from the center of the vast bed.

“You heard, Cheri?”

He nodded, examining his profile in the mirror over her dressing table. His hazel eyes picked out the long strands of chestnut hair that had escaped his queue to lie ruffled along a cheek. “I must see what news has come.” He fussed with the vagrant locks, catching, then impressing them into captivity. Satisfied, he pulled on his blue uniform jacket, cursorily brushing at the gold piping and epaulets lest any more of his hair had escaped. When the last button was fastened he belted on his sword scabbard before picking up his tricorn hat.

“I told you my husband would make you happy today,” she cooed from the bed as though her earlier promise had been magically fulfilled.

“As happy as his wife makes me,” he flattered, thinking only of the dispatch. He took one last look at his high cheekbones in the mirror, searching for traces of her powder but found nothing. He strode quickly to the bed where she put up her cheek to be kissed, a hand playfully tickling his thigh. “I must go.”

“I hope you have your ship, Captain, but I hope she is not as pretty as me,” she sulked.

Always needing compliments. “Nothing could equal your rigging,” he smiled, hiding the lie. She accepted his words at face value, no doubt reluctant to believe otherwise. Her pout softened into a smile to match his own.

“Go quickly, before I refuse to let you leave.”

“Adieu,” he said.

Her smile disappeared as she shook her head. “Your French. That means goodbye. I prefer Au revoir, till I see you again.”

“Yes,” he said, closing the door behind him. His French wasn’t that bad. And he did not think she had missed the point.

***

A young man in an American uniform rose from a chair to meet him as he strode into the lobby. The midshipman was stockily built, his long sideburns giving the impression of a wealthy farmer. Only his threadbare uniform and badly scuffed shoes destroyed the illusion. He looked only a few years junior to John Paul Jones’s own thirty years. An honest looking young man, Jones liked him instinctively. That hopefully he was the bearer of good news led him to ignore the scruffy uniform as he eyed him expectantly.

“Midshipman Dale, sir, with a dispatch from the Minister of Marine.” He stood stiffly to attention, the package offered.

The captain raised an eyebrow. “I may not be whoever you seek.”

For a moment Dale looked flustered. “The dispatch is for Captain Jones, and you are he, sir. I have seen you in the office of the Commissioners, and every American sailor in France knows who you are, sir.”

“I’m glad somebody does, even if it’s only the lower decks,” Jones mumbled. Dale frowned, but the captain brushed the remark aside. “Give me it.” He opened the canvas bag and used his thumbnail to split the wax seal imprinted with the Commissioners’ stamp. He skimmed the parchment quickly. It was there. Therese hadn’t lied after all. Her husband had been working on his behalf. And Franklin too. A ship. A ship. He refolded the sheet and pushed it back in the bag, then looked at the young officer who was watching him thoughtfully. “Midshipman Dale, you said?”

Dale stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

“What are your orders?”

Dale’s eyes sought the canvas bag. “To await any reply you may care to send, sir.”

Jones nodded. “Have you ever been to Le Havre?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither have I, and I hope it won’t be an experience we’ll regret.”

“Is there any reply for the Commissioners, sir?”

Jones smiled. “We won’t know that until we’ve been to Le Havre. We go to inspect a ship.”

***

They journeyed beyond daylight and into the night, west from Paris as fast as the horses could pull the coach. The road was tiresome, deep mud of the previous winter baked by the July sun into ruts. The driver goaded the overworked team, his whiplash drawing dark streaks into the white lather flecked across their shoulders. Inside, on hard leather seats, the two American officers endured the jolting of stiff springs. Paul Jones thought back to when he had first boarded a ship at thirteen in his native Scotland and remembered wondering if he would ever grow used to the pitching and tossing of a rough sea. Now he appreciated that the motion of a ship was heaven compared to the rigors of land travel. They maintained a sporadic conversation, not too informally as befitted the difference in ranks, but mutual discomfort built a bridge between them. Even so, the tortured creaking of the coach coupled with the rattling of the wheels and the drumming of horses’ hooves on the pockmarked road proved too formidable an obstacle.

The Deux Soldats was little more than a farmhouse, so close to the road its walls were spattered with dried mud from rushing wheels. Yellow rectangles of light cast into the night from the inn were a pleasing sight, and Jones was grateful to stretch his legs when he dismounted in the courtyard. Inside, there were few customers, the landlord quickly fetching a carafe of wine. The captain shrugged off his cloak as the innkeeper’s wife brought bread and cheese before retreating to make up two beds for her unexpected guests.

“God knows when we shall reach Le Havre,” Jones wondered aloud, excitement over the waiting ship dulled by fatigue. He noted wryly Dale’s appetite had been little blunted by travel as the young man broke bread before even sipping at his wine.

“The coachman said tomorrow afternoon, sir,” the midshipman offered before reapplying attention to his supper.

“Sooner the better. I’d trade one day’s ride in that infernal coach for ten Atlantic crossings.”

Dale grinned. “I would agree with you there, sir.”

Jones raised a smile. “Have you made many crossings? Your uniform appears to have.”

Dale glanced down at the abused cloth with distaste. “I have not had either the opportunity or the finances to replace it, sir. With all the confusion of the war I am owed many months’ wages. It is all I can do to live.”

“A common enough complaint,” the captain conceded, wondering why Dale had not been paid if he was attached to the American Commissioners in Paris. “Tell me about your war.”

“When the fighting began, sir, I was on the side of the Loyalists.” He paused, examining Paul Jones’s face, offering as an excuse, “I was born in Virginia.” He fingered his hair, drawing a new parting to show a long scar running arrow straight across his scalp. “A Yankee musket ball did that, sir, on the Rappahannock River. A marine shot at me from a cutter. When I woke up we had escaped, but were later captured by the US brig Lexington.”

“Commanded by John Barrie?” Jones queried.

Dale’s eyes flickered to the older man. “Yes sir, and a finer officer, if you’ll beg my pardon, I’ve yet to meet. He talked with me often. On his advice I joined his crew as midshipman. Later, Lexington was taken over by Henry Johnson. Last year we crossed the Atlantic to cruise around the British Isles, but when we turned for home we ran into a fight and Lexington was taken. Along with the other officers I was sent to Mill Prison at Portsmouth.”

Jones nodded. “I have heard of it.”

Dale smiled, eyes belying the merriment of his mouth. “I had heard of it too, sir, but nothing I heard prepared me for it. The stench of so many men thrown together and herded like pigs, rotting in their own filth. Even pigs would have turned up their noses at the swill we were fed. Shipboard vittles, salt beef with maggots and rotten hardtack with weevils would have been a gourmet’s delight after the slops at the Mill.” His voice trailed away while Jones noted the relish with which Dale contemplated the plain bread and cheese on the table.

“You were set free?”

Dale sighed. “I escaped. A whisper, a bribe, and one night the turnkey stood with his back to me for a few seconds longer than he should. I kept away from the port, knowing they’d expect me to try for a ship to France, but after two weeks of near starvation I was caught stealing bread.” He lifted the crust from his plate for emphasis. “When they took me back I went into the Black Hole. Evil it was. I’m a man used to wide-open spaces and a broad blue sky or a tower of billowing canvas, snowy in the sunlight. Salt spray on my cheeks and the humming of the wind in the rigging. Sunlight. A simple thing we take for granted. The Black Hole was the only name for it. Not a spark of light. Not the glow of a firefly or the crimson of a dying ember. Not even moonlight. Only darkness. So thick you could rub the substance of it between your fingers. But you couldn’t even see your fingers, not if they were touching your nose, and you wondered if you had arms and legs or if you ever had them at all.”

“I began to sing. Rebel songs my uncle taught me. He had been raised in Ireland and knew the songs the English hate. I sang them once and I sang them again, louder. And I kept on singing until I had no voice to croak the words. Every time I was ready to collapse with fear in that cold dark place, when the rats ran over my legs or their teeth nipped at my trousers, I sang.”

“When they let me out, everyone in the prison had heard of me, and when another escape was planned I was invited. We were lucky. We made it. One of the men had family connections and was able to get us onto a fishing boat. The crew did not like it, but blood is thicker than water, so they hid us under canvas and shared what little food they had. We were grateful for crumbs. And then in the cold dawn they landed us on a deserted beach near Dieppe. A brigantine flying American colors lay in the harbor so we presented ourselves to the officer of the watch.” Dale grinned, remembering the lieutenant’s horrified face. “He must have thought we were demons cast up from the bowels of Hell. With one thing and another I came to be in Paris, a messenger for the Commissioners.”

Paul Jones gazed impassively at the young man, masking his admiration. The boy told a good tale, and had confirmed first impressions. The captain drained his glass then stood. “Interesting story. Well Mr. Dale, I’ll bid you goodnight. We travel at dawn.” He crossed to climb the stairs slowly, his cloak casually slung over one shoulder.

Richard Dale watched him go. He had heard much of Captain John Paul Jones and his eagerness to be hero, but the only side Dale had seen was quiet and thoughtful. He realized then Jones had given away nothing of himself, but there had been something behind those hazel eyes, something a man could respect. Dale munched the remaining cheese, wondering if a giant lurked within the captain’s slight frame. There was something strange about him that made him different to any other man Dale had ever met, even John Barry who had convinced him to join the American side. Suddenly, Dale knew he only had to be asked and he would serve under John Paul Jones wherever he went.

***

Le Havre bustled in the July sunshine. Fishing boats bobbed at their moorings while crews mended nets and sorted gear on decks slippery with fish scales and fresh blood. Their catches had been transferred to the stalls that stood shoulder to shoulder between the capstans where shouts of invitation could be heard to inspect the wares laid in handwoven creels. The smell of fish and sea hung over the people moving to and fro on the quayside, buying and selling, coins and smiles and curses changing hands.

Paul Jones’s heart filled with joy as he saw the ocean, the mistress whose demands outstripped even those of Therese de Chaumont. But it was only a glimpse, sunlight sparkling from the water, spied through an alley between tall stone buildings. The coach rattled on through the wide streets that racked away from the harbor. He had endured indescribable discomfort in the bucking coach since dawn. Only to grab a hasty meal and change horses had they stopped. His face felt grimy and the thin coat of road dust powdered his uniform.

As they neared the quay the streets grew more crowded, the driver threading between carts laden with fish returning from market. Tinkers and hawkers bartered on every corner. Women carrying baskets looked up as the coach passed, faces prematurely aged by the strain of childbirth and hard work. Ragged urchins ran alongside begging alms, eyes wide at the blue finery of the two officers. It seemed everywhere dirty cherubs stared and grinned cheekily.

Paul Jones ignored them all, eyes above their heads toward the ocean and the ship he had come to see. Slower now, the horses shambled to a walk, rattling harness bits between stained teeth and tossing tangled manes. In the center of the market where the harbor steps led down to the water, the driver hauled back on the reins and wound them around the brake lever. The team came to a stamping halt, iron shod hooves scraping sparks from the cobbles.

Brisk now, Jones threw open the coach door and stepped down. Faces turned to him as he doffed his tricorn hat to smooth back his hair before firmly placing the hat back on. His step was so confident people moved instinctively from his path as he walked to a capstan wrapped with the painter of a ship’s boat moored at the steps. A sailor in a blue shirt with a belaying pin stuck in the waistband of his canvas trousers guarded it. When he saw the captain approaching, he unfolded his arms and came to attention. Richard Dale materialized from the captain’s wake to confront the sailor.

“Seaman, where lies Epervier?” the midshipman demanded.

The sailor’s head moved a fraction. “Yonder in the bay, with the black and yellow topsides, sir.”

Dale looked out to where a captured English corvette bravely held her head into the breeze as though remembering better days. Her topsides were holed and scarred by ball, her gunwales splintered by grapeshot. Shrouds and ratlines were ragged, a tangle of blocks and pulleys. The mainmast remained as a cracked stump, standing six feet above the bloodstained deck. Her foremast carried depleted yards, hastily jury-rigged under storm canvas, now furled. She wore the desolate air of a captive, her weary timbers deaf to the enticing whispers of the open sea, miserable among the cluster of fishing boats and coasters. Richard Dale’s mouth tightened as he stepped closer to John Paul Jones.

“That’s her, sir. L’Epervier.” The midshipman felt like a child beside the captain. It wasn’t the difference in years, more the quiet oozing confidence, an assurance of capability. Jones revealed little, but there was a certainty about his slim shoulders. Show him a problem and he would smooth it away. Dale tried to fathom the aura and came no closer to an answer. He noted Jones’s relaxed stance but suspicion nagged that he was looking at a purring cat that could turn into a tiger in a bare instant.

Unaware of Dale’s perusal, Paul Jones clasped his hands behind his back. He stared out into the bay, legs planted firmly on the land as though on the quarterdeck of a rolling ship. His eyes were cold, calculating, his chiseled face granite. But his voice betrayed disgust and disappointment as he turned away from the battered corvette.

“I see her,” was all he said.

CHAPTER 2

“Damn them! Damn their eyes!” Paul Jones spat, hands bunching into fists. Sun flashed from the buckles of his highly polished shoes as they crunched on the gravel as he strode back and forth. Sweat glistened on his forehead and upper lip as if his frustration was boiling out into the summer air.

The gardens at the Hotel Valentinois were exceptionally beautiful that year, Therese de Chaumont thought, turning a deaf ear to the captain’s blasphemy. She sat quietly on the long seat, immaculate coiffeur untouched by the breeze, satin ruffles of her gown falling in a carefully arranged cascade about her tiny feet. A parasol defended her complexion and bare shoulders from the summer sun while a fan lay in her lap should the heat become uncomfortable.

While the captain ranted, she viewed the work of her gardeners. The lawns were perfect, symmetrically divided by raked gravel paths into rectangles, arcs, and octagons. Flowerbeds blossomed, kaleidoscopes of color contrasted by lustrous evergreens. Although the blooms gave her immeasurable pleasure, the trees were her special delight. Sycamores, poplars, ash, and beech arranged into copses to breathe life, but best of all she loved the oaks. Tall and broad and strong like a man in his prime, eager and reaching for the sky, but firmly rooted, something to cling to. But what brought joy also brought sorrow. With the passing of the seasons their branches grew a little wider, a little denser, adding to their beauty, while hers was flawed a little more each year. A wrinkle, a sag, a bulge. As she contemplated the ageing process, a butterfly tumbled and danced over the nearest flowerbed. Her eye picked out a dying flower among healthy companions. She looked away to her trees, knowing how the flower felt.

“It’s all so unfair!” Paul Jones spluttered.

Therese’s reverie snapped and she glanced at him, still pacing as though on a quarterdeck sailing into battle. “L’Epervier wasn’t pretty then?” she asked, amused, recalling their encounter when he had left her arms to fly to Le Havre.

He grunted. “Pretty enough, but only a corvette. Sixteen guns, that’s all, and shot to pieces. They didn’t tell me that in the dispatch. I trailed a hundred miles to see a floating hulk that needs a six-month refit. I’m a captain not a lieutenant getting his first command. Do they expect me to rout the English navy with a crippled sixteen gunner?”

“I thought you could do it in any vessel?”

He humphed, not rising to her bait. “Not even I could accomplish it with that ship.”

“What did you do, Cheri?”

Jones stopped pacing and turned to study her, his eyebrows raised. “Do? What do you suppose I did? I sent that midshipman back to the Commissioners with a letter politely but firmly declining the command. And then do you know what they had the gall to do?”

How beautiful he looks, she thought, offering no comment.

“On my last cruise in Ranger, unescorted, I took six ships, one of them Drake, an English man-o’-war, and believe me it was no easy victory. The English fought well and hard. Then what could I do with a squadron? I could harry the English just like the foxes they so love to hunt. I could turn their attention from America to defending their own island. I went to M’sieur Sartine, your fine Minister of Marine. He sat there in his silk suit with a lace handkerchief held under his nose all the time we talked. Perhaps we Americans offend him in some way…”

“But no, Cheri, they say he has bad lungs. He coughs blood all the time,” Therese interrupted quietly. The comment did not divert his attention.

“Be that as it may. Regardless, it is application to duty we are discussing. He invited my ideas so I outlined several that would benefit both America and France. I could break the English trade routes from the East Indies, Hudson Bay, or the Baltic.”

“He listened?” She twisted her parasol to attract his attention.

Paul Jones nodded. “Oh yes, he listened. Long and well. I presented each plan in detail, showing how each could be accomplished.” He paused, lips pursed in disapproval. “As far as he was concerned there was only one problem. Each plan called for ships. Plans he agreed with, plans he enthused over, but he could not promise me ships. All I need is two or three frigates and supply vessels. Not a lot to ask when it could mean the breakdown of English trade and their loss of ocean supremacy.”

As far as Therese was concerned, the issue reeked of politics, soldiers, and sailors naive enough to assume they only had to ask and they would be given tools for the job. True, that was how it should be, but in real life these things took time, the seemingly simple task of giving one tool requiring endless delicate maneuvers in closed chambers, promises given and favors conceded before bargains could be struck, always the politics. She knew they would eventually give him the ship he apparently so desperately needed, it was merely a matter of when.

“He offered you nothing?” she asked quietly.

He nodded, tendons writhing along his cheekbone. “He generously offered me Renommee, a frigate, but remembered she had already been given to a French captain. Then he suggested I take command of, how did he say it, ‘a number of small armed vessels’ out of St. Malo to disrupt the English privateer fleet in the Channel Islands. Then he had another bout of memory, casually mentioning that Prince de Nassau-Siegen would be in overall command, and a man like myself would not mind lending my experience to royalty.”

He resumed pacing, bristling with humiliation. “It is not enough for him to deny me a ship, but when he offers one he refuses me full control. When I sail in a squadron, I will command or nothing.” He lapsed into an uneasy silence.

Therese studied the garden. In the distance a fountain played carelessly, the column tumbling onto water lilies where golden carp swam lazily. “What now, my Captain?” She feared his answer would take him from her.

He halted again, hand gesturing. “I have directed the midshipman who accompanied me to Le Havre to tell me of any suitable ship brought into France as a prize, and I have written to everyone who may be able to help.” He stepped to the seat and sat down slowly as though his tirade had drained his strength. As the bench took his weight Therese squirmed like a puppy, smiling at him coyly while making sure he was in the best position for a view of her charms so amply displayed by the low neckline of her gown. He turned to smile wanly, nothing lost on him.

“Until I hear of a ship, I do as I have done. I wait.”

***

Knuckles rattled at the bedroom door.

Therese was seated at her dressing table, brushing the short mousy hair she always hid beneath her ash blonde wigs. Fresh from her bath, the water only just emptied and carried away by the maid, she was dressed only in her negligee.

“One moment!” she called. Quickly, she retrieved a powdered wig from its stand and carefully eased it over her own hair. Though she wore no rouge, she knew her skin glowed from the hot bath. With a glance to reassure herself she was presentable, she shifted position on the stool, presenting a half profile to the door, her best angle. “Entrez!”

The brass handle twisted and a moment later her husband was in the room, face flushed, brow furrowed in an anger she recognized as all too familiar, advancing toward her flapping a sheet of parchment in an outstretched hand.

“The man is insufferable, I tell you. But what can one expect of these foreigners, these jumped-up Americans? Do they think we all hold office merely to serve them? That all of Belle France hangs on their every whim? The man is a guest in my house, too, and he has the effrontery…If I had my way I would pack the scoundrel off on the next ship across the Atlantic and good riddance. I would even pray for storms.”

As he came to a panting stop Therese hoped her alarm at his outburst did not show. So her husband had found out after all. Her little affaire was over. She had enjoyed Paul Jones in all senses of the word and was reluctant to let him go. But then Donatien always found out in the end. At least this time there had been something to discover, not like that time with the cavalry officer, the cuirassier, with his polished breastplate. A strutter and braggart, all mouth and no finesse. No, perhaps she could correct that: all talk and no finesse. That’s all he knew how to do with his mouth—talk. Precious little had occurred before Donatien had come into her bedchamber just like this, demanding truth and fidelity. Now she gazed impassively at him. He was dressed in a dark frock coat and knee breeches so he had come straight from his offices in the city. Her thoughts raced madly but she could find no excuses to offer.

Le Ray de Chaumont glanced at the parchment again and shook his head, the high collar of his shirt cutting a thin red line into his shuddering jowls. As he scanned the letter his cheeks flushed and when he began to read aloud he almost stuttered with rage. “I mean, listen: ‘The minister has treated me like a child five successive times by leading me on from great to little and from little to less’.” De Chaumont was breathless. “He even hints, sacre bleu, at challenging the Minister of Marine to a duel in defense of his sacred honor. Mon Dieu, My God, can you imagine it?”

Therese almost laughed aloud with relief. So the letter was from her captain, not a letter about him. Complaining about his lack of a ship, as usual. Composure restored, she tried to imagine a duel between the determined American and the diminutive Sartine with his weasel face, coughing specks of blood into his lace handkerchief while he parried rapier thrusts. The delicious image was shattered by her husband.

“My life is becoming complicated beyond measure. Sartine pesters me every minute I spend at the ministry when I am trying to arrange supplies. He seems to hold me personally responsible for this coarse American just because he stays in my house. M’sieur Franklin stays here too but I am not blamed when he falls foul of the King’s ministers.” De Chaumont looked about to collapse, eyes casting restlessly around the room, his body uncoordinated as if he did not know whether to go or stay. “The minister can make life very awkward. It would be easy for him to cancel my supply contract.”

“But surely there are conditions?”

“Conditions nothing. If he wanted to cancel it, he would find a way, believe me.”

Therese smiled reassuringly. “But even so, you would still have your fleet of merchant ships.”

Her husband’s face was scarlet. “My fleet? With things as they are, I should be ruined. The English are making trade impossible by blockading ports, and even when my ships can put to sea they are waylaid by privateers who hide behind the English flag and steal my cargoes. No, without the navy contract everything I have would be lost.”

Therese rose from her stool to take his arm and lead him to the chaise-long where they sat down together. She could almost feel the heat from his burning face and she began to fear for his health. In truth, she had never been madly in love with him. In a way he was handsome, but when they had been introduced she had discounted the difference in their ages, his wealth and power a greater attraction than his features. Her most pressing need at that time had been to obtain financial security, and a bonus was the respect she would command as the wife of a Privy Councilor to the King. Although throughout their marriage she had always had “escorts,” she had invariably taken pains to be discreet. If her husband found out, then few other people did. Over the years she had come to feel comfortable with him, a comfort enhanced by the luxury his wealth provided. But every franc belonged to him. He had settled a little money on her at the beginning of their marriage but she had given that to her parents so her sister would have a dowry to attract a husband. Since then, Donatien had only given her an allowance, paying all the other bills himself, most notably those of her couturier who supplied an endless stream of expensive gowns. Without a franc more of independence than on the day they met, the idea of possible bankruptcy was horrifying. Given a choice between her American captain who had no appreciable money, or her wealthy husband, there was no choice. She had to protect and preserve what she already had.

Therese placed a comforting arm around her husband’s portly shoulders. “Donatien, my love, calm yourself. You will only become ill if you agitate yourself so.”

“But that American. He makes my blood boil…”

“Never mind.” She pulled him to her, carefully lowering his head onto the soft cushion of her breasts, only thinly disguised by the negligee. Rocking him like a child, she billed and cooed, stroking his head. “I have an idea.”

“Oui, yes,” he murmured.

Her mind was working overtime. “You have a privateer, don’t you?”

“L’Union?”

She snorted. A fitting name. “Why not offer her to Captain Jones?”

Donatien jerked up his head, struggling for freedom from the nest of her arms. “What? Let that upstart of a colonist command one of my ships? I would never dream of it! He would wreck her on some wild scheme. He is a maniac…” His voice trailed away as he studied his wife’s tolerant smile. After a moment his mouth relaxed and widened into a grin. “You sly little vixen. You want me to give him a ship to get him out of my way at the ministry. And of course, you think what is one ship when my whole fleet stands to be lost for the sake of a navy contract? And if I do M’sieur Sartine a favor by ridding him of the American, so when I renegotiate the supply contract, I should get even better terms.”

Therese said nothing, just gave him the beauty of her smile before lowering his head again to her bosom. This time he came easily, tension dispelled by the implanting of the idea. He sighed in contentment.

“You always manage, Therese, to make it seem so simple.”

“That’s all I am,” she purred. “A simple woman who wants to help her husband.”

“And you do,” he said, curling an arm about her narrow waist. He turned his face, pressing into the fragrance of her breasts. “You help me by just being you. Just being here for me to look at.” Both his hands were roving now, plucking and smoothing the thin material that displayed every contour of her body. “Just by touching you.” He pulled back from her, then with fumbling fingers parted the gown to devour her creamy flesh with his eyes. “And you smell so wonderful.”

His face was again red, this time with excitement. Lust garnished his eyes, his mouth working with anticipation. He surveyed the plain of her stomach with his fingers, stroking tentatively before impatience urged them toward her center. Gently, she placed a restraining hand over his.

“My husband, you must be warm wearing those clothes. I think you would be cooler without them.”

He laughed and struggled to his feet, eagerly unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Again, Therese, you are right.”

She laughed with him, but there was no warmth in her eyes.

***

The Hotel Valentinois boasted a vast library. But for the door and windows, the long walls were clothed with towering bookcases. Footsteps from the blocked floor echoed among the plaster relief friezes of the high ceiling before being soaked up by the thousands of calf-bound volumes. It was not a study where a man could wallow comfortably among his papers. For all its worth the showcase library was austere and forbidding, containing none of its owner’s character.

Donatien Le Ray Chaumont sat at the huge desk, his fingers tapping noiselessly on the leather surface. Opposite, in his uniform as always, Paul Jones sat on a straight-backed chair. He held a glass of burgundy as he listened to the older man. De Chaumont made an expansive gesture. “…and so you see, Captain, I know of your difficulty regarding the acquisition of a command. This is why I am offering L’Union, my own privateer. You may sail her against the English and do as you wish with her.” Paul Jones said nothing, leaving de Chaumont to interpret his silence as speculation. The Frenchman raised what he hoped was a conspiratorial smile. “I can see you are wondering why I should do this. Is that not so? I will put your mind at rest. As you know, I own a fleet of merchantmen. Any disruption you cause to the English can only benefit me. More ports will be open to my ships.”

The American’s eyes never left the Frenchman’s face. He had already classified him. All those books leering down, the majority of them probably never read. But they had all been carefully rebound in matching calf, titles blocked in gold leaf. The man was a collector. He surrounded himself with things for the sake of possessing them. Beautiful books, beautiful ships, and probably beautiful women too. How many mistresses did he have, to supplement the meager diet Therese must allow him? Did he now want to add an American captain to his army of employees?

De Chaumont eyed him warily. “I take your silence as serious consideration of my offer. I will not press you for an answer at this exact moment. You may let me know your decision at your leisure.” He sat back, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“That will not be necessary.” Jones had put it all together. It was another of Sartine’s ploys. Use de Chaumont to give him a privateer instead of the squadron he needed. All of them thought he would eventually accept any ship to be offered. In reality a privateer was little more than a pirate ship.

“You have reached a decision?” De Chaumont was eager.

The American drained his burgundy glass then placed it on the edge of the big desk. He rose to his feet, drawing his shoulders back as he smoothed down his waistcoat.

“Sir, I am not my own master, I serve the Republic of America. I cannot from my own authority serve either myself,” he smiled to lessen the sting “…or even my best friends. I must therefore decline your generous offer.” He paused, probing the Frenchman’s expression before nodding curtly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to see to.” Without offering his hand he turned and walked away, heels tapping a stubborn tattoo across the wooden floor.

When the double doors closed, de Chaumont remained staring at the heavy paneling. That damned captain. He was pomposity personified. Perhaps the best thing would be to get him out of France all together. Preferably back to America, out of harm’s way. And the man for that job was Benjamin Franklin, the main American representative in Europe. Franklin may not like the idea, but it could be demanded as a favor when agreement was needed over more crucial matters than securing a ship for an arrogant glory hunter, which Jones undoubtedly was.

As it always did, the real power lay in politics.

***

Benjamin Franklin’s suite of rooms at the Hotel Valentinois also overlooked the gardens. His cluttered writing desk faced a broad expanse of manicured lawns and flowerbeds, now filled with dying blooms. A barrel-bodied man, his chair creaked a complaint when he dropped a paper he was studying and leaned back, allowing his gaze to stray to the window. Autumn had transformed Therese’s beloved trees to metaled clusters of copper, bronze, and gold. While he watched, the wind stripped the crackling leaves by the handful, flinging them into the air to dance and flutter before planing down to the hardening earth. Dissatisfied, the wind picked at them so they rustled, cartwheeling along the deserted gravel paths, drifting between the tree trunks to lay a multihued carpet.

Another year, thought Franklin as he clasped his hands across the bulging expanse of his waistcoat. Another year and more pressure. Pressure that gained nothing, applied by schemers, deceivers, and liars all scratching their way, clawing upward to where the real power lay. He sighed, then plucked his pince-nez spectacles from the bridge of his nose and placed them on top of the discarded paper. He had never felt so tired. Always one step forward and two back. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, massaging his nose where the glasses had left ugly red marks.

What did the French have against John Paul Jones? He was a fine captain with an impeccable record. Entering the merchant marine at thirteen during wartime he had not lacked courage even as a boy. Working his way up to mate, his chance had come at the age of twenty-one. Traveling home to England as a passenger from America on the brig John, he had stepped willingly into the breach to take command when the master and first mate both died of fever. Nobody else on board was a competent navigator. On docking in Kirkcudbright in Scotland, not far from his hometown, the owners had appointed him captain, sailing the trade routes to the West Indies. Four years later he was master of Betsy, a large square-rigger which also traded in the Indies.

It was also to his credit that as soon as Congress had aired an inclination to seek independence from mother England, Jones had volunteered for America’s non-existent navy. He had gained an appointment as first lieutenant when the Navy was formed and posted to Alfred, a 22-gun frigate where one of his duties was to command the lower gun deck. Only a short year later as the navy acquired more vessels he had been given the temporary rank of captain, commanding the sloop Providence. Quickly amassing an impressive record of engagements and victories, he had proved his worth. Although in Franklin’s opinion, nepotism in Congress had robbed Jones of his rightful seniority on the captains’ list. That situation had been rectified the following year when they had given him the newly built Ranger. And everybody who mattered in France knew what he had accomplished in that ship.

That was what Franklin found so irritating. The French knew all about Jones’s exploits and yet Sartine and de Chaumont were trying to force deals in which the major stipulation was Jones should cease to use France as a base. More clearly they wanted him an ocean away, back in America. Somebody needed something badly if they were prepared to lose a man who might make all the difference in the war at sea. And without doubt, whether they could see it or not, ocean supremacy was a major factor in gaining victory. If that could be engineered, then anything was possible. America could become an important power in its own right. Franklin knew all too well that Jones had collected a few enemies. It was often the case with naval captains who were a law unto themselves at sea, literally masters of all they surveyed, to the point of life and death over their crews. That sort of training, unfortunately, did not lend itself to the more subtle approaches required in politics.

Franklin sighed as he picked up the resume of Jones’s career once again to study it. Damned Frenchmen. Why should he lose the best opportunity America had of striking hard against the English?

Somebody knocked at the door. Franklin continued to scan the sheet then dropped it and instead stared blindly out of the window, lost in thought. When the knocking began again, he blinked, remembering he had dismissed his secretary for the day. “Enter!” he called.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the quiet voice without any trace of accent said behind him.

He turned to look up. “Ah, Captain Jones.” He extended a hand, too tired to rise from the chair. After the handshake he gestured vaguely. “Find yourself a chair.” With a glance at the window he raised his eyebrows. “And not such a good afternoon after all. Winter is almost upon us.”

“I count each and every day,” Jones said dryly.

“How long is it now?”

“Almost five months, sir.”

“It appears you give offence.”

“Not to you, I hope, sir.”

Franklin waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not, but you are somewhat persistent. I meant you have managed to fall foul of the two Frenchmen best qualified to help you secure a ship. I do not know what you have done, but I do know many find de Chaumont’s wife very personable. A man of my age and commitments does not notice these things, but…” his voice trailed away in speculation.

Paul Jones waited for Franklin’s customary chuckle, but the older man merely lapsed into silence, eyes sliding to the window. Jones waited. There was obviously more to come.

Benjamin Franklin began to polish his glasses. “What with one thing and another, procuring you a ship is proving somewhat difficult.” He glanced up, his gaze meeting the young captain’s eyes before returning to the soft cloth as he diligently rubbed each circle of glass. “It appears we will have to take the matter in hand ourselves.” He glanced up as Jones shifted in his chair. “I shall amend that statement. You will have to take the matter in hand. You understand that if I am seen to take a leading position it would jeopardize all I and the other American representatives in this country are trying to accomplish.”

“Then how is it to be done?”

Franklin smiled. “You will find a ship, publicly stating you are to buy her from your own reserves and equip her for a voyage. When you have done that, I will pass by M’sieur Sartine and de Chaumont. Diplomacy will compel King Louis to show willing by footing most of the bill.”

“How can you be so sure? I do, of course, have funds, but they are tied up in Virginia.”

“The inheritance from your brother William?”

“Yes, but my assets are all in land, and now would not be the best time for liquidating them. Even if it were possible, it could not be done overnight.”

“That will not be necessary. It has only to be known you are prepared to buy a ship and equipment. It will not actually be necessary to raise the money.”

Jones still appeared skeptical. “With respect, sir, I do not wish to appear naive, but what if King Louis is not induced to dip into the royal coffers? M’sieur Sartine as Minister of Marine and Le Ray de Chaumont as Privy Councilor both have the ear of the King.”

Franklin nodded. “Yes, they both have influence, but it would be impolitic for them to advise against helping you if you present them with a ship that is suitable. Their sole excuse to date has been that you have found each vessel they have offered you to be inadequate, thus laying the blame at your feet.” He held up his spectacles to examine the polished lenses against the light from the tall window. “In the rare event of your fears materializing, then the money will be forthcoming from Congress. That I can guarantee, but even so, nobody but you and I will know. To all intents and purposes you will have bought the ship. Do you agree to those terms?”

John Paul Jones pursed his lips. He would have mortgaged his soul for a ship. The right ship. His shoes had lost too much leather tramping the soil of France and he had lingered too many hours in Therese de Chaumont’s clinging arms when his conscience dictated he should be at war. He nodded. “Yes, I accept your terms.”

“Good. There remains only one thing to do.”

“Yes?”

Franklin put on his glasses in a business-like manner, then smiled. “Go out and find yourself a ship. Have you any thoughts on the problem?”

Jones nodded. “I have written to everyone who may be able to help, but my faith lies strongest in James Moylan, a merchant at Lorient. In my various dealings with him, he has served me well and I trust his judgment. He has promised to write as soon as he finds a likely vessel.”

“Do you think your presence would encourage him?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then I suggest you journey to Lorient to see him. Your absence from Paris would please M’sieur Sartine of whom we do not wish to make too great an enemy, and I also think it would please de Chaumont. Even he is beginning to think his young wife spends too much time keeping you company.”

Jones did not miss the glint in Franklin’s eye. “As always, sir, your advice is sound.”

Benjamin Franklin smiled. “My advice may not be the best in the world, but I think it’s the best you’ll get on this windy autumn afternoon.”

***

As the crow flies, Lorient lies 450 kilometers from Paris on the southern coast of Brittany. Danger lurked on every bend. Fragile wheels and axles were threatened by unexpected ridges or rocky-bottomed, ill-used river fords. Horses’ legs could snap like twigs trapped in the uncharted shifting reefs of potholes scoured out of the king’s highway by the autumn rain and the creaking wheels of overladen carts. The pensiones and inns of the road were the gathering houses of ruffians and brigands eager to fleece travelers of every franc their silk-lined pockets might hold and every trinket a lady’s luggage might contain, even to the theft of her virtue. Not only the men were highwaymen. Many a traveler, keen to spend the night between fresh cotton sheets with a wholesome country wench, woke from a sated slumber to find his watch and purse had vanished along with his bed companion.

Paul Jones had traveled the same road earlier during his stay in France when visiting Brest at Brittany’s tip where the French fleet lay at anchor. Now, his hand was always near the hilt of his sword. Any stranger to peer suddenly in the coach window was likely to be greeted by the wide muzzles of the two pistols he wore pushed into his belt. Even when he slept, a loaded pistol was always tucked under his pillow.

He was weary. The enthusiasm incited by Franklin at the Hotel Valentinois had seeped away with each jarring rattle of the coach as the driver bullied the horses with his whip. Listening to the crack of the lash and the jingling of the harness rekindled memories he would rather forget. Aged sixteen at the close of war in 1764, he had been released from his article of apprenticeship after serving only three years on Friendship, a brig trading out of Whitehaven to Barbados and Virginia. He had secured himself a position as third mate on King George, also sailing out of Whitehaven. What Congress’s record of his service did not show was that King George had been a “blackbirder,” a slaver carrying negroes on the middle passage from Africa to wherever there was a market. Her live cargo had been sold to the highest bidder at the auction block.

It was no trade for the squeamish and the stench of a slaver could be detected ten miles downwind, but a young man with little or no hope of a regular berth had to take whatever he could secure. Like it or not, his four years in the blackbird trade had taught him much. The two years on King George and another two on Two Friends, sailing out of Kingston, Jamaica as chief mate.

Paul Jones wrinkled his nose in distaste. Strange how a few whip cracks and the rattle of harness could induce perfect recall of the slaves’ jangling neck and ankle irons and the damnable stench of an abominable trade where human beings were treated with less care than animals. It was certainly a smell he would never forget. He shrugged away the memory as the coach slowed, the driver screaming curses. Thrown from side to side as the narrow iron wheel rims skidded on cobbles, Paul Jones threw up the blind. Holding on to his hat he leaned out into a bitter sea fret that drove into his cheeks.

“Where are we, coachman?” he yelled.

On the box, the driver wrestled with the traces, guiding the two wheel horses. “Lorient!” he called into the fading day.

“Thank God,” the American muttered, ducking back inside from the blinding rain. His journey was over. But then he wondered if his journey would ever be over, and if his feet would ever pace the hollow planking of a quarterdeck. If at times he hated the sea with its feminine temperament, and saw his voyaging as purely the means to gain enough wealth to buy the plantations he hoped to eventually own, then the last few months had proved how much he hated the land. At least on the open sea under a wide spread of canvas he was the temporary master of his own destiny. Ashore, his motivation seemed to leak away as he shunted between diminishing hopes of escaping the land’s miserly clutches.

The coach slowed and he could hear the driver calling to somebody in the street. A voice answered and the horses’ hooves picked up tempo again, but after several corners they mercifully came to a standstill.

“Voila M’sieur, there you are, sir. We are here.”

Paul Jones fastened the buttons of his coat and curled his cloak about his shoulders before opening the door. The mist’s clammy fingers gripped his flesh as he climbed down on shaky legs to stand on the glistening cobbles. The coach almost filled the narrow street, one pair of wheels in one gutter while the other side of the mud-spattered vehicle almost scraped the bow windows on the opposite side of the street. Candlelight flickered behind a curve of bull’s eye glass while a lantern outside a door illuminated a polished brass plate that simply read: James Moylan Merchant. Jones consulted his fob watch then tucked it safely back in his waistcoat pocket. A little after five. By all appearances Moylan was still in his office.

“Wait here for me,” he said to the coachman who was winding the traces about the brake lever. Receiving a nod, he turned back to lift the brass knocker and hammer his presence.

Almost immediately the door opened to admit him.

CHAPTER 3

James Moylan was an ugly man. Squat, with the shoulders of a weightlifter above his barrel chest, he had the ruddy face of the Irishman he was, and the red nose of a man dedicated to the finer virtues of liquor. In his native Ireland he had been weaned on poteen distilled by the bog side, but with the accumulation of wealth he had educated his palate until only the best brandy would soothe his taste buds. His office was at the end of a ledger-lined corridor not unlike a gangway between decks. When the door was opened Moylan was revealed in a cloud of tobacco smoke that hung in layers inside the cramped room, continuously stoked by the furnace of his pipe. He sat back and squinted beyond the desk lamp when the clerk knocked and ushered in the visitor. As Paul Jones came into the circle of light the Irishman frowned, struggling to his feet, hand outstretched.

“By the Almighty God, Captain, I’m not believing you could get here so fast.”

Jones took the offered paw then gratefully heeded Moylan’s gesture to take a seat. “You expected me?”

“Of course. When I wrote you, I knew you’d come. She’ll be suiting you fine.”

Jones frowned. “You wrote to me?”

Moylan reached for a bottle along with two glasses. He filled them both and handed one to his guest. “I only sent it the day before yesterday to Paris. If you came without receiving it, your arrival must be an omen.”

“A good one, I hope. Did I hear you mention a ship?”

Moylan smiled as he sank back in his seat. He drained his glass then stood it on the desk where many glasses had left a pattern of rings. “Yes, a ship, and she’s for sale.”

Jones leaned forward, both the news and the brandy warming his stomach. “Tell me.”

Moylan shuffled papers in search of a taper to relight his pipe. “The Duc de Duras. Nine hundred tons and owned by a M’sieur Berard. She’s not new by any means, you’ll be understanding. Twelve years old, built in 1766 for the East India run.”

“Is she here now?”

“That she is. This is her home port. I’ll not be knowing if you’re aware this town was only a little fishing port until it became a base of the French East India Company in 1670. The town’s name L’Orient, now just the one word, Lorient, came from that business. The company collapsed eight years ago and now the town is a naval station, arsenal, batteries, and all.”

“Tell me more about the ship.”

Moylan puffed his pipe back into life, silent until reassuring clouds of aromatic smoke began to gather about his head. “As I’m saying, she is here and currently being refitted. Her owner has a notion to convert her into a privateer, no doubt in retaliation for the depredations of the English vessels that sail under that name, which of course is only being an excuse for piracy. To that end M’sieur Berard has managed to acquire six eighteen-pounder cannon from the French navy here. But I’m thinking his dream is a fanciful one. Rumor has it a lot of money changed hands over the cannon. I’m of the opinion Berard will not be able to complete his project. As it is, work has already stopped. The cannon are aboard but the gun ports have not been cut.” He paused to puff at his pipe. “Berard’s merchantmen have been attacked by the English on several occasions, and I’m thinking there’s no more money. If he was to receive a reasonable offer, I’m sure he would not be unwilling to reach an agreement.”

“What constitutes a reasonable offer?”

Moylan pursed his lips. “Perhaps 200,000 livres would tempt him.”

“How much is that in dollars?”

“Give or take a dollar, about $40,000.”

Jones sat back. “Whatever currency you say it in, that’s a lot of money.”

Moylan’s ugly face twisted into a wistful smile. “It is in the nature of things that if she cost any less she would not be worth having.”

“And is she?”

Moylan winked and nodded. “I fancy she’ll be suiting you fine.” He studied the captain’s expression, then continued. “I’ll make arrangements for you to see her tomorrow.” He consulted his timepiece. “The hour is late. It is fortunate I had papers to attend to or you would have missed me. Tell me, do you favor well-spiced continental food?”

Paul Jones shook his head. “I’m a man of simple tastes, used to the tantrums of a sea cook. I have a liking for plain food.”

The Irishman grinned. “So have I, and my cook spares the herbs or my stomach keeps me awake all night. Then you shall be staying at my house. The food at the local inns is liable to disagree with you. I fear you see enough fish at sea without eating it three times a day when you’re ashore.” He tinkled a small bell which summoned the clerk. Moylan squinted into the light. “Have the captain’s luggage transferred to my coach and call us when the driver is ready to leave.”

As the clerk closed the door, Jones leaned forward. “My thanks for your offer of hospitality, Mr. Moylan. I hope I can repay you.”

The merchant eyed him, then a smile kissed the corner of his lips. “Captain, I will be well satisfied if the ship I have found suits your purpose. Us Irish were never too fond of the English.”

***

The Duc de Duras was visible from the quayside. Anchored by bow and stern, she lay idly at her moorings, ignoring the fretful pull of the morning’s flowing tide in the bay. Using his telescope Paul Jones stood in the freshening breeze, eyes raking her. She was a three-master, complete with topgallant and royal masts. Her paintwork was shoddy and her rigging incomplete, but as she rolled on the swell, a scattering of wood shavings was visible along with stacks of white timber by the bow hatches where carpenters had been working. She boasted only one row of gun ports on the level of the main deck, but she stood clear enough from the water for another row to be cut to present a formidable broadside. Built as a trader, accommodation would be cramped for a fighting ship. The sailors, of course, would sleep on the gun decks in hammocks, but a roundhouse would have to be built on deck for a marine detachment, as necessary for enforcing discipline on the crew as for attacks on the enemy. On first sight Duc de Duras had distinct possibilities.

He collapsed his telescope and waited impatiently. Where was the boat Moylan had promised? He had said ten o’clock. Irritable, he pulled out his pocket watch, then smiled at his own impatience. Still nine minutes before the hour. As he tucked the watch away he heard footsteps behind him and turned.

“Good morning, sir.”

Jones frowned, then surveyed the farmer’s face as he returned the salute. “Midshipman Dale, isn’t it? You traveled to Le Havre with me to inspect a ship?”

“Yes, sir.” Dale broke into a smile, flattered the captain should remember him. His smile was infectious, drawing one from Paul Jones.

“Are you here on orders?”

“Delivering dispatches, sir, to a vessel that sailed with the tide. I came down for one last look at the sea before returning to Paris.”

“You still have no berth?”

“No, sir.”

The captain looked off into the bay. “You said you are about to leave?”

“Not immediately, sir,” the midshipman answered, his eyes following the captain’s to where Duc de Duras lay.

Jones glanced sideways at him. “Would you like to accompany me on a short trip?” He waved an arm. “Out there, to look at a ship. As I recall we did not even go aboard the last one we went to visit together.”

Dale smiled. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

Jones nodded. “Good.” He caught sight of a ship’s boat coming in to the quay. “If I’m not mistaken, our transport.”

When the jollyboat came alongside, Midshipman Dale was already at the foot of the steps to take command, but his poor French only led to confusion. Jones took over smoothly, taking a seat in the stern sheets, his back ramrod straight. He waved the red-faced midshipman into the boat. As he sat down, Dale apologized for his sparse French. The captain ignored him, instead commanding the boat crew to cast off before smiling indulgently.

“Mr. Dale, there are two ways of learning French. Either go to the Comedie, or take a mistress.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “Preferably, do both.”

Duc de Duras was a shambles. A jumble of spars impeded a speedy survey of the main deck. Blocks and tackle lay in tangles of cordage that snared unwary feet. Pots of tar and abandoned shipwright’s tools were strewn in the companionways. Saws, mallets, caulking irons, clamps, reeming chisels, and wring staffs were scattered on top of ragged canvas that a sailmaker had attempted to patch into sails. Jones moved forward cautiously, absorbing the unfinished work, his main pleasure the rolling of the vessel beneath his feet and the vision of tall masts arrogant against the sky. Gingerly, he lifted the corner of a tarpaulin near the main hatch. Bronze gleamed dully. The eighteen-pounder cannon the owner had acquired from the French navy. He stooped to examine the bore of the top weapon, then the next, noting their ill care with distaste. M’sieur Berard had received a raw deal, whatever he had paid. The American glanced up at the ship again. Every inch of her required a great deal of work.

With Dale trailing in his wake, he examined her full upper decks, poop, and quarter, before moving below, inspecting mast footings and capstans before roaming the holds, trying to imagine them divided into quarters and gun decks. Having commanded a lower gun deck in battle, he tried to estimate the number and placement of cannon she could withstand without the timbers shaking to pieces after the first broadside. He picked up a loose spike and used all his strength to drive it into the topsides. He pursed his lips and nodded, the familiar excitement rising in his chest. If her superficial condition was ignored, underneath lay a sturdy ship. He left the embedded spike as testament to his decision and climbed back up the companion ladder to stand in the breeze.

She was the best he would get, and she could give him victories. Neither Sartine nor de Chaumont was going to steal this chance from him. However she looked now, she would make a fighting ship.

When Paul Jones turned, Dale was startled by his devilish grin. “Well, Mr. Dale. I will need a lot of help to make her ready for the sea. Trustworthy men.”

Dale drew back his shoulders, cheeks ruddy as he blushed. “I should like to volunteer, sir.”

“An officer would have to speak French well enough to supervise carpenters and crew.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but mine could be improved.”

Jones’s smile was like sunshine. “Mr. Dale, I’m counting on it.”

***

Christmas came and went. There was no word to confirm Duc de Duras was to be his. Paul Jones continued to accept the hospitality of James Moylan’s home. Deskbound, he sharpened his quills, writing letter after letter to Benjamin Franklin, all but pleading for command of the ship that lay deserted at her moorings in the bay. If he thought his days wasted while the war raged without him, there were distractions, the chief one unwittingly supplied by James Moylan. For such an unattractive man, he had a surprisingly pretty young wife, obviously acquired by wealth and position. Although tempted, Paul Jones tactfully kept her at arm’s length, loath to upset the business relationship he had built with her husband. Mrs. Moylan recognized his reluctance and gracefully retreated. Jones’s notoriety also brought invitations from every wealthy household in Lorient. Wives assuaged curiosity about the American in his dashing uniform, while husbands were keen to solicit business should work begin on his ship.

Paul Jones attended each party, voiced pleasantries, and remained impervious to the subtle advances from both wives and husbands. His heart lay not in the arms of a woman or at the bottom of a brandy glass, but down where Duc de Duras headed up into the wind, her peeling bowsprit aching to taste the salt of fresh oceans, forever wary of the call of the breaker’s yard.

And still he waited.

***

Sartine’s cough sounded like a nervous girl clearing her throat. It was growing worse. How much longer did he have? So much to accomplish and time slipping away. And it was always worse when he was upset. Who could not be upset in a job like this? Minister of Marine, and war’s knuckles rattling on his door. He dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief. Unable to restrain himself, he examined the tiny blood specks on the lace. The familiar panic twisted in his stomach. He was glad the American Commissioners had left. They stole his time, and that Franklin! Like a stubborn ox, hammering the same point again and again. John Paul Jones. Sartine’s lips curled with distaste as he stared at the name again, written in tiny handwriting on the blotter pad before him.

“M’sieur Franklin was on form today, Minister.”

Sartine glowered up at de Chaumont who was standing in front of the desk, his black woolen suit rumpled from the long meeting. “It seems he has outflanked us,” Sartine conceded, trying not to show his anger. “He has a brain like quicksilver and he is as devious as a fox. I have no doubt he put Jones up to buying his own ship, and if the truth be known, probably put the money in his pocket to do it. Not that they would have to find the money. He knew that too.” He coughed again, turning away as his shoulders heaved.

De Chaumont politely averted his eyes, allowing them to roam the magnificent tapestries that coated the office walls as though it was a palace. “Sometimes I think Franklin can see right through me with those steely eyes,” the Privy Councilor remarked.

The minister grunted. “He sees far too well. Apparently it was obvious to him we are reserving all the best ships for our own brave French Captains. God knows, they will soon be sailing against the English. He must have seen the best way to get a ship was to find one himself, knowing King Louis had promised to foot the bill. Franklin is well aware I cannot refuse to pay now, or the king will appear to be a liar.” He paused, breath rasping through his nose as he fought down another coughing fit. “And the King does not want to appear a liar in front of the whole world. Blame would fall on my shoulders quicker than Madame Guillotine. And there is too much to do to risk my career over an arrogant glory hunter.”

De Chaumont’s lips drew a thin line in sympathy. He knew how much Sartine hated to be out-manipulated. “Perhaps it is all for the best to give him his ship now and be done with it. He can do part of our navy’s job for us, sparing French ships. As you say, he is eager to snatch glory by whatever means necessary. He will either die for nothing or become a hero.”

Sartine frowned. “You think him more than competent?”

De Chaumont’s jowls shook. “There is something about the man—magnetism, and he has an original mind. I feel he will do something outrageous, and if he fails he will be a reckless fool, but if he pulls it off he will be a genius.”

“I sometimes wonder if the two are not so far apart,” Sartine commented. He studied his papers for a moment. “Do we have more business?”

“Only the appropriations for the fleet at Brest.”

“That can wait. Send for my secretary. I will write to Captain Jones now and then it is done with.” Sartine raised an eyebrow, voice a dry crackle. “From now on his fortune lies with God.”

***

The letter arrived in early February. John Paul Jones could almost see Sartine’s teeth clenched as he dictated that he was delighted to inform Captain Jones “in consequence of the distinguished manner in which you have served the United States, and the complete confidence that your conduct has deserved on the part of Congress, King Louis has thought proper to place at your disposition the ship Duc de Duras of 40 guns, now at Lorient.”

Paul Jones read the letter twice. Satisfied his eyes had not lied, he placed the parchment squarely on the desk and leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together into a bridge. Softly, he blew through the span of fingers, long sighs to exorcise the tension imprisoned in his aching muscles throughout the winter. Franklin had done it, achieved everything he had promised. The wasted time was now as nothing. The future lay ahead. He decided to rename the ship in acknowledgement of Franklin’s efforts. Bonhomme Richard, the Good Man Richard, a pen name Franklin used for satires he wrote for the daily papers. Jones began to smile. Frustration had fled, replaced by growing elation. He demolished the bridge of his fingers, his right hand drawing into a fist.

The wheels had begun to turn.

Moylan was $4,000 adrift on his estimate of M’sieur Berard’s asking price for the new Bonhomme Richard. Either the Irishman had added his ten percent agent’s fee on top, or Berard had sniffed the King’s presence in negotiations and decided the royal purse could stand a little extra expense. Whatever, Sartine eventually paid $44,000 for the ship, then the King further authorized the royal coffers would also bear the cost of refitting and supplying armaments.

Feeling he had outstayed his welcome at Moylan’s house, no matter how the Irishman and his young wife protested to the contrary, Paul Jones moved into his captain’s cabin aboard Bonhomme Richard. His trunks and baggage arrived from Paris along with the midshipman, Richard Dale. Between them, they pored over plans spread on the chart table in the stern cabin, then personally directed the carpenters and shipwrights from dawn to dusk. At last aboard ship, Jones was reluctant to return to the land, but necessity forced him to endure coach travel on numerous occasions. Satisfied the superficial work to Richard was well in hand, he began to take advantage of the King’s carte blanche offer to pay for any armament he cared to purchase. Cannon were in short supply. With no success at foundries in Nantes and Perigeux, he managed to secure a delivery date from a firm in Angouleme along with a promise from Sezerac & Sons in Bordeaux to cast the rest.

When both contractors defaulted, Benjamin Franklin exerted heavy pressure to obtain sixteen new model sixteen-pounders from the French Navy. These were mounted on the covered gun deck along with a dozen old twelve-pounders. The six old eighteen-pounders discovered on the first day’s inspection were mounted a la Sainte Barbe in the gunroom when gun ports had been cut. Six nine-pounders on the foc’sle and quarterdeck completed Bonhomme Richard’s ordnance.

Men were harder to find than guns. Reluctantly, Paul Jones took on English deserters and Portuguese. The English were unruly, but they signed on without complaint, and American sailors recently released from English prisons were added to the complement, brawls often breaking out between the different nationalities. Captain Jones was also to find he had not escaped Therese de Chaumont’s husband. With the good news that he was at last to command a squadron came also the bad news that Donatien Le Ray de Chaumont was to be paymaster general of that squadron. Although the American received the news of his becoming a commodore with pleasure, he determined not to wallow in jubilation until the promised ships materialized.

***

It was shortly after dawn when he was woken by knocking at the cabin door. He shrugged away sleep and pulled himself up on the pillows of his narrow cot. Outside the stern lights he could see the sun barely peeping over the horizon, its first rays fanning out over the restless sea.

“Enter!”

Midshipman Dale opened the door with a broad grin. It was the widest awake the captain had seen him at that hour.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but they’re here.”

Paul Jones’s mind was still lazy with sleep. “Who? And where’s the boy with the tea?”

“The squadron, sir,” the midshipman replied, ignoring the second question. “Your ships, sir. They’re in the bay. The last one is anchoring now.”

The captain’s eyes flashed from Dale’s face to the stern window and back again, the velvet cloak of sleep forgotten. He flung back the covers and pushed his feet into slippers. “Here, eh? I hope you speak the truth. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“May I offer my congratulations, sir.”

Jones smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be on deck directly.”

Twenty minutes later Dale caught a movement on the edge of his vision and twisted to see the captain appear at the head of the companion ladder. Dressed in his full uniform, complete with tricorn hat, Paul Jones climbed to the poop deck where he took a position at the port rail to survey the bay.

Only a few cable lengths distant lay Alliance, a newly built American frigate under the command of Pierre Landais. Jones knew little of him but what Franklin had included in his letters. Landais had originally been in the French Navy but had been discharged in 1775 for refusing promotion to Lieutenant of the Port Of Brest. Two years later he had gone to America with a letter of introduction to Congress that recommended him for a commission in the infant American Navy. His wish promptly granted, now he was anchoring in a French port again, this time as an American officer.

Beyond Alliance lay Pallas, a frigate carrying twenty-six nine-pounders. Paul Jones could see activity on her decks and also in the rigging. Captain de Brulot Cottineau de Kerloguen had wasted little time in ordering men aloft to dry and furl the sails. Through his glass, Jones could see the gold-frogged uniform of the captain as he personally supervised carpenters who appeared to be rectifying battle damage. Perhaps she had been in action against the English during her voyage. Jones hoped so, for blooded men would make a useful acquisition. A crew who had fought together had confidence.

“What vessels lie astern of Pallas?” Jones asked, trying to peer beyond Alliance’s quarter.

Dale had already made enquiries. “The brig Vengeance, sir, commanded by Lieutenant de Vaisseau Ricot.”

“Armament?”

“A dozen four-pounders, sir.”

Jones nodded thoughtfully. A useful support. And she looked almost as fast as the last vessel in his little squadron, which had entered the bay at sunset the evening before. Le Cerf, almost as proud looking as the stag she had been named for. A captured English King’s cutter, she carried a persuasive complement of sixteen six-pounders and two eight-pounders. Her commander, Ensigne de Vaisseau Varage, had already visited Bonhomme Richard after mooring and had met his new commodore of whom he had heard much. Varage had been suitably impressed and pleased to learn that while he sailed with the squadron he would be accorded the rank of lieutenant in the American Navy.

Paul Jones could see the Ensigne across the water, standing at the rail of his cutter as he too inspected the new arrivals. Well, Jones thought, that’s all of them now. I have my squadron. Whatever victories he had already won were behind him now. Now he could achieve much more. Five ships to hack and thrust at the English. Adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream at the thought of what lay ahead. By God, if the English already hated him, he would force them to respect him too. The very notion brought a flood of warmth. He sucked down a deep breath then compressed his telescope and tucked it under his arm. He glanced aloft at the starboard watch at work on the main yards, fixing running blocks and tackle before he turned to Richard Dale.

“How’s your signaling? Rusty?”

Dale smiled. “I believe I can manage, Commodore.”

Paul Jones blinked. It was the first time he had been addressed by his new rank. “Run me up: ALL COMMANDERS TO REPAIR TO THE FLAGSHIP. Let’s see what manner of men we have in our company.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The commodore was pleased to see the midshipman had anticipated his order. Without a glance at the code book, Dale ran up a series of flags. As they broke open in the breeze Jones smiled, his first order as commodore, then once again used his telescope. Within moments, all the vessels in the squadron had hauled up acknowledgements. The last was Alliance.

Paul Jones hoped that was not an omen.

CHAPTER 4

Day was dissolving into night on 12 June when the squadron slipped out of Lorient on the evening tide. Their mission was to escort a small fleet of French merchant vessels to landfall at various ports on the Bay of Biscay. Paul Jones stood at the weather rail on the poop, legs adjusting to the rolling deck as he watched his ships spread out behind Bonhomme Richard. Lanterns threw hazy circles of light in the crosstrees, flickering as sails caught the wind, furled canvas shaken out to stretch and billow with the promise of a voyage. What little pleasure the sight afforded was dispelled by the anger that writhed like a cobra in his gut.

Le Ray de Chaumont had done it again. Jones was sure the Frenchman knew more than he cared to admit about his wife’s feelings for the dashing American. Here he was, sailing out to escort a handful of merchant ships, when he should have been sailing to join Lt. General D’Orvilliers’s fleet which had cleared Brest a week earlier to combine with a Spanish fleet to scour the English Navy from the Channel. There was little doubt they were going to invade Britain while the English were busy with the war in America. Reports had reached Jones that 40,000 French infantry had been massing ready to embark.

He grimaced into the wind then became aware of footsteps behind him. Richard Dale appeared, newly promoted to first lieutenant, looking a little uncomfortable under the weight of his new responsibility. Paul Jones’s own uniform had acquired two shoulder epaulets that proclaimed his own new rank of commodore. He glanced away from Dale, aloft where the masts disappeared into the growing gloom, then down to the main deck where marines were idling, some working at their equipment while others watched the international band of sailors as they manned the braces to trim the sails. He turned back toward the spangle of glittering jewels that was the receding lights of Lorient.

“We are free of port at last.”

Dale stood beside him. “Yes, sir.” He sniffed the breeze like a hound seeking scent. “With your permission, sir, it looks as though we’ll get some weather soon.”

Jones nodded. “On that we agree. Order another two points west. The sooner we clear this lee shore the better.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Dale passed the order to the helmsman, then the deck canted as Richard obeyed her rudder. Below, on the main deck, commands were shouted as the crew jumped to trim the sail plan to reap the maximum benefit of the wind.

Paul Jones turned to speak but saw Dale had moved on past the helmsman and down into Richard’s waist where he was showing his new authority as first lieutenant by berating the watch for their slow handling of the braces. Alliance had responded to the lead shown by Richard, heeling as she altered course. Jones noted with a professional eye that she had not corrected enough to maintain a steady station from his flagship. More adjustment was necessary if she was not to come too close. He was not worried, but Captain Landais should be wary of falling foul of his new commodore so soon.

The commodore smiled and turned to gaze astern at the encroaching weather. Moisture dampened Jones’s cheek, drawing his eyes to the sky, now pitch dark. The squall had caught them quicker than expected. Almost immediately he was blinking as the wind drove the full force of the rain against his face. He squinted aloft at the towers of canvas. The sails were rippling, spilling before filling out as the sharp eddies swirled and battered at the frail material. A glance told him the helmsman was fighting the wheel as Bonhomme Richard began to lose headway in the cross sea.

“You there! What’s your name?” Jones shouted at a young midshipman climbing the companion ladder to the poop.

“Fanning, sir!” the boy called back, cupping a hand about his mouth.

“Well Fanning, lend a hand there!” He pointed to the struggling helmsman whose straining muscles writhed under his soaked shirt.

Without another glance at the boy, Jones turned back to search out Alliance in the rain streaked night. He muttered curses when he saw she was almost abreast, gray pyramids of canvas shivering in the testy wind. She was still altering course in an attempt to keep her station, but Richard’s lack of headway meant if Alliance kept coming, she would run under Richard’s bows. Was Landais a fool? He could not overhaul Richard quickly enough to take up a new station on the starboard quarter.

The commodore reached for his telescope, but before he could see who commanded Alliance’s bridge the lens was already smeared with rain. Suddenly, hunched there in the tearing wind, blind, all too wary of the danger threatening his ship if Alliance did not give way as the rules of the sea demanded, Jones recalled a conversation he had held with John Adams who had crossed the Atlantic with Captain Landais. What was it he had said? “Landais knows not how to treat his officers or passengers, nor anybody else. There is in this man an inactivity and an indecisiveness that will ruin him. He is bewildered—an absent bewildered man—an embarrassed mind.”

The commodore could only hope Adams was wrong. Such a man in command of a warship could prove extremely dangerous. That was if he had a warship after the next few minutes. Alliance was drawing closer by the second, plowing through the heavy sea, spume and spray climbing her topsides to be flung across the deck. Jones grabbed a speaking trumpet and began shouting into the wind.

“Ahoy there! Alliance! Sheer off!”

There was no response.

“Alliance! Haul away! Sheer off!”

Jones’s eyes widened, ignoring the bite of the rain. Now Alliance was presenting a broadside as Richard swung slowly. What canvas he could see above her deck was quivering as she luffed up into the wind. She stood less than half a cable away, closing with every second. If he could barely see Alliance’s sails, then the chance of Landais deciphering signal flags was non-existent Was the man blind, stupid, incompetent, or all three?

“Helmsman!” Hard a starboard!” he screamed into the wind.

The sailor did not hear him, muscles bunched as he fought against the crosscurrent yanking on the rudder. Beside him the small figure of the midshipman clung to the helm, buckled shoes sliding on the wet deck. The commodore pushed his hat hard down onto his head, robbing the wind’s fingers of their prize as he pushed away from the rail. He caught the helmsman’s shoulder, the man’s taut face turning, alarm written in his streaming eyes.

“Hard a starboard, man!”

“Aye aye, sir!” he replied through clenched teeth. The current yielded for a second, the oak spokes blurring as they spun. Bonhomme Richard did not respond.

In that moment Paul Jones knew they could not escape the inevitable. He watched powerless as Richard swallowed the sea between the two ships, pile driving through the wave crests. A wind had come from nowhere to fill her sails. He felt a surge of hope as the deck plunged beneath his feet then heeled as she belatedly succumbed to the helm.

Hope died with crash of splintering timbers for’ard. It was as if Bonhomme Richard was in pain. She groaned, winced, and shuddered. Sails suddenly boomed aloft as if she was gathering her power to ram right through Alliance, butting at the frigate’s ribs like an angry bull.

The wind buffeted the commodore as he strode to the companion ladder, one hand gripping the rail while the other denied the wind his hat. Lanterns spluttered, shadows crawling like doom over the gear-scattered deck. A figure fell from a yardarm, his scream of fear already buried by the shrieking wind. Jones spared the unfortunate man a bare glance before his eyes were drawn back to the crunching of splitting timbers up in the bows. Amidships, another man lay face down between two sixteen-pounder cannon, his blue officer’s uniform sodden, awash with seawater searching escape in the scuppers. A spar somehow torn from the mainmast swung murderously to and fro scant inches above his head. Sailors gaped, hesitantly stepping forward, then retreating as the spar swung back over him.

Without a thought Jones ran forward. The limp body was deadweight but he managed to drag him across to the port side rail. The group of sailors, embarrassed the commodore had done their work, clustered around as Paul Jones turned the officer over. His face was covered with brine-diluted blood from a gash in his forehead. It was Henry Lunt, the second lieutenant. He and his cousin, Cutting Lunt the sailing master, had not long been released from the Mill Prison in exchange for English prisoners-of-war. They had both survived the jail for two years. Henry, aged twenty-six, had served as seaman on Alfred and Providence with Paul Jones. On meeting Henry again, the commodore had signed both Henry and his cousin to sail on Bonhomme Richard.

“How is he, sir?”

Jones looked up into the eyes of Cutting Lunt, the sailing master, who at the age of thirty was four years Henry’s senior. His face betrayed concern. Jones suspected if it had been any other man stooped over Henry, then Cutting Lunt would have pushed him roughly aside.

“More blood than damage, I think,” Paul Jones replied. “Get him below to Dr. Brooke. That is, if we aren’t…” Before he could say “sinking” there was another crash for’ard. Half crouched, he twisted to peer into the gloom shrouding the bows. He scowled, and then turned back. The spar that had felled his lieutenant was still thrashing to and fro.

The commodore jumped up. “Axes here! Cut it free!” The rope work parted with a whip crack under the persuasion of sharp blades. As the sailors worked, the wind tugged at the rigging, dragging the spar over the bulwarks to disappear into the night.

The commodore saw that Henry Lunt had already been carried below, his cousin Cutting Lunt making for the quarterdeck to sail his ship out of further danger. Jones was pleased to see the master’s duty came before useless worry over his cousin.

“She’s sheered away, sir!” Lt. Dale called. He had appeared from for’ard, hair plastered against his flushed face. His uniform sleeve was torn and an axe dangled from his hand, knuckles streaked with blood.

“Damage?”

Dale looked over his shoulder then back at the commodore. “Our bowsprit carried away Alliance’s mizzenmast. I cut the braces and Alliance fell away. She took part of our jibboom, but apart from that, most of the damage appears to be superficial. Timberwork on the bulwarks and two of the cannon have torn free. Their tackle will have to be replaced.” His eyes strayed to the severed rigging where the spar that felled Henry Lunt had been chopped away. “That’s excluding whatever happened here.”

“Are we broached below decks?”

Dale blinked. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I have not yet had time to check.”

Jones nodded. “Do that now and have the carpenter sound the bilges, then again in four hours. Even if there is no visible damage we may have sprung a plank or two.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Dale turned away, still carrying the axe.

“Damned Frenchman,” Paul Jones swore under his breath. “I’ll have him strung up for this.”

***

Dawn found the ragged squadron maneuvering to regain their stations from the flagship. The merchant fleet had sailed on during the squall, ignorant of the drama played out in their wake, but more than one officer-of-the-deck trained his glass on Bonhomme Richard’s damaged bowsprit, moving on to note Alliance’s lost mizzenmast. Little imagination was needed to deduce what had happened.

Paul Jones was still angry when he rose from his bunk. He had received several reports during the night from the carpenter. Richard had sustained no leaks from the collision. That at least was something. As soon as he finished dressing he visited Dr. Brooke’s quarters. To his surprise the surgeon was alone, reading a medical book. The doctor noted the commodore’s expression with a smile.

“Better news than you expected, I dare say, sir.”

“Lunt?”

“He’s back in his own quarters, sleeping heavily I shouldn’t wonder.” He smiled at the lieutenant’s luck. “He had a tear in his scalp which I stitched, and a concussion that will be cured by rest. I gave him a draught.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” Paul Jones looked around the small cabin with its shelf of reference books and solid chest of surgeon’s tools. Although the lid was down, Jones could visualize the contents. Drills and saws and needles more suitable for stitching canvas than frail human flesh. He had seen them before, and would no doubt see them again. Rather later than sooner. He repressed a shudder.

“Will you dine with me tonight, Dr. Brooke? I should like the pleasure of your company. We may not have the opportunity later.”

Brooke smiled again. “I should deem it an honor, sir.”

Jones nodded. “Tonight, then.”

On deck, men were moving purposefully about. As he climbed to the poop, he noted the presence of more marines than usual, mainly tending to their weapons. At the weather rail Richard Dale was alternately pointing to the horizon and directing comments to Colonel de Chamillard, the Officer of Marines, conspicuous in his scarlet uniform. Close by stood two midshipmen, hands clasped behind their backs, almost a parody of the senior officers. Dale peered aloft while reaching for a speaking trumpet.

“Lookout! Make a report!”

From the mainmast crosstrees a voice bellowed. “A brace of ships, sir! Carrying all sail!”

“Nationality?”

“I cannot tell, sir!”

“Is the man blind?” Dale muttered, waving one of the midshipmen to his side. “Fanning. Get aloft and make a report. Your young eyes might make them out.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The fourteen-year-old was off and running. Almost without touching the steps he was down to the main deck and threading between the sailors and marines crowding the rail. Like a monkey he swung up on the bulwarks, heedless of the sea pounding along Richard’s hull below his feet; then he scampered up the ratlines as though he had done it from birth. Paul Jones smiled as he watched the boy, remembering his own youth when he had forced himself to conquer his heaving stomach, shaking with fear when he had looked down to the miniature deck far below, the sway of the masts exaggerated by the roll of the ship. The image faded. The boy, Fanning, showed willing.

“Good morning, sir.” Dale’s face was serious. At his side De Chamillard eyed the commodore in speculative silence.

Jones nodded. “Good morning to you both. What news?”

“Two ships coming over the horizon, sir, on course for the merchantmen. We have not been able to ascertain whether they are friendly.”

“So I gather. M’sieur, are your men fit?”

The French marine officer’s shoulders stiffened slightly before he nodded sternly. “Yes sir, I trained them myself.”

“Good, I may have need of them.” It was said as a dismissal. De Chamillard caught the inflection.

“If you will excuse me, sir, I will see to my men.” He retreated to the main deck. Dale watched him go then looked to his superior.

“You think we will have need of the marines, sir?”

Jones snorted. “Perhaps for repelling boarders. I may remind you we have not yet tested our gun crews. If those are English ships we had better be ready for anything.” He peered up at the midshipman at the masthead. “Do you think that boy has got his breath back yet? Let’s test his eyes.”

Dale lifted the trumpet. “Fanning! Report!”

There was silence for a moment as though the boy was unsure, the wait punctuated only by the whispering of the breeze in the shrouds and the swish of the ocean kissing Bonhomme Richard’s hull.

“Englishmen, sir!”

How young he sounds, Jones thought. A child in a man’s war. “Ask him to verify that.”

Dale glanced at him, nodded, and raised the trumpet again. In reply, Fanning’s voice rode over the wind and sea with the purity of a choirboy taking his solo in church. “Englishmen, sir! Men-o’-war! They are showing colors now and crowding sail!”

Dale looked expectantly to the commodore. Jones could plainly see the excitement on the young lieutenant’s face. Anticipation uncoiled restlessly in his own belly. “Signals,” he said, a grin beginning to crease the corners of his mouth.

Dale waved impatiently to the other midshipman. The boy, dark haired and hollow cheeked, stepped forward nervously.

“Your name, lad?” Paul Jones asked, watching the boy’s Adam’s apple dance in rhythm to his butterflies.

“Mayrant, sir. Midshipman Mayrant.”

“How’s your signaling?

Mayrant raised his arm to show the code book clutched in his sweating palm. “Passable, sir.”

“I fervently hope it’s better than that. Run me up: Alliance, Vengeance AND Le Cerf TO STAND BY THE FLEET. Pallas TO ASSIST THE FLAGSHIP IN ENGAGING THE ENEMY.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The boy saluted then turned to the flag locker.

“If we’re going to return to port with damaged bulwarks and hastily patched rigging,” Paul Jones remarked, referring to the collision in the night, “then we might as well have been in action to justify it.” He produced a wry expression. “Set me a course to intersect the enemy’s and make sure the men are ready to clear for action. Do not make them stand to, yet. If they wait too long at their posts morale will ebb.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Dale went about his duty.

The commodore stood alone, eyes riveted to the naked horizon, almost willing the Royal Navy men-o’-war to close with Richard. But fear was there too. Fear his ship would fail him, or his men, or worst of all, that he would fail them. But he would never know until it happened. He had seen enough action in his career to realize one could never be certain of the outcome. One could only do one’s best and rehash it when it was all over. His reverie was broken as the first series of signal flags cracked open in the wind. Midshipman Mayrant had worked quickly. If the rest of the crew showed half the promise of the two midshipmen, he would be well pleased. Behind him, the sailing master, Cutting Lunt, was issuing a series of orders in a tone that demanded instant obedience. This was not the moment for laggardness. Down in the waist an unfortunate sailor who was slow off the mark was frozen by Cutting Lunt’s harsh yell.

“Lieutenant Stack! Take that man’s name! We’re going to war, not for a day’s fishing! When I say jump, you jump, you bugger, or be flogged like the bilge rat you are!” He grinned, turning away as a petty officer flailed a knotted rope across the sailor’s shoulders.

“Pallas acknowledges, sir,” Mayrant advised.

“The others?” Jones queried.

“All but Alliance, sir…Oh, she’s signaling now.” As he spoke, Richard listed below their feet, heeling onto her new course as the helm was put over.

“Man the braces there!” Cutting Lunt shouted.

Another voice cut through the din on the main deck. “When I say haul, I mean HAUL, you buggers! Set to it!” Underneath the bawling of the petty officers, the stamping of the scarlet-coated marines could be heard as Colonel de Chamillard began to drill them, terse barks of command instantly obeyed. Jones swept his gaze over the activities below, then peered at the gaily colored flags fluttering from Alliance’s signal lanyard.

“She’s acknowledging, sir.”

“Yes,” Jones muttered to the breeze, “last again.”

“Excuse me, sir, but she’s asking if she may assist.”

The commodore’s eyes were steely. “Signal she is to maintain her station AT ALL COSTS until ordered to the contrary.”

***

Captain Pierre Landais stood on his quarterdeck next to his signaling lieutenant. The Frenchman was small and wiry, much the same build as the American commodore, but his features were easily read, and his body could not disguise the tension twisting his muscles into useless knots. He had not learned to wear the bland mask of authority necessary when commanding men who looked to their captain for example and reassurance. Instead, he screamed and cursed every man who stood in his path and those who bore the misery of walking in his shadow. A lock of hair escaped Landais’s hat and fell across his forehead. On Paul Jones it would have appeared boyish, an excusable remnant of youth, but on the Frenchman it seemed merely unkempt. Anxiously he awaited the commodore’s reply to his signal. His fingers drummed on the rail. Still waiting, he watched Bonhomme Richard veer off course, her stern showing clearly as she stood toward the horizon. A smattering of flags opened in farewell.

“What does it say, man?” he demanded.

The lieutenant thumbed through his code book, fumbling and creasing pages.

“Well? Well?”

“Sir…sir…it says to maintain station with the fleet at all costs until further orders.”

Landais swiveled to stare at Bonhomme Richard’s stern then slapped the book from the officer’s hands. “Incompetent youth!” he spat, striding toward the ladder and his cabin. Below, his back to the stern lights and the spectacle of the Atlantic, he pulled the stopper from a decanter and splashed brandy into a glass. He gulped hastily, refilling the crystal while the fire warmed his belly. The decanter’s stopper spun in slow motion on his desk as Alliance rolled with the swell.

That accursed American. Truth be told he wasn’t even an American at all, but a Scot, and in Pierre Landais’s book they were almost worse than the English. How could Jones fight the English when he was really one of them himself? Just as cocky as the English too. Arrogant, as if the whole world belonged to them by right of birth. The Americans showed every sign of turning out much the same way. Landais hated them for it. God knows, he had only gone to America to secure a command. After his refusal to become Lieutenant of The Port Of Brest, he knew there was little alternative to being dismissed. Either that or a posting to some backwater where he would have decayed into senility. The move to America had worked too. Here he was, captain of a brand new frigate fresh off the stocks. But that damned Benjamin Franklin and his dithering committee had placed him under Jones’s command when the fleet by right should have belonged to him. He knew the waters around France as surely as if he had swum them all, and he very nearly had done, some of the buckets he had served on. And now Paul Jones was going to get all the credit. Damn his eyes.

Pierre Landais poured himself another stiff brandy. Nobody was going to get in his way. Pierre Landais was going to become the most famous French mariner ever to hoist his flag on a ship.

Even if it was an American ship.

***

“Clear for action!”

Paul Jones said it quietly in a voice that meant business. His eyes were on the two English ships, sails fat with wind as they bore down on the merchant fleet. He watched them impatiently while behind him, Pallas commanded by Cottineau, hung off the weather quarter, ready to give support. The commodore noted her trim handling, idly wishing Alliance were sailed so competently. As he ruminated, Richard’s crew worked. Nets were placed to protect the gun crews from falling spars and rigging should English gunfire prove accurate. All spare gear was stowed while the powder monkeys began to ferry cartridges from the magazines. The gun captains readied their teams, making sure each man knew his place and what was expected of him. Fingers restlessly rechecked knots and pulleys on the cannon harness, eyes roving to the horizon and the threat the wind carried toward them.

Heads pivoted sharply as a ladle slipped from a bos’n’s hand to clatter on the deck, abnormally loud against the backdrop of the wind sighing in the rigging and the swish of the ocean. Ignoring pallid faces and stares, the bos’n snarled at a boy to retrieve the object and rehang it by the freshwater butt.

The sails grew nearer.

Paul Jones walked the length of the deck’s blind side, eyes sliding over the gun crews and their charges, offering words of encouragement. He determinedly kept his gaze from the skyline to present an assured air to still the men’s growing edginess. He stretched his stroll as long as possible, occasionally casting a withering glance at the midshipman who danced at his heels like a puppy eager to run. By the foc’sle he crossed to the weather rail where Lt. Amiel stood. The young officer’s eyes were welded at the point where sea met sky.

The two men-o’-war were almost within range.

“Run out the guns,” Paul Jones ordered.

Lt. Amiel’s eyes swiveled to the commodore who pointedly ignored him. There was silence for a long second before the lieutenant drew breath, then bellowed: “Run out the guns!”

The tension was broken. Gun ports creaked open as the officers passed the order. A deep rumble vibrated through the hull as carriages trundled forward to hit the topsides. Hands and eyes checked that recoil tackle had flaked neatly on the deck. From the sea Bonhomme Richard’s smooth hull now bristled with bronze cannon mouths, hungry to feed.

“Load one and two with heavy ball.”

The bow gunners had already placed wads and powder charges. Now, a heavy ball was lifted and rolled into the maw of each weapon. The long-handled rammers drew grunts from pigtailed gunners as they made certain the ball was firm against the cartridge. When they stood back, the gun captains ordered: “Prime.”

A second sailor stepped forward with a powder horn to prime the touchhole.

Below decks, the summer heat sucked out sweat that glistened on the naked shoulders of the gun crews clustered about their charges in the dim light admitted by the open ports. By each cannon, only one man could see the ocean, only then by squeezing sideways, bare back against cold bronze, feet awkwardly placed between carriage and tackle.

“What can you see, man?”

“Come on, tell us!”

“I told you. Two English frigates. Coming up fast.”

“How soon, for God’s sake?”

“We’ve loaded, haven’t we? Any time now.”

“We’ll show the bastards.”

“STOP TALKING THERE! STAND TO YOUR GUNS!”

On deck Paul Jones glanced along his line of cannon then across at Pallas, her slim hull spiked with ready muzzles. The advancing ships were ready too, open lower gun ports barely escaping the cat’s paws of the choppy sea hissing below them.

“Fire one and two when you come to bear!”

The gun captains nodded. “Aye aye, sir.” The cannoneer stepped forward. Under his directions the crew aimed the cannon, elevating and shifting the carriage until the top sight drew a bead on the first of the advancing frigates.

The gunner turned. “Ready, sir.”

“On the uproll – FIRE!”

CHAPTER 5

The first cannon thundered. The second fired before the explosion from the first had died away. Smoke rolled across the water as the two guns bucked back against their tackle.

“Sponge!” the gun captains ordered in unison.

A wet sponge affixed to the end of a stave was plunged into the hot bore of each weapon, twisted to kill any sparks or scraps of cartridge still alight. While the crews fell into the routine of reloading, the gunners peered through the smoke smearing the blue sea. A fountain appeared near the bows of the first English frigate.

“Short fall,” the gunner cursed, snatching away his words as the second ball howled over the Englishman’s bowsprit, carrying away rigging. Her outer jib was cut loose to flap in the wind.

“Good shot, that man!” Paul Jones called, turning to head for the poop where Richard Dale held a telescope to his eye. Jones used his own glass to survey the activity on the English man-o’-war. He swept the decks then caught sight of movement aloft.

“She’s altering her trim,” he commented.

“Aye, sir. What does she plan?”

Jones’s chuckle was drowned as Richard’s cannon barked again. A hole appeared in the enemy’s mainsail while the other ball passed harmlessly through the rigging to make a water spout on the far side.

“She’s going to run, I think,” Jones mused aloud. “She came to test our mettle and now she knows we mean business, she’s going to cut and run. Her cannon cannot have the range of ours or she would engage.”

Almost before he finished speaking, four puffs of smoke clouded the frigate’s hull. The balls fell short, sending up plumes of seawater too distant to even wet Richard’s deck. The detonations rolled toward them while Jones’s crew jeered.

“Hoist all sail. If they are going to run I want to find out how fast our Richard can fly.”

“Make all sail!” Dale shouted, leaning over the companion rail, eyes raking the upturned faces below. Cutting Lunt glanced up, made the barest of nods, and then began to bawl a steady stream of orders. While the gun crews stood by their charges, looking aloft, the maintop men swarmed outwards across the yardarms to free the stun’sails on either side of the main canvas. They fell open, snapping as the wind rushed to feed them, the fresh canvas coral white in the sun. Richard seemed to stagger as the surge of power pushed down her prow to furrow eagerly into the sea. After the first pile driver, Richard found her sea legs, her shattered bowsprit lifting as she gulped and spat out brine in her rush at the enemy.

Ahead, the English frigates possessed the grace of dancers as they halted their advance and swung broadside, only a moment wasted as they poised to flee. Spars swung under the guidance of expert hands, braces taut as their sails gorged on the wind. In that moment of stillness, smoke poured from the gun ports as both men-o’-war loosed broadsides. Cannonballs whirred overhead, a hole smacking through a foresail before the sound of cannon was audible to Richard’s crew.

“They’ll not have time for more,” Dale observed. Then the two Englishmen showed their heels, sterns swinging toward Richard as they shook free the reins to gallop away on the charger of the wind. It was soon apparent Richard could not catch them, even with the added power of her stun’sails. Lt. Dale took his eyes from the receding ships to look at his commodore.

Paul Jones’s face was a mask of fury. He spoke in a bitter whisper. “It is not enough I have an old hulk as a flagship, but she drags enough weed to make her as sluggish as a collier.”

Dale pretended not to hear. “Shall I order Pallas to continue the pursuit?” It was obvious to them both by the activity on her yards Pallas was holding herself in check to maintain support for the flagship. In all fairness she was more evenly matched to the enemy frigates.

Jones shook his head. “No, let them run. No point in allowing them to lead Pallas a dance, and then box her in. The way those English captains sail, they would make short work of her. Our job is to protect the merchant fleet. By running them off we have executed our duty.”

Dale pursed his lips. What the commodore said made sense, but he had been ready enough himself to give chase and fight it out. For a moment Dale wondered if it was a case of jealousy. If Paul Jones could not fight them, then he would not allow anybody else the honor. The thought worried him for a moment before he pushed it aside. “Very good, sir. We return to the fleet?”

Paul Jones nodded as he glared at the English frigates, their grace and beauty taunting him, their fleet-footedness a thorn in the tender flesh of his pride. He forced himself to look away. There would be other days. Dale was shouting orders as Jones moved to the rail to look down at the main deck. The men seemed crestfallen as they began to coil the cannon handling tackle ready for stowage. Powder monkeys hefted the unused cartridges to return them to the hanging magazines below decks. M’sieur de Chamillard’s French marines who had stood rigidly at attention throughout the all too brief encounter now stood at ease, talking in low voices. Above, the top men furled the stun’sails and altered the sail plan as the wheel went over and Bonhomme Richard came about onto a new course to run back on the wind and rejoin the fleet. Paul Jones watched silently until all the gear was stowed, tompions jammed in the cannon muzzles, carriages relashed to the deck, gun ports closed and secured. As the men started to drift away he gestured to Dale.

“Order the marines to beat to quarters and have the guns run out again.”

“Sir?”

Jones studied the lieutenant’s quizzical expression. “We may not be able to match the enemy for speed, but when we catch them I want to know we will be ready to fight. The men were too slow. I want them ready for anything.”

Dale cleared his throat, his own disappointment equal to the commodore’s. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought they did well.” When Paul Jones stared him down, he qualified his statement. “I admit there is always room for improvement, sir, but I thought they were tolerably quick.”

Paul Jones looked away. “I want them quicker.”

***

Two days later three English frigates were sighted approaching the fleet. The commodore again gave orders for pursuit.

Determined to engage the enemy, Bonhomme Richard spearheaded the chase with Pallas, Vengeance, and Alliance in her wake. Pierre Landais, almost dribbling with excitement, harried his crew, marching back and forth along Alliance’s weather deck, cursing men and officers alike. Ignoring his lieutenants, he belayed their orders until the crew were confused and clumsy. His sailing master, a hard-bitten tar well used to his commander’s tantrums, found himself in an awkward position. While he heard Landais’s shrieks for all haste, he watched signal flags break out on the lanyard alongside Bonhomme Richard’s straining sails, the commodore’s personal orders demanding Alliance keep correct formation with the squadron. Caught between the devil and Paul Jones, the sailing master turned a deaf ear and a blind eye, chewing stolidly on his tobacco wad. His only comment when Landais voiced some stupid demand was a gob of yellow juice. He was experienced enough to know even if they disobeyed the commodore, Alliance’s crew was low on morale, governed as they were by a madman, and such a crew could not urge sufficient speed from their ship to overhaul the English men-o’-war that had turned to run. So what was the point of inducing the commodore’s wrath when they could gain nothing by it? Besides, Landais may rant and rave, but underneath, the sailing master was sure, the French commander knew Alliance could give no more, certainly not enough to outrun the squadron and take the Englishmen single-handedly.

The hell with him.

A hammering startled the sailing master. He turned to see Landais staring wild-eyed at the English men-o’-war, fists pummeling the rail. The master glanced at the captain’s knuckles where a splinter had gouged a furrow. It had quickly flooded, blood dripping unnoticed to the deck.

“They are getting away! We must catch them! I will show them how French steel tastes rammed down their gullets!” Landais laughed, a cackle to match the curious light in his eyes.

The sailing master looked away, back to the three frigates outdistancing them. Thank God we are not going to haul up on them, he thought. This fool would run us in under their broadsides. Inwardly he shuddered as he imagined the combined firepower of the three English men-o’-war, all cannon brought to bear on Alliance, her pretty hull smashed to pieces by bar and chain. God knows, the fool had already made them lose their mizzenmast that first night out of Lorient when they had collided with Bonhomme Richard. This maniac Landais had to learn you fought the English with your head, not bravado. One wrong move and they would have you cold.

Cannon fire broke out astern.

The master glanced aloft. “Tighten that brace!” Then he leaned on the taffrail where his captain was already staring astern at the merchant fleet. A little to the east of the main body of ships smoke lay heavy on the water. As they watched, cannon flashes sparked orange, smoke billowing as they heard the sound from the last salvoes. Three ships were fighting, tacking, and coming about.

“It’s Le Cerf,” the sailing master said.

Landais’s voice rose to a shriek. “Those English pigs have tricked us, casting a decoy. Now their other ships have run in behind us like jackals to snap at our heels! And that fool Jones did not see it!”

Neither had Landais, the master thought.

“Signals, sir!” the lieutenant called.

“Well, call them down, you buffoon!” Landais snapped.

“Aye aye, sir,” the nervous officer replied. “All ships to rejoin the fleet and engage the enemy, sir.”

“As I thought, as I thought. Now we’ll get them.” He glowered at the master. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Pierre Landais stared at the battle in the distance. Behind him the master bellowed, “Prepare to go about!” The seconds were long and the minutes longer as the crews of the pursuit vessels swarmed across yards while those on deck hauled under the threats and curses of the petty officers to wheel the ships back in a circle to stand back toward the fleet. Sighted, they labored against the wind to reach Le Cerf before she was battered into submission by the Englishmen. The enemy timed it perfectly. Bare minutes before the first of the returning ships came within range, the two frigates broke off their action and set a course that would take them speedily out of reach of Bonhomme Richard’s eager cannon and those of her consorts.

Landais watched it all, thoughts churning, anger seething. No, he had underestimated Commodore Paul Jones. The damned American or Scotsman or whatever he was, had known all along what was going to happen. That was why he had ordered Alliance to sail with the flagship in pursuit of the decoy ships. It had been deliberate so that he, Pierre Landais, the rightful commodore, would be deprived of gaining glory by engaging the enemy and proving his superiority beyond all doubt.

The Frenchman spat over the rail. That damned American, he would pay for this. One day he would be cornered like a rat and would hold out his hand to Pierre Landais for help.

And Pierre Landais would spit on him.

***

The scratching of the quill was arrested by a splash for’ard as Richard’s bow anchors plunged into the sea. Paul Jones cast a tired eye over the log entry he was completing, trying to concentrate. Painstakingly, he recaptured his train of thought, dipped the quill into the inkwell, and began to write again. The entry was terse, showing to the practiced eye his disappointment over the voyage. Not one positive engagement but for Le Cerf’s fight against the two English frigates. He had covered that topic fully in his report to the French Ministry, praising Le Cerf’s commander for his gallant stand against the English men-o’-war until they sheered away. The report was on his desk, sealed, the odor of freshly melted wax hanging in the cabin. Only the daily entry in the log remained incomplete.

He placed the quill in its stand then sat back, turning a little so he could see the sunlight sparkling on the water of Lorient’s harbor. The moment he ceased to work the weariness deep in his bones surfaced. Even the shining sea hurt his eyes, forcing him to turn away in the hope of easing the pulsating in his temples. It was a moment before he realized someone was knocking at the door.

“Enter!”

Richard Dale stood in the doorway. Jones raised his eyes to the ruddy face but found the effort draining. He waved a hand. “Sit down, will you.”

Lt. Dale read the strain on the commodore’s face. “Thank you, sir.” He stepped to a chair and sank into the velvet cushion. “A boat put out from the quay to meet us.” He held out a sheaf of dispatches and envelopes. “The boatman gave me these.”

Paul Jones idly sifted through the bundle. One letter bore Benjamin Franklin’s handwriting. Another was a missive from Therese de Chaumont, scented, while a third was from her husband, the squadron’s paymaster. He fingered the dispatches, wondering how long they had been waiting at Lorient. Perhaps he was at last to join the French Navy and army in a bid to conquer England. He opened the waterproof bags one after another, breaking seals and scanning contents. After reading the last one, disbelieving, he read it again, then dropped the document on his desk and sighed.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but do we join the fleet?”

“What?” Jones refocused his gaze. “No, we are not to be part of that. I think perhaps M’sieur Sartine intends to keep all the glory for that particular enterprise solely in the hands of his beloved French Navy. We are ordered to sail about Ireland and Scotland, before making landfall at Texel in Holland. If we sailed today as he would have us do, the voyage would last six weeks if we were to anchor at the Texel on 15 August.”

“But sir, what about provisions and repairs?”

Jones smiled ironically. “Exactly.” He fell into a brooding silence, dissatisfaction over their fruitless encounters with the enemy weighing on his mind. A rapping at the door broke into his thoughts. “Enter!”

“Begging your pardon, sir, “ said Midshipman Fanning, “but the ship’s carpenter would be grateful if Mr. Dale could spare a few minutes for’ard.”

“Very well, Mr. Fanning. Carry on.”

The midshipman left and Dale stared for a moment at his superior’s pale face. He ventured warily: “Excuse my impertinence, sir, but you look rather tired.”

Jones snorted. “I will not excuse your impertinence, but you are right.” He slapped a hand against Bonhomme Richard’s hull. “I am as tired as this old East Indiaman.” He turned away from his subordinate’s scrutiny, taking refuge in the view of the silvered sea through the stern lights.

Behind him, Richard Dale’s eyes skimmed over the commodore’s meager frame, the hunched shoulders straining to hold up the weary head. If ever a man looked like he was sickening for something, the commodore did.

“Well Dale,” Jones’s voice suddenly boomed. “Let’s go and see what disaster the carpenter has unearthed.” He came to his feet and reached for his hat. As if he read the lieutenant’s thoughts, he added: “I need the air.”

***

The carpenter sucked on his unlit clay pipe, one hand cupping the cold bowl while his other manipulated a tool, one thumb hooked in the pocket of his leather apron. He scowled, drawing the pipe from his mouth, and then used the back of his hand to rub at his cheek whiskers.

“Show me,” Paul Jones prompted, Richard Dale looking on.

“Aye, sir.” Obediently, the carpenter clamped his pipe between yellowed teeth, holding the bowsprit with one hand while the other plunged the dowelling drill into the wood. Almost three inches of blade disappeared. With a scowl, he twisted the handle then levered down. The drill’s tip crunched upward before it emerged, pulling long splinters of timber away from the spar. Deftly, the carpenter dropped the drill back into his apron pocket. He pulled a shard away from the gouge and handed it wordlessly to the commodore. Paul Jones took it, working it between his fingers. It crumbled into a damp mess, one step removed from sawdust.

“Rotten, sir,” the carpenter said aloud, stating the obvious.

Neither of the officers commented, both well aware how important the bowsprit was to Bonhomme Richard. A delicate balance was achieved in the rigging of a sailing vessel, the bowsprit practically the kingpin that held it all together.

“It will have to be replaced. How long?”

The carpenter shrugged. “We carry no spare. One will have to be bought ashore. Two, if we are to sail shortly.”

Paul Jones pursed his lips. “Attend to it, Mr. Dale. Another bill for M’sieur de Chaumont, I think. He will not quibble about this one. Without a bowsprit we cannot sail.

***

The mare’s hooves thundered, positive, surefooted on the rich earth. Paul Jones gave her more rein, leaning forward so her mane almost lashed his face as he exulted in the wind’s wild fingers tearing at his hair. It stung his eyes and tugged at his coat. He adjusted his knee grip slightly, simultaneously shortening the right rein. She knew her moves, danced to his tune, swinging in a wide arc toward the gap in the hedge spanned by a five-foot gate. Her stride never faltered, long and even. At the last moment he touched her with his heels, rising in the saddle. She left the earth. Fore hooves flying, she cleared the gate with inches to spare. Then she was down with a jar, his feet hard in the stirrups. Laughter bubbled in his throat, the joy of being alive.

He was happy as the mare slowed to walk, shaking out her mane, ribs heaving. He felt sure Richard Dale could handle any problems that might arise aboard Bonhomme Richard for the next few days while repairs were under way. If not, they knew where to find him. Sick of the incessant motion and the groaning of the vessel’s aged timbers as she rolled at her mooring, Paul Jones had felt the need to be free of his ancient charge and had taken a room at a hotel ashore. There he was able to turn his back on the sea if he chose, his direction unhampered by the length of a ship’s deck, freed for a few moments from the eyes of his men. Here he was alone, no man looking to him for guidance and leadership. Fresh air and freedom had restored some of the color to his cheeks, rekindled some of the fire in his belly. He looked at the fields as he rode. If only it was America and not France. But before that day, there would be more voyages, more battles. If his dream of a plantation was not to be, at least for a while, and fate had chosen the sea as his career, he would make the best of it. If it had to be done, he would do it as well as he could.

The mare’s hooves clattered into the yard as Paul Jones hauled back on the reins. The big bay rattled the bit between her teeth, mouth flecked with foam. Dark streaks were cut through the lather on her shoulders where his hands had worked. Slipping his feet from the stirrups, he swung a leg over to drop lightly onto the cobblestones. He held the bay’s restless head, her warm breath washing over him as he stroked her velvet muzzle. She began to stamp, cramp’s gnarled fingers snatching at her hind legs. For the barest of moments he felt a great kinship with the horse. They had both enjoyed the hard ride, each perhaps briefly escaping their fetters. The flood of emotion was momentary, Jones recognizing it for an illusion. We are all truly alone, he thought, no matter how much anybody thinks they know us, or we know them.

Footsteps restored reality. A groom emerged from the stable to take the bay mare. “Demain, M’sieur, Tomorrow, sir?” the lad asked, arm wrenched as the big bay tossed her head, eyes on her rider.

“Oui, demain, Yes, tomorrow,” the American replied, holding out a silver coin. As the groom palmed the tip and touched his cap in thanks, Paul Jones patted the horse’s neck, then strode into the main building. Anticipating his breakfast, he cursorily returned the concierge’s “Good-day” as he mounted the stairs. The early morning ride had sharpened his appetite, an edge to be deliciously blunted by warm croissants and steaming coffee.

His cheeks were still tingling from the bite of the wind when he walked along the landing gallery and opened the door of his room. He froze, riding crop dangling from his hand. He was staring down the maw of a loaded pistol.

In the silence the metal click of the hammer being cocked was deafening.

CHAPTER 6

The bore of the pistol yawned as wide as a well. The aim on his chest never faltered, the weapon’s butt clenched in her two tiny fists. Her angel face had never appeared more solemn or more dangerous. As he raised his eyes from the threat posed by the pistol, he saw her raise an eyebrow. As he stared, her pursed lips flattened out into a thin line then slowly curled up at the corners until he could see the white of her teeth, her pink tongue peeping out like a puppy’s.

Suddenly she laughed, head thrown back. She pulled her hands close to her bosom, flexing her wrists so the pistol pointed at the ceiling.

“Therese?” He relaxed, shaking his head as he moved toward her, smiling to hide the chill that had gripped his heart during those long seconds in the pistol’s sights. He snatched the weapon from her, then crossed to the bureau, uncocking the action before dropping it into a drawer.

“Mon Dieu, My God, you should see your face,” she laughed. “My Captain, you are always so serious.”

He had little patience, voice cold. “Never point a pistol at anybody unless you mean to use it.”

She fluttered a hand, smile dying. “You think it was a joke? Perhaps I did mean to shoot you. You deserve it.”

“Why, for God’s sake?”

Her smile was sweet but she waggled a finger in rebuke. She picked up the letter she had sent to Bonhomme Richard on the day the squadron anchored. He would never know how much she had longed for his return, her sojourn in Lorient only endured with the promise of seeing him again. Holding it up, she turned the envelope over as if to remind him the seal had not been broken.

“You have been back for two weeks.”

“You’ve been through the documents on my desk? They are none of your business.”

She flicked the envelope. “This is, and as you chose not to read it…” She tore the letter into small pieces and let them flutter like confetti to the floor.

He stood by the bureau and watched without comment. As usual, she was immaculately dressed, every item carefully chosen to flatter her best features or disguise her worst. If only she could wear something to disguise her character, he thought. Her childish act did nothing to rouse his anger. He realized now she was incapable of that, not by her deeds. Only fear of the pistol had been able to accomplish that. He had loaded it himself, double shotted, the way he had always loaded it. He had seen what damage double shot could do.

He was aware of her perfume now. It filled the whole room, invading his nostrils with memories of warm beds and even warmer arms, those secret places of a woman and rose-petal flesh, soft working lips and sharp teeth, whispered words of love and eager encouragement, the urgency to assuage his body’s hunger and the pleasure of gratifying hers…But as he looked at her, the heat of those recollections cooled until they meant little. She failed to stir him.

“But I did not come to fight, Cheri,” she whispered, her voice stolen by contrition, eyes falling to her hands resting in her lap. “I traveled many hours to be with you and make you happy.” She lifted her gaze to beam a sunshine smile that she knew presented her at her prettiest. She maintained it, frozen through his silence, then began to peel her white gloves carefully from jeweled fingers. She made the stripping of them appear as though she was baring the most intimate parts of her body.

“Therese,” he began, “I have many things to do. Just because I am not on board my ship does not mean my squadron can get along without me. But first, my breakfast will be arriving at any moment and I am hungry.”

“I am hungry, too,” she purred, “but not for food.” Her eyes shone with a familiar spark of devilry.

“Lorient is a small town,” he continued, ignoring her invitation, “and your husband is here.”

She shrugged. “I know. I came here to be with him, did I not, like a dutiful little wife. As for idle gossip, the concierge thinks you and I are having a business meeting. I put enough livres into his pockets to convince him of that.”

“And the maid? The groom always passes a message when I arrive back from my morning ride.”

Her hands fluttered again. “Always you are frightened of the maids? I remember in Paris…”

He waved her conversation aside. “Nevertheless, she will be here at any moment…”

It was Therese’s turn to interrupt. “I think not. The concierge was impressed about the importance of our business meeting, so he arranged your breakfast to arrive five minutes after I leave.”

“Do you have an answer for everything?”

She rose from her seat and walked seductively across the room to stand in front of him. She looked up, mouth working, well aware he had an excellent view of the valley between her breasts. “Well, I traveled a long way. How much longer do I have to wait for my Captain, sorry Commodore, to kiss me and hold me in his arms?”

He sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders then moved her gently to one side before he walked away to sit down at the other side of the room. “I’m sorry, Therese, but I have not been well, and I tire easily. These last few weeks…”

She followed him and picked up her gloves from the desk. “You are being gallant, John Paul, but do not patronize me. I can see through you. There is another woman to take care of your needs, yes? What is she that I am not? Is she prettier? Is she better in bed?”

He shook his head. “There is no other woman.”

There was only disbelief written on her face underlain by anger. “Is she…is she…” she baulked at the word, “…Is she younger than me?”

He would have laughed, but did not wish to be cruel. Instead, he indulged her with a half smile of regret. “The only mistress I serve, Therese, is older than you. Your husband pays for her and she lies at anchor out in the bay.” He gestured to the window, although Bonhomme Richard was obscured by the cluster of fishermen’s cottages between the hotel and the harbor. “She is the only mistress I have.”

She was not ready to believe him but she brightened. “Then it is not over between us?”

He looked her squarely in the eye. “I am tired, Therese. I came ashore to rest, too tired to do you the justice you deserve from a man.”

The compliment did little to soften her petulance. “I bid you adieu, then Commodore,” she said, sweeping toward the door in a rustle of taffeta, head held high, long silvered curls of her wig brushing delicate shoulders. She turned the handle, paused, her voice brittle. “Remember, Commodore, it was I who got you your ship and it is my husband who is your paymaster. If I chose, I could make life difficult for you.”

He tried to smile. “I would like to think we shall remain friends. If it wasn’t for my illness…” His voice trailed away. She was gone.

Alone, relief flooded through him as he sat silently in the chair, not even rising to close the door. He turned to gaze out of the window with its view of guano-dotted roofs where swirling gulls had left their mark. Despair clawed him. And what will I leave, he wondered. A rotten hulk of a ship at the bottom of some ocean? Scavengers to pick my bones? He snorted in an effort to expel his depression. Damn that woman. Her perfume was still strong in the room. If only she could be a willing body shrouded in that delicious fragrance, but with no personality, no thought of meddling to complicate his life. There was no denying there had been a moment there when he had wanted her badly. Not only to enjoy her, but for the comfort of her in bed beside him. Someone to reach out and touch. Someone to kill the solitude that gnawed at his bones like the winter wind. If that was at all possible. And if not permanently, at least for a little while…

“M’sieur?”

He came back to reality with a start. “What?”

The maid looked worried by his frown. “Your breakfast, M’sieur. You would like it now? I was told to wait until your visitor had left.”

“Yes, of course.” He indicated the desk. As she placed the silver tray in front of him she leaned close. Her raven hair smelt fresh and only the barest trace of scent clung to her. He savored her nearness for the moment it took her to serve him. When she stood back upright he could see her face was scrubbed to a tanned glow, her eyes shining discs with no hint of guile in the dark pupils. “Are you from the country?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, hands folded at her waist. The posture inadvertently accentuated her full breasts and his eyes drifted from them to her legs. Shapely. As he looked back to her face he saw she had turned slightly to gaze out of the window. Her throat looked soft and inviting. As the thoughts raced through his mind, her glance returned to his face. For a second he wondered if he saw invitation in her eyes, then discarded the notion as a sign of his own vanity.

“Is there anything else M’sieur would like?”

Was there a smile behind the question? A tease, an offering, a challenge? He stared until her eyes darted sideways, her hands betraying her nervousness.

“No, thank you. You may go.”

His stare had chilled her, but dismissal gave her purpose. Her restless hands tugged the edge of her skirt as she curtsied before she turned and fled. Paul Jones stared at the door for a long time before he reached for the coffeepot.

His hand was shaking.

***

The wind was a surprise. Although the late July day was sunny, Paul Jones pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders as he sat in the stern sheets of the jolly boat. The saber wind and the pitching of the boat did little to aid his humor as the crew put their backs into rowing out into Lorient’s bay. He craned his neck as Bonhomme Richard loomed above him, her head into the wind, the new bowsprit pointing the way over the incoming waves. Even from a distance he could hear loose canvas flapping and the crack of a rope, sharp against the background of the rigging’s wind-ruffled moans and the creaking of sea-weary timbers. There were voices too but he could not make out individual words. Why hadn’t one of the junior officers attended to the slapping canvas, and if not, then why was Lt. Dale neglecting the ship?

It seemed there was something badly wrong. A sideways glance at Midshipman Fanning who had come to fetch him from the hotel only heightened his suspicions. The boy could not sit still, flicking imaginary fluff from his white breeches, shuffling as though the discomfort of a ship’s boat was a new experience. Fanning’s eyes skittered from Richard’s towering masts, yards full of dormant sails down to the battened gun ports of her broadside before coming to rest on his commodore. When he met Paul Jones’s gaze he became more agitated, nervous at being caught nervous.

What could have been so urgent to induce Richard Dale to request his presence that afternoon when he was well aware the commodore was due to repair on board the following morning? The midshipman offered no excuse, only Dale’s request, an urgent request. Paul Jones looked back at the land where the houses on the seafront looked sturdy and inviting. He thought wistfully of his comfortable room, the appetizing meals prepared by the hotelier’s wife and of the shy glances of the raven-haired chambermaid. For a moment he wished himself back there. He knew he still looked pale and haggard, hair lankly drawn back into a queue. The illness had hung about his shoulders during the weeks ashore and now his attention was again demanded by the squadron.

His sigh was lost in the wind.

At the gangway a flustered Richard Dale stood surrounded by heavily armed marines, their scarlet and gold coats gaudy in the sunshine. Men were clustered all over the weather deck in groups, some penned by grim faced marines with bayonets mounted, the polished steel glinting threats. Prisoners, clothes torn and spattered with blood were haranguing their captors, spitting and sneering in an attempt to break the soldiers’ immobile expressions. Groups of free sailors hurled abuse at the prisoners’ waving fists, their voices lost in the jumble of international tongues.

Irrationally, Paul Jones thought how strange it was that the first words of any new language the sailors learned were always the crudest of swearwords. He blinked the notion away as the marine officer, Colonel de Chamillard, stalked toward the rowdiest group of sailors, barking staccato orders to the half a dozen men who followed in his footsteps. Immediately, the marines broke ranks to form a line abreast, muskets tilted into the advance position. He spat another order and they moved forward, two paces then pause, driving the bawling crew at bayonet point in a ragged retreat toward the bows.

“What in God’s name is going on here?” Paul Jones demanded.

“Mutiny, sir.”

“Mutiny!” The commodore bellowed the word, then coughed, shoulders wracking, a hand to his mouth. He had hoped never again to hear that worst of words on one of his ships. It always comes back to haunt me, he thought bitterly.

“All under control now, sir.”

Jones stared, eyes filled with tears from his searing cough. He looked away to the confined groups on the deck. The prisoners’ tongues had quieted. Slowly, the curses from the rest of the crew were dying out, here and there an oath heard in Portuguese. Paul Jones jerked a beckoning wrist at Lt. Dale. “Come below.” Without waiting for acknowledgement he strode to the companion ladder.

Richard Dale glanced about the deck to assure himself the prisoners were well contained. He had been right. On the appearance of the commodore, the ultimate symbol of authority, the mutineers had begun to realize the depth of trouble in which they had jumped headlong.

In the comparative gloom of the stern cabin, the commodore’s eyes burned feverishly in his blanched face. “When did this mutiny occur?” he demanded, noting the buttons torn from Dale’s uniform. “Did you fight hand to hand?” Without allowing Dale to answer, he turned away to splash brandy into a glass. He swallowed quickly, the liquor burning a furrow down through his chest. He began to pace back and forth across the narrow cabin, his figure a blurred silhouette against the daylight of the stern lights. After forty or fifty paces he came to a halt, hands resting on a chair back.

“I’m waiting.”

“Yes, sir.” Dale gulped, still trying to arrange the story in coherent order. “I found out about it this morning. A petty officer came to my quarters to tell me he thought trouble was about to erupt. His opinion was that it had been brewing for weeks. The main cause was the English turncoats and the French in the crew. It is not known what the French wanted, but the English wanted to take the ship and sail for England.” He paused. “The Americans were with us, and the Portuguese too. They helped quell the trouble.”

“The main cause was the English, you say?”

“Aye, sir. The ringleader is a man called Towers, a quartermaster. His aides-de-camp are an armorer called Sturgis and a Frenchman called Rousseau. We were trying to separate them from the main body of mutineers when you came aboard, sir. They were being protected by the others.”

“Why wasn’t this done as soon as you were aware of the threat this morning?”

Dale flushed. “Sir, I took steps immediately. M’sieur de Chamillard was informed, but word must have got to the mutineers that we knew of the plot because they struck just as the marines were being ordered out. Fortunately we had forced their hand. We moved in only minutes after the armory was opened, before too many weapons could be distributed.”

“Fortunately, you say,” Paul Jones said sarcastically. “Then why did it take so long to contain the situation?”

“There was utter confusion, sir. Whereas the marines and naval officers were in uniform, the loyal crewmen could not be distinguished from the disloyal. With so many voices in different tongues while the Americans and Portuguese were trying to assist, I don’t think the marines knew which of the crew they were fighting. Most of the skirmishes took place below decks where a handful of mutineers in advantageous positions were able to effectively hinder the rounding up operation…” Dale was interrupted by a banging at the door. His mouth hung open as he looked at the commodore. He was rewarded with a glower.

“Enter!” Paul Jones barked.

A petty officer filled the doorway. His face was streaked and sweat stains had spread from his armpits. Unconsciously, he softly whipped his thigh with a knotted rope persuader as he waited for permission to speak.

“Yes?”

The petty officer grimaced. “Mr. Cutting Lunt said I was to inform you, sir, the ringleaders are in irons.”

The commodore waved a hand. “Very good. Carry on.” When the door closed he sniffed. “Some progress at least.” He turned to gaze out of the stern lights then poured himself more brandy. As he raised the glass he pushed the decanter toward Dale. “Have a drink before we visit the cornered fox, the quartermaster who would make himself a captain.” He watched Dale pour himself a snifter, his eyes steely. “And I want a full report covering all this.”

Dale met the commodore’s cold stare. “Of course, sir.”

The gangway was dim, claustrophobic with the July heat. Two French marines armed with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets guarded the battened door of the brig. They looked hot and uncomfortable, stooping to prevent their tall shakos from being crushed by the deck timbers above. When they heard the officers clumping toward them, the marines came to attention as best they could. The commodore halted in front of the door, sniffed, then gestured for it to be opened.

A marine stepped forward, shouldering his musket before fumbling through the keys on his chain until he found the right one. The key ground as it turned, stiff before the hasp fell loose. Using both hands the marine lifted the cross batten free and stood it on the deck. He heaved the heavy door open before standing aside.

It was dimmer in the brig than in the gangway. A small oil lamp flickered in the air disturbed by the opening door. The draught weakly stirred the stench of dried sweat and urine. Three men lay slumped on the floor, chained like animals by wrists and ankles.

“Which of you is Towers?” Paul Jones queried, straining to see the sailors’ faces in the gloom. One of the prisoners grunted, wrist chains rattling. “You there! Stand up so I can see you.”

The man grunted again, then slowly gathered his limbs so he could rise to his feet. As he straightened up he held his face close to the guttering lamp. “That suit you?” he growled.

He was easily a head taller than Paul Jones, dark ringlets of hair gleaming in the lamplight. He had the battered face of a man well used to brawling in the streets outside gin houses, filthy now and crusted with blood. His body bragged strength, taut muscles rippling in thick forearms where a gallery of tattoos vied for space on the tanned skin. Anchors and snakes, whale flukes and rose briars, and even a crude etching of a naked woman. He stood with no sense of shame as he stared indolently at the two officers.

Paul Jones noted the ringlets and the broad gold earring. They reminded him of a man from his past, another mutiny…He shrugged the recollection away. “Quartermaster Towers?”

“What if I am?”

“You led the mutiny?”

Towers snarled, leaning forward on the balls of his feet. “I only did what you should have.”

Paul Jones stared at him.

The sailor continued. “You should have taken this ship the French gave you and used it to fight them, not against good English frigates. You’re an Englishman, aren’t you?”

Jones’s voice was icy. “I’m an American.”

Towers spat. “Like hell you are! You’re nothing but a bloody turncoat out for all you can get. They’d never even give you command of one little English cutter, never mind a whole bloody squadron…”

“Silence!” Lt. Dale barked.

“Silence yourself, puppy. The only way he could get to be a commodore was with the Froggies.”

Paul Jones’s voice was carefully controlled. “I am fighting for American freedom.”

Towers laughed. “Like hell. Nothing but a damned turncoat.” He snorted his disgust then hawked up a gob of phlegm, which he spat in Paul Jones’s face. “Turncoat! Traitorous bastard!”

The commodore ignored the phlegm dribbling down his cheek but his eyes hardened. The voice that had calmly answered the sailor’s taunts turned menacing. “In the Royal Navy they hang mutineers.”

“Hang me? You won’t hang me. I want justice. I did what was right and proper.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Paul Jones’s face. He turned on his heel and walked to the open doorway. He stopped to look back at the tall man leaning against the hull, glowering in the glow of the lamp.

“You’ll get justice, Quartermaster Towers. Just see if you don’t.”

***

John Paul Jones was beginning to wish he had ordered an awning to shade the deck where the officers’ mess table served as a bench for the court-martial. He sat at the center of the table flanked by the commanders of every ship in his squadron, each man with a record of the charges in front of him plus writing materials should the need for notes arise. All the officers had begun to feel the heat. Most bore in silence the chafing collars of best dress uniforms and sweat trickling down their ribcages. Only Pierre Landais muttered, mopping his face with a silk handkerchief.

Opposite the bench stood the three accused, behind them ranked the hundred English members of the crew, held prisoner by a cordon of armed marines. Beyond a second line of soldiers, this time facing outward, was the rest of Bonhomme Richard’s crew. They had been ordered to attend, not that an order had been necessary. All those who were loyal were eager to see Quartermaster Towers and his cohorts get what they deserved. There had been no takers to wager that the main offenders would not hang. Even the humblest ship’s boy knew the penalty for mutiny.

Pierre La Brune, first officer of Pallas, had been delegated to conduct the prisoners’ defense. It was a pointless and thankless task, but Paul Jones was determined the court-martial should be carried out in the proper manner. Richard Dale had counseled for the prosecution, by which time the hot afternoon sun had sucked away all Paul Jones’s concentration. His eyes kept flickering to Towers’s defiant grimace, conjuring back memories of another mutiny, six years before, on the island of Tobago in the Caribbean.

The commodore had been plain John Paul then, the name he had been christened. He had been master of Betsy, a large square-rigger out of London, trading between Ireland, Madeira, and Tobago. He established and nurtured a partnership with a merchant planter called Archibald Stuart toward the eventual aim of buying himself a plantation in Virginia where he could become a landed gentleman, a far cry from his childhood in a small estate cottage in Arbigland, Scotland. The dream had been shaping well, a bank balance of two and a half thousand pounds reached when trouble cast its black shadow over Betsy’s deck.

Many of Betsy’s crew were natives of Tobago and after docking they asked for an advance on wages to entertain their shipmates ashore. John Paul had refused, wanting to invest all his ready cash in cargo. The men had become angry. Although he could not remember the ringleader’s name now, the man had already proved a troublemaker during the outward voyage. When advance wages were denied, he began to incite the crew. Under threats, John Paul had retreated to his cabin. Angry and humiliated, he had grabbed a sword and returned on deck. The ringleader had been stepping into a boat loaded with his cronies. Seeing the captain, he seized a bludgeon and jumped back on deck. Retreating again, John Paul found himself standing with his back to the open hatch of Betsy’s hold. When the ringleader lunged, John Paul had no choice except death and life. He chose life. He ran his assailant clean through with his sword.

Seeing the man was dead, he went ashore to give himself up to a magistrate who told him he would not need bail, only to present himself when called to trial. Friends, however, advised him on the technical difficulties he could face, perhaps even to the loss of his life, and earnestly urged him to flee. Carrying only fifty pounds, he had crossed the island on horseback within three hours and boarded a ship, leaving his hard-earned wealth behind. Unable to return to Tobago without fear of arrest, the mutiny had cost John Paul his ship, his savings, and the dream of a Virginia plantation. Worst of all it had cost him his name. After that he called himself John Paul Jones.

Now his luck had changed again. Risen to commodore, he was again faced with scum of the earth who wanted to take everything away from him. In Quartermaster Towers’s face he saw the same flagrant disrespect that the mutineer in Tobago had flaunted.

“That concludes the case for the defense, sirs,” Lt. La Brune said, shuffling his papers into a tidy pile before sitting down without a glance at the prisoners.

The commodore stirred. “Thank you, Lieutenant. The court will now retire to consider its verdict.” He rose to lead the company of officers below decks to his cabin. There were only two chairs so they all stood, grateful to be released from the sun’s glare. Paul Jones scanned their faces. “Is there anyone who disagrees with a verdict of guilty?” When there was no response, he nodded. “Good. Let it be known for the record.” He took a glass from a silver tray then gestured for the officers to help themselves to drinks.

Leaving them to talk, the commodore stood alone with his back to the cabin while he stared out over the water. When it was all cut away, he thought, it was all so simple really. The sea, a ship, men to crew her and the stars to navigate by. A thing of beauty, taut canvas, and every man pulling together toward a communal goal. He sighed. As ever, it was up to him to make the pieces fit, using any tool at hand. Even if he had to start from the beginning and create each component before welding them together to convert the illusion into reality. He swung around so suddenly the waiting officers were startled.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” Without waiting for a reply he strode through the gathering toward the door that would lead to a table in the sun where three men waited to hear their fate.

CHAPTER 7

All eyes swiveled as the officers filed onto the main deck to take their places behind the table. Not one member of the crew spoke. When they were seated, Paul Jones wasted no time.

“It is the considered opinion of this court-martial that the 100 Englishmen of Bonhomme Richard’s crew be discharged and put ashore to prevent further confrontations between different nationalities on board this ship. They will be disembarked at dusk tomorrow evening.” He paused and surveyed the company, allowing his gaze to linger here and there. “William Laurence Sturgis. Step forward.”

One of the prisoners shuffled his feet, head hung low.

“Sturgis, you alone of the prisoners, cannot have been a prime motivator in the act of mutiny as you had already been confined to the brig for the previous six weeks. It is apparent you were released only after the mutiny began. You have, however, been found guilty of disobedience for refusing to surrender when ordered to do so by your superiors. You will be put ashore with the rest.”

The commodore shifted his gaze to the smallest of the three prisoners, a thin weasel-faced man with dark restless eyes. “Jean Rousseau. You are French but allied yourself with the Englishmen. This has not been conclusively proved, but you have been found guilty of the theft of a cutlass belonging to the American Navy, appropriated from the ship’s armory. For this you will receive thirty-three lashes. The punishment will be given tomorrow.”

“You,” he indicated the main offender, “Quartermaster Towers, have been found guilty of acting as ringleader of the mutiny, the main cause and inciter of those among the crew too ignorant to know better. In an interview previous to this court-martial you asked for justice, and justice you will get. It is well known that justice in the case of mutiny means hanging from the yardarm until you are dead. Being English, you will know that in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy you could expect no less.” He paused for effect. During the first two sentences voices had risen in whispers; now breath was held. The commodore glanced down at his papers for long seconds, then up at the pale face of the accused. “However, Mr. Towers, you are in the American Navy, and we have own justice.

“For your heinous and despicable crime, this court-martial decrees that at this hour tomorrow you will suffer two hundred and fifty strokes of the lash on your bare back at the gangway. All hands will be present to witness the punishment. You will then be sent ashore with the remainder of your compatriots.”

There was an audible gasp from the crew. True, Paul Jones had not ordered him hanged, but hanging would have been a blessing compared to the whipping. There was very little chance Towers would still be alive when he left Bonhomme Richard.

***

The cat-o’-nine-tails whispered with the deadly hiss of an angry cobra. With a flicker like lightning in a summer sky, the nine leather thongs cracked then sank their teeth into the prisoner’s flesh. On the first strike Quartermaster Towers’s body jerked rigid, suspended by his wrists between the gangway timbers. Hands knotted into fists, the muscles in his arms contracted, his collection of tattoos dancing. His head was thrown back, mouth soundlessly agape, eyes squeezed shut. The petty officer unwrapped the cat-o’-nine-tails from around Towers’s back then drew back his arm for the next stroke. And the next. He quickly gained a rhythm, until after thirty lashes he stopped, the cat’s knots flailing briefly on the deck as they came to rest.

Towers’s back had been flayed to pulp before their eyes. The entire ship’s company, drawn up in ranks, watched silently. Even those who had been against the mutiny and had no liking for Towers at all, watched with pity. Each one of them knew the prisoner could so easily have been himself.

Towers was already broken. Soon after the first welts had risen to be cut open by the next crack of the lash, he had screamed. Only once, it was the howl of an animal. Unable to clench his jaws any longer under the onslaught of the beating, the whip-cord tension of his body had snapped and now he hung from the ropes between the two posts, bleeding where the hemp sliced into his wrists. His face was drenched in sweat, his curls limp and shining. Agony scarred his face, lips trembling. A single stream of saliva dribbled down his chin.

The petty officer’s whip hand hung loosely at his side, the cat’s leather, stained dark with blood, curled about his feet. He used his left wrist to wipe his forehead, then spat into his right hand and rubbed it down his trouser leg before gripping the cat again.

Paul Jones stood with shoulders braced, eyes cold as they stared into the distance. Richard Dale glanced at the commodore’s dissatisfaction, then leaned forward.

“Lieutenant Stack! Continue the punishment!”

The young lieutenant standing behind the petty officer stiffened, eyes shifting to the row of officers on the bridge. He loosened his jaws and bellowed. “Mr. Beaumont! If you please!”

The petty officer’s head dipped. “Aye aye, sir.” He drew a deep breath and swung. What had been a crack when the cat bit flesh had become a soggy thud. He swung again and again. Lt. Stack, aware the commodore’s eyes were on him, called the count loudly. When there was a lull between lashes he shouted: “Lay on there, Mr. Beaumont!”

“Aye aye, sir.” There was no enthusiasm in the reply. Gritting his teeth he drew back his arm in a concentrated effort to throw his weight behind the next blow.

“Fifty! Fifty-one! Fifty-two!”

Towers was whimpering now. Tears blended with sweat where his face had taken on the texture of melted wax. No more damage could be inflicted on his ruined flesh. Carved open to the backbone, blood poured down over the waistband of his filthy trousers to stain them scarlet, droplets flying each time the cat’s vicious tails struck.

“One hundred! One hundred and one! One hundred and two!”

Richard Dale felt sick. He looked away from the spectacle, in his opinion more in keeping with the barbarity of ancient Rome than the modern navy. He had witnessed floggings before, and no doubt would again, but this had gone beyond comprehension. Further along the row of attending officers he could see the ship’s surgeon, Dr. Brooke, red-faced as he stared down from the bridge. Lt. Dale shuffled.

Paul Jones turned a jaundiced eye on him, noting his ashen face. “Pay attention to the punishment. You may find it disturbing, but it will continue until he has received his sentence.”

“But…” Dale faltered.

The commodore’s voice was cold. “What you are watching, Mr. Dale, is punishment for mutiny, the worst offence that can take place on any ship, whether at war or not. However cruel it appears, perhaps he will live afterwards. If so, he should consider himself fortunate. It is necessary for every man on this ship to realize the consequences of mutiny. I want that word never to enter the brain, never mind reach the lips of any man who serves under me.” He glanced down at the broken body hanging at the gangway. Already it seemed to carry the stench of death. Two seamen were sluicing the unconscious Towers with buckets of seawater to bring him around so the punishment could continue. “Do you think he would have thought twice about taking your life if he had succeeded in gaining command of Richard?”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Dale offered timidly, “but he knows no better.”

The commodore was grim. “But you do.” He gestured to the horrified faces of the crew. “And now they do too.”

***

Perhaps they knew better about mutiny, but the crew still learned the hard way, Paul Jones reflected as he leaned against the weather rail, watching men stream across the yards above the main deck to reef slack sails. Barely days after Quartermaster Towers had been flogged to within an inch of his life before being put ashore into a French prison, justice had again to be served. While the commodore was ashore attending to business in Lorient, the coxswain and crew left his personal barge unguarded while they visited several local taverns and whorehouses. Paul Jones had been forced to hire a fishing boat to ferry him back to Richard. Another boat had to be lowered to round up the drunken barge crew. Any semblance of a court was unnecessary. In the cold light of the following dawn when the men were again sober, they were triced to the rigging and flogged in full view of the ship’s company. If stomachs had been soured and morale lowered by the repetition of punishment, then at least discipline improved. The new men drafted in to replace the hundred English mutineers learned their new commodore was not a man to suffer breaches of duty lightly. Now when orders were called, they jumped.

“A curse on the wind, wherever it is,” Richard Dale mumbled as he climbed the companion ladder to the poop deck.

The commodore’s gaze swept from the men aloft to the lieutenant’s ruddy yeoman face. He echoed Dale’s curse wholeheartedly. The sea all about Richard showed not a ripple, no whisper of breeze to ruffle the leaden waters. Eight days out from Lorient and this morning they had sighted land. By noon they were five miles south-south-west of Great Skellig which guarded the south entrance of Dingle Bay, the gateway to southern Ireland.

“What time is it?” Paul Jones’s eyes were fixed on the coast in the distance.

“Four o’clock, sir.”

The commodore glanced at the sun as though to check Dale’s answer. “By my reckoning those outcrops are the Blaskets at the north entrance of Dingle Bay. That’s if I judged the wind right. What there was of it.” He extended his telescope and made a quick survey of his squadron. Every vessel was on station, each as motionless as Richard, all drifting with the tide. Canvas hung limp like wet sheets on washing day. Nothing as depressing as a hopeful spread of empty sails, he thought.

For a moment Paul Jones felt deflated. Even the deck was still beneath his feet. He compressed the telescope and tucked it under his arm. “I’m going below to study the charts. If we drift too far let me know.”

“Aye aye, sir.” As the commodore crossed the deck to the ladder, Dale saluted smartly, then turned his attention to the men of the port watch who were idling on deck. “Mr. Fanning!” he bellowed at the midshipman who was deep in conversation with a petty officer. His face swung to the bridge.

“Ah, Mr. Fanning, I have your attention! Find those men some chores before their hands grow too soft to work this ship!”

***

“What do you suggest, Mr. Dale?”

The lieutenant peered at the land closing on the starboard quarter, the breakers at the foot of the Skelligs clearly visible. There was still no wind but the sea was growing, the swell pushing Bonhomme Richard inshore. It was now eight o’clock and there was the likelihood that unless checked, the tide would drive them ashore during the night. He looked back at Paul Jones who seemed to be repressing a smile.

“Well sir, I think we should put out a boat to tow us clear. We can’t be too careful.”

Jones nodded. “A wise decision. Better make it my barge. It should suffice with this sea running. If it starts away, then there’ll be wind to use.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Dale grinned, pleased to earn praise. In a second he was leaning over the rail, shouting orders. Cutting Lunt, the sailing master, moved to the topsides to supervise personally the launch, glad to have work for his men. A tarpaulin was removed and lashing freed. The rattles and squeaks of the pulleys mingled with the grunts of the sailors, strangely loud in the stillness of evening as the barge was lifted clear and swung out on its davits. A coxswain and six men climbed in. They pulled free the oars, propped them vertical to avoid contact with Richard’s hull while the coxswain took a thick coil of spare cable should they need a longer tow.

“Clear those falls there! Right-o, lower away!” Blocks squealed, a line of hands easing the fall tackle. The barge sank slowly, jerking against the tension in the thick hemp. With a splash she was down. Over the side Richard Dale could see the tops of the sailors’ heads as they stove off, their oars dipping a ragged line, churning white foam from the dark ocean. They rowed for’ard to catch the hawser by the bowsprit trailing from a bridle port. Deftly, the coxswain took hold and wound it around the stern cleats of the barge. He took his seat then waved.

“Haul away, boys! Stroke!”

The six oarsmen bent their backs, pulling in unison. Slowly, the barge built up momentum until it was cleaving the sea at a steady rate, the towing cable dragging behind. Ten yards ahead of Richard’s bows the hawser began to ease out of the water in a lazy arc, the hemp already darkened, dripping. It grew taut until the barge crew found themselves straining against the full weight of the tide driven Bonhomme Richard. It was as if they had rowed into a brick wall. The sound of the coxswain’s voice carried over the water as he bawled crude encouragement.

On the poop Richard Dale scowled. He recognized that voice. It was the coxswain who had been flogged at Lorient for getting drunk and leaving the commodore’s barge unattended. He turned to Paul Jones. “Excuse me a moment, sir.” The commodore nodded his permission as Dale moved for’ard to the rail. “A word here, Mr. Lunt! If you please!”

Cutting Lunt was leaning out over the gunwale by the head, watching the progress of the towing boat. He turned to acknowledge the lieutenant’s call, then pushed away from the timbers to walk aft. They met by the mainmast, Lunt rubbing the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Sir?”

Dale had lost his color. “Is the coxswain in the barge the one who was flogged at Lorient?”

“Yes, sir. He’s the commodore’s coxswain. There were no orders to change that after he was punished.” He sniffed. “I think he learned his lesson.”

“What of the barge’s crew?”

“They are the same, too, sir.”

“What nationality?”

Cutting Lunt shrugged. “I’m not sure. Irish, I think.” For a moment uncertainty clouded his eyes before they cleared and he smiled confidently. “I don’t think there’s any cause for worry, sir. At heart they’re good lads. There’s no liquor out there, sir.”

Richard Dale could not hide his agitation. “But there’s liquor ashore, and it’s their home country.”

Lunt shrugged it aside. “I’d count on them. They’re sailors, sir. This is their ship. Their first duty is to her.”

***

Cutting Lunt was right. Their first duty was to the ship. But by half past ten, night had fallen and Bonhomme Richard was clear of danger. It was then the towrope parted. In the light from the lantern on the barge nothing seemed amiss. When the lantern died, the alarm was raised.

“Ahoy there! We’ve lost the tow!” a voice called from the bows.

Cutting Lunt was sipping water from a ladle at the mainmast drinking butt. His head came up and he dropped the ladle with a clatter. He strode for’ard, his thick pigtail bouncing against the nape of his red neck. At the cathead, a seaman was holding the slack hawser. Lunt gave it a cursory glance then turned and waved men forward. “Haul it in! Look lively now!”

Moments later the coil of sodden hemp lay curled on the deck. Cutting Lunt held the end in his hand, his thumb rubbing over the break. “He’s cut it, the bastard.” Indecision lasted a brief moment. “Beaumont! Launch the jolly boat! Nine men, yourself included, to crew it. Wait for me before you lower away. I’m coming too. All right, get to it.” He dropped the rope and hurried aft. On the poop Richard Dale listened white faced to Lunt’s tale, cheeks drawn tight.

Paul Jones wasted no time. “Was this not foreseen?”

Cutting Lunt grimaced, embarrassed. “Mr. Dale warned me, sir, but I thought…”

Jones cut him short. “Save that for later. Launch a boat in pursuit. Take two midshipmen.”

Lunt nodded. “It’s already being done. With your permission, sir, I should like to go too.”

“Out of the question. Your job is sailing Richard, not chasing about after…” Jones read the flashes in the sailing master’s eyes, quickly understanding Lunt felt it his duty to rectify personally his error in judgment. Jones knew he would have felt the same. “Very well, you may go with them.”

Lunt’s smile was a brilliant gleam in the lantern light. He flung a salute and turned away.

“Mr. Lunt,” the commodore said, his voice almost a whisper. The sailing master paused expectantly. “Mr. Lunt. Catch them. Whatever you do, catch those deserters.

***

Paul Jones hunched his shoulders, drawing his uniform jacket tighter about him. The fog seemed to soak through his clothes to hold his body in its damp embrace. His face felt as though a wet rag had been squeezed against his skin, and his hands felt clammy, the cold brass of the telescope like ice in his fingers. Five yards beyond the rail the leaden sea and sky were blanketed by the fog, the first smoky patches thickening into a gray wall that seemed to cover Richard like an impenetrable dome. It reminded him of a child’s toy; one of those little glass things that when shaken produces a snow storm to swirl around a miniature ship. He glanced aloft to where the masts and rigging disappeared into the shifting grayness. Even snow would have been preferable. He hid his disappointment and turned to Richard Dale who was also staring bleakly at the shrouded sea.

“News?”

“None, sir.”

“None? It’s almost two days. What of Le Cerf?”

Dale shook his head. “Since you dispatched her to search for the two boats yesterday, nothing has been heard from her.” He stared back at the sea.

“Is it my eyes, or do you think it’s clearing?”

“I would like to agree, sir.” As they watched, the fog began to move, thinning into patches before thickening again. It was solid for a moment then broke into tendrils waving like a squid before being spirited away. Above their heads canvas slapped. Richard moved restlessly beneath their feet as though ready to dance to the tune of the coming wind. Ropes and spars began to creak like the bones of an old man waking to greet the coming day. Suddenly out of the gloom, vessels materialized. Alliance, Pallas, and Vengeance appeared like ghost ships, still and eerie. The two officers could see their sails slowly rippling, catching the wind as the fog blew slowly away, rolling across the water.

“Wind at last!” Dale exclaimed.

Paul Jones had his telescope to his eye, raking the hulls of the squadron. “Hoist a signal for all ships to follow the flag, then set a northerly course away from this accursed shore. We’ll leave Cerf to search for Mr. Lunt’s boat and that of the deserters.” He lowered the telescope and peered at the threatening sky. “Well, we wanted wind. If I’m not mistaken it looks like we’re going to get more than we prayed for. A real blow. When darkness falls, burn a lamp at the masthead and fire a gun on the stroke of every hour. Perhaps that way these Frenchmen might not lose us.”

Aloft, the canvas was full, the hard over helm forcing Richard to come about, holding her station while the signaling midshipmen ran up an array of color-coded flags that snapped open gaily in the growing breeze. Bonhomme Richard pitched, the mounting seas piling against her transom, eager to speed her away.

Lt. Dale passed the new course to the helmsman and the junior lieutenant who had taken over the sailing master’s duties. He felt uncomfortable without Cutting Lunt’s capable hands in charge of Richard. Glancing astern, he wondered how the sailing master was faring in the jolly boat on the open sea.

***

Le Cerf plowed blindly through the gloom. Lieutenant Varage stood in her bows, frowning at the solid wall of fog ahead. Trust him to have to go out and pick up the pieces. In this filth too. The deserters would long since have made landfall, and if the commodore’s sailing master had any sense, he would have beached to wait for a break in the fog. Varage was worried. He was close inshore and although Le Cerf drew a shallow draught, his charts were old and not too well drawn. Besides, he wasn’t exactly sure where he was anyway. There was nothing to take a sighting from. Nothing but fog and dark water. He didn’t like either.

“Mark!” he called.

The seaman at the opposite gunwale swung the lead plumb over the side and dropped it into the sea. The wet rope uncoiled by his feet to squeak through the cleat. It did not run long. Only two knots went through. “Two fathoms!” he called before hauling in.

Lieutenant Varage scowled. Twelve feet and getting shallower. He was about to order another sounding when the sailor leaned out over the rail, peering.

“On the starboard quarter!”

Varage strode across, hands reaching for the clammy gunwale. He squinted out. “Where?”

“There!” He followed the sailor’s outstretched arm. A long shadow lay against the sea, motionless. Varage waved back at the helmsman so that Cerf began to heel, heading toward it. They closed steadily, then when only twenty feet away, a long plume of water fountained from the shadow. Flukes flicked upward and the big fish was swallowed by the sea.

“A whale,” the sailor said, disappointed.

Varage grimaced, turning away to return to his own lookout post. “Mark! And keep looking!”

***

“Hold your stroke. Rest a moment.”

Cutting Lunt’s head was cocked as he listened for any sound in the thinning fog. He sat in the jolly boat’s stern sheets, a midshipman on either side. Both the junior officers looked miserable. Every man of the crew was exhausted. They had been together now for thirty-six hours chasing the deserters without hot food. The boat’s meager supply of biscuit and water had run out twelve hours previously. While the oarsmen rested, heads fell forward, the men slipping into sleep at their posts. Only Cutting Lunt’s anger at himself kept him alert. He would catch those damned deserters if it was the last thing he did.

“Will they be looking for us, do you think?” asked one of the shivering midshipmen. Not even duck down on his cheeks yet, thought Cutting Lunt. And what could he say to the boy? That there was not a chance in hell Bonhomme Richard would find them in this fog? Besides, they were too far inshore where the seabed climbed too steeply for Richard. Too much shoaling water and too many jagged little reefs hungry to sink their teeth into a ship’s keel.

“Of course they’ll be looking for us, lad. How do you think that ship would sail without me? Now be quiet and listen.”

There was nothing to hear but the sea lapping against the boat’s hull and the whisper of distant breakers. A reef or the shore, he wondered. He turned in his seat, trying to penetrate the fog with his raw eyeballs in an attempt to forget the hopelessness of their situation and the hunger that gnawed like a starved rat in his belly.

Hours passed. The fog did not let up. They were cold, hungry, tired. Each minute of misery sapped even Cutting Lunt’s determination. At last he decided to end it. One way or the other.

“All right! Wake up you scavengers! All oars. At the ready!” The men roused themselves, sniffing and coughing in the chill air. “It’ll warm you up. All oars! Stroke!” With the boat facing the sound of the distant breakers, they dipped and pulled. After a few ragged strokes they found a rhythm where before had only been weariness, and they discovered a strength they thought long drained from aching muscles. The volume of the crashing breakers increased. “I hope to God it’s not a reef,” Cutting Lunt muttered under his breath.

Ten minutes later they glided in, the keel crunching as it drove up the shingle beach. The sailing master was on his feet. “Port oars, and every man out!” He leaned down to one of the midshipmen. “Then we’ll try and find out where in this godforsaken land of leprechauns we are.” They went over the side, the freezing waves soaking the canvas trousers of the oarsmen and the officers’ white stockings. With a concentrated effort, they ran the jolly boat up the beach where she would be safe from the fingers of the rising tide. The men sank down on the pebbles, panting while Lunt drew out his chart. He studied it for some minutes, before walking a few yards until he was drawn up short against a rock face. He retraced his steps back to the boat.

“Where are we, then?” one of the midshipmen asked through chattering teeth.

“Truth to tell, I’m not exactly sure,” he replied, head bowed over the map.

Someone laughed behind him, a rich throaty chuckle. He swiveled, a sneering rebuke ready on his tongue to quell the insolence, but the faces of his exhausted boat crew stared back silently. Then he saw them. Twenty figures emerged from the wall of fog. All were armed. Some carried pistols, others muskets, and all had a hangar or cutlass tucked in their belts.

A man stepped forward, redhaired and bearded, his face split by a toothy grin. “Lost, are you? Well, I’ll be telling you this is Ballingskelligs Bay.”

“And who are you?” demanded Cutting Lunt, rising to his feet, a hand reaching toward his pistol.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be touching that now,” the leader said, motioning that his pistol wasn’t for show. When Cutting Lunt dropped his hand away, the man laughed, rocking back on his heels, the same mocking laugh that had risen from the fog. “And who are we, you’re asking? Oh well, I can tell you are strangers here. We’ll be being the Kerry Rangers, and I think you’ll be being our prisoners.” He raised his eyebrows. “Now, will that be answering your question?”

***

Bonhomme Richard sailed on northward. The gale Paul Jones had feared materialized, and although his men kept a lamp burning at the masthead and fired a minute gun, by morning only Vengeance was to be seen. He had expected no less of the fiery Landais commanding Alliance, but he was surprised Pallas was absent. When the gale blew itself out, the wind remained brisk enough for Richard and Vengeance to log 450 miles in the next four days, a journey that took them up the Irish coast and up the west coast of Scotland.

When the sun rose on 31 August, they were standing off the entrance of North Minch in the Outer Hebrides. Paul Jones was on the main deck when the lookout called down from the crosstrees.

“Two sails to leeward!”

The commodore grunted his dissatisfaction when the glass revealed the two vessels were making speedy headway. There was no possibility of out sailing them for they were too close inshore and would run for the nearest harbor. He pushed the telescope back under his arm and resumed his inspection of the cannon. At the last twelve-pounder he rubbed his fingers inside the bore. They came away dirty. The gun captain saw his expression and steeled himself for the tirade to come.

“Sail to windward!” the lookout called.

Paul Jones froze. Beside him Lt. Dale faced the horizon.

“Belay that! Three sail to windward!” the lookout corrected.

The dirty cannon was forgotten. The gun captain relaxed as the commodore cut across the main deck, pulling out his telescope. Dale and the two midshipmen trailed in his wake, ready to relay any orders. They waited impatiently, unable to make out any detail beyond the mere fact three small white dots lay where the sky met the sea. The commodore studied the craft for long seconds, then spoke out of lips compressed with excitement.

“Give chase,” he ordered.

Dale grinned while the gun crews standing at their posts broke into a volley of cheers before he could shout.

“Go about and make all sail!”

The duty watch who had been idling in the waist during the cannon inspection ran for the ratlines as the petty officers jumped to follow the sailing master’s stream of orders. They scaled the rigging with the agility of a troop of baboons, laughing and joking while the port watch turned out of the foc’sle to man the braces.

Lt. Amiel stood with hands on hips, head tilted back as he watched the activity on the yards. “Don’t make a donkey’s breakfast of it! Silence in the rigging! Stand to, or I’ll flog you myself, you muttonheads!”

CHAPTER 8

Bonhomme Richard came out of her tack, swinging her head west. The deck listed as she faced up to the wind, then her bow fell to leeward, filling the main and mizzen sails. Grunts and bellows were heard as the headsails were hauled around by the lines of men stamping backward, heaving on the braces. The canvas blossomed again, swollen on a feast of wind and Richard began the pursuit, bowsprit rising and dipping, pointing the way.

Midshipman Fanning had run to the flag locker to hoist the signals. Astern, Vengeance acknowledged and maneuvered to take up her new station. While Paul Jones watched the performance aloft, quietly pleased at the competence of his crew, Richard Dale strode back and forth chivying the bos’n and petty officers in a bid to speed the chase. While the seamen worked the ship, the gun crews clustered about the gunwales, speculating on their quarry, issuing threats and promises about what they would do when they caught up. With Richard on her new course, Lieutenant Dale turned his attention back on them.

“Stand by your guns! We may be giving chase but this inspection is not over!”

Paul Jones could not resist a smile. “I’m going below. Carry on.”

Dale gestured to the midshipman beside him to follow, then crossed to the starboard side where the commodore had noticed the ill-cleaned bore. The gun captain’s face fell when he realized his reprieve had been in vain.

“Take that man’s name!” the lieutenant barked, scowling at the smudge on his fingertips, mimicking the commodore’s example. He completed the inspection, aware of the midshipman’s shuffling behind him. They were moving along the starboard battery, the fleeing craft invisible from their position. Even as he stooped over each weapon, studying the fall of the tackle, he could detect the gun crew’s eyes wandering to the port side, hoping for a glimpse. When he was satisfied there was no more to be seen or criticized, he called up one of the junior lieutenants.

“Mr. Stack, you will supervise gun drill.” He glanced about the deck, smiling at the crestfallen expressions of the men.

While Richard tacked steadily against the wind, going about to leave a trail on the map like a series of doglegs, she was shadowed the day long by Vengeance. The corvette skipped and danced across the wave tops like a colt held on a tight rein, rattling the bit impatiently between her teeth, forced to travel at the more sedate pace of her sister ship. On her decks, as on Richard, the gun crews practiced running out their weapons while the red-jacketed marines formed squares and lines abreast, one rank kneeling to take aim while the second rank reloaded, ready to step forward before moving on to more specialized maneuvers necessary for shipboard combat hampered by gear and rigging that blocked fields of fire.

As the minutes dragged into hours, glances at the horizon told of Richard’s reluctance to overhaul her quarry. The distant scraps of white canvas seemed no closer. The morning sun climbed to its zenith then began the afternoon descent. Only at twilight did they seem to have made any headway and nightfall stole the distant ships from the telescope’s reach. The dark hours held frustration, eyes strained into the blanket of night, searching for a glimpse of a riding light or the faint calling of an order carried across the water. Men slept uneasily below, while on the weather deck the duty watch paced restlessly, fingers fretfully knotting and splicing ropes before pulling the fraying ends apart once more.

The eagerly awaited dawn found men lingering by the rails, eyes to windward. Two of the ships had vanished under the cloak of night but the third was still ahead. Muttered voices urged Richard to skim the waves with every ounce of speed.

They were closing.

Faces turned to the quarterdeck when the commodore and his first lieutenant appeared to stand at the weather rail, eyeglasses and sextant in hand to take the morning sighting. The commodore’s lips were pressed into a thin line, blood drained, eyes dark ringed after a restless night. He looked long and hard at the horizon, then aloft to the spread of the ship’s glutted canvas. His voice, although low, carried to the ears of the nearest crewman.

“Sail her hard, Mr. Dale, and hoist the English ensign. We will have her before noon.”

***

Three hours brought them within hailing distance. The fleeing ship’s stern cabins could be seen clearly, her name Union boldly painted and edged with gilt below the taffrail. A group of worried officers lined the rail, staring as Richard closed the gap with each minute, their gaze straying from the English flag at the yardarm to the lines of the old East Indiaman as they tried to decide who she was. Vengeance suffered the same scrutiny.

“Ahoy there!” Lt. Dale hailed. “Heave-to! Prepare to accept a boarding party!”

The officers on Union’s quarterdeck looked at each other then back at Richard.

“Ahoy there! Heave-to! Union!”

A speaking trumpet was raised. “By whose order? What ship are you?”

“Heave-to!” Dale shouted back, ignoring their inquiry.

Beside him Paul Jones watched a stream of men appear on Union’s weather deck, moving toward the shrouds.

“Run out the cannon. Chain shot at the lower rigging.”

Immediately, the gun ports were triced up. Bonhomme Richard’s topsides bristled with bronze snouts sniffing the salt air. The gun captains took their cue, a salvo rippling from half a dozen twelve-pounders like overlapping thunderclaps. The rolling smoke engulfed the horrified expressions on Union’s bridge as the deadly charges tore into her rigging, forestalling any orders to modify her sail plan in a bid to break for leeward. As the gun smoke thinned the damage could be seen. The main and mizzenmast shrouds were in tatters where the chain links had screamed through. Ten feet lower would have spread carnage across the decks. For’ard, one charge had smashed into the bulwarks, ugly splinters of shattered timber protruding at all angles, sickly white in the sun.

Not a shot was fired in return. There had been no margin for retaliation. Victory was swift. Pride filled Paul Jones’s chest. His first success of the voyage. He hoped it was merely the beginning.

In moments Union’s ensign was struck, a terrified midshipman shaking as he hauled the flag down.

“Run up the colors and prepare to board,” Paul Jones said with a grim smile. Bonhomme Richard came alongside, grapples thrown to pull Union into a reluctant embrace. A lieutenant led the boarding party over the rail, the heavily armed men greeted by the stunned expressions of Union’s crew, shocked into silence by the speed of their defeat. They stood with arms dangling helplessly at their sides, here and there a figure sprawled on the deck, victims of stray ricochets from the cannon fire. When the prisoners had been herded together by Richard’s officers, Paul Jones and Richard Dale crossed over to stand on the rigging strewn deck.

“A letter-of-marque ship,” Dale observed, glancing around. “What is your cargo?”

“Army supplies,” the tight-lipped captain replied.

“What manner of supplies?”

The tousled head of the lieutenant who had led the boarding party appeared from below. “Uniforms, sir. English infantry uniforms, winter issue.”

Dale repressed a smile. “For Canada, no doubt. We may not have robbed the English of the means to fight, but at least they’ll be cold when they do it.”

The commodore sniffed. Better than nothing. And one less ship to supply the enemy army. He accepted the English captain’s sword as a token of surrender, then turned to Lt. Dale. “Detail the lieutenant and the boarding party to man her until we select a prize crew to sail her back to France.” As the commodore turned to go, the English captain made to step forward. Two marines quickly moved to intercept him. Paul Jones stopped, waved them back, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

The Englishman was stiffly formal. “May I ask to whom I surrendered my ship?”

A faint smile. “How remiss of me. Commodore John Paul Jones of the American Navy.”

The Englishman nodded, eyes slowly traveling over the American from head to foot as though committing every detail of his image to memory. Their eyes locked.

“I will remember you, sir, believe you me I will.”

BOOK TWO

1779

Scarborough Fair

CHAPTER 1

One whiff of the salt wind told Jackie Rudd everything.

The day was already wasted. He closed the cottage door quietly behind him as he looked up. Cloud smothered the horizon from east to west, long gray banks that bunched and exploded, scudding across a raw gunmetal sky. With a grimace he pushed his hands deep into his pockets then clumped along Tutthill Street, empty in the gray dawn, before turning down into East Sandgate where he caught his first glimpse of the North Sea. His prediction was correct, but knowing he would be unable to put out into the heavy swell robbed him of any satisfaction.

Down at the Posthouse there was already a gathering of fishermen. Dressed in dark blue guernseys and canvas trousers tucked into leather sea boots, they glowered at the rebellious waves from beneath their peaked caps. One or two sucked fruitlessly at cold pipes.

“Up in the morning’s the game, lad,” one rumbled with a glance at Jackie.

“Not that there’s owt to climb from your pit for today,” commented another, dragging his eyes away from the sea to peer up at Scarborough Castle. High on the cliff under the glowering sky the battlements gazed immovably at the North Sea jostling the Yorkshire coast at their feet.

Jackie nodded acknowledgement of their welcome before leaning on the rail to look down into the harbor. The Gin fretted and chewed at her mooring like a tethered stallion eager to run free. Her gunwale fenders butted the stone pier then scraped up and down as she rolled with the tide. He squinted at the painters fore and aft that held her fast. Not trusting his eyes, he ambled down to check them with his fingers. Kneeling as he looked down into her, he reassured himself she had not made too much water during the night. But then she never did, tough and sure, clinker built like Scarborough cobbles had been for centuries. He ran his eyes over the gear to make sure it was all still stowed securely.

He stood up again, hands in his pockets, eyes measuring the horizon, white caps breaking like flurries of snow all the way in. They marched, rank upon rank, battalion on battalion, to smash in a creamy froth through the harbor entrance. They scoured the outer granite piers, collapsing, slick and oily, into a swell that left the boats nudging each other worriedly. The sea was growing even while he watched. As the clouds writhed and twisted across the sky, the wind howled down across the North Sea, tearing spindrift from the galloping waves and flinging it away with careless hands.

There was nothing more to be done. He glanced back at the men near the Posthouse, imagining their grumbles as vividly as if he stood among them. They echoed his own. He turned his back on the wind, hunching his shoulders and set off.

“Where’s thou off to, lad?”

Jackie turned. “Over to the hut. There’s always work there.” He waved as he trudged away.

Inside, the shed was dry and gloomy with a strong smell of fish bait. Lobster and crab pots were stacked along one wall, their floats standing like spears, ragged marker flags limp. Curled long lines spiky with hooks and a curtain of drying nets cast inky shadows. There were no windows so Jackie lit a hurricane lamp, then pulled a handful of dry leaves from the tinderbox to lay in the bottom of the stove. Twigs followed then slats from a splintered fish box. He lit a taper from the lamp and touched it to the tinder. A wisp of smoke before a flame sprang alive. Uncertain, it flickered before catching hold, the leaves gnarling into embers. As tongues of flame began to lick at the box slats, he patiently fed on driftwood from the stack by the door.

Minutes later the interior of the hut was cozy, his face reflecting the glow of the fire as he warmed his hands. Tendrils of steam ventured from the kettle he had filled. He knew Harry kept a store of illicit tea hidden behind the nets. As he steeped the tealeaves in the pot he smiled, knowing how expensive the drink would have been if bought legally. The tea tax was ridiculous, but they put a heavy tax on everything. Who could blame a poor man for getting a bit here and there whenever there was opportunity? Everyone knew the squires and gentleman farmers bought as much brandy and gin as the free traders could sneak ashore. Even the Excise man turned his back when it suited, as long as a keg or a bag of tea was to be found in his outhouse the next morning.

As he sipped, Jackie looked about the hut. The spare long lines had to be unraveled and cleaned, and the lines already baited for today and wound into their creels would have to be stripped. They had already been lying ready for several days. Now, by the time the weather turned the bait would be too ripe. He drained his mug and made a start on the first line.

Jackie had started on the second creel when the door opened. Quietly, Rose came across the hut to stand above him, watching his nimble fingers. Her lips wore a gentle smile as she studied his face in the glow from the lamp. His tanned, sea-worn cheeks running into a strong jaw line, mouth working as he concentrated on his task. Long fair hair framed his face, curling down to hide his brown eyes skimming the line ahead of his fingers. He reminded her of a picture of a cavalier she had seen once in one of the town’s shops. They had known each other since childhood. Friends then, now it had grown into something more. She was always in and out of his cottage, helping his mother, even more often since his father had been lost at sea two years back. Everyone who knew them took it for granted one day they would be married. That was the way it went, especially with Scarborough lasses.

Jackie wasn’t sure how he felt about it all. He was glad she took some of the strain off his mother, nursing her when her wracking cough drove her to bed, preparing Jackie’s meals in the meantime. He liked Rose almost as much as he liked his friends. But where they laughed loudly, she smiled serenely, shy as a calf. Where his pals always carried the smell of the fishing trade, Rose always seemed clean and fresh, and when he was close he ached to hold her in his arms and bury his face in her velvet skin.

Sometimes when they walked, away from the eyes of his mates, he would take her hand and occasionally she would let him kiss her. When he tasted her soft lips a hunger would awaken, but when he tried to pull her close she would push small hands against his chest, saying “not yet.” When he asked her “When?” she would answer enigmatically “One day.” Seared by a heat he had not yet come to understand, he would turn away flushed, angry, his feelings jumbled.

Now she stood in front of him, delicate in her homespun frock covered by a large green apron which ran almost to the floor. Her fair hair was tied back under her bonnet. But this morning her eyes were cloudy as a rainy sky, cheeks pale. As if she didn’t trust them free, her fingers were intertwined tightly.

“Harry told me you were in here,” she blurted.

“What’s the matter, pet?” Jackie frowned. “You don’t look well.” He put down the long line and stood up, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“You’d better come home. I think your mam’s had some bad news. She’s taken on, crying her heart out and coughing like you’ve never heard.”

First the sea keeping him ashore and now this. “Right. You go on back up. I’ll just go down and tell Harry. There’s work to be done in here and he’s out there jawing.”

***

Her eyes reminded him of a rabbit with one foot caught in a snare, Jackie thought as his mother turned to face him. She looked tiny in her chair by the open fire, her shawl clutched about her as though it was deep midwinter. Her cheeks appeared sore where tears still lurked, the puffy skin shiny. As he crossed the room from the street door, Rose shot him a look followed by a shrug. He hovered over the chair as his mother sniffed, dabbing her eyes with a sodden handkerchief.

“Now, our Mam, what’s all this?”

Her voice was feeble, quaking like the bleat of a spring lamb. “We’re nearly all gone now. Won’t be none of us left soon.”

“What’re you talking about?”

She sobbed. “First your Dad. Now it’s our Bob. And then it’ll be me. There’ll only be you.”

“This something to do with Uncle Bob?”

She whimpered. “He’s dying, just like me.”

“Don’t be silly, Mam, you’ll outlive us all.” He looked at Rose.

“The carter brought a message this morning, not long after you left. He’d just come from Whitby,” Rose explained.

So that was it. He knelt down, one hand covering both his mother’s in her lap. Her fingers felt thin and cold.

“What do you want me to do about it, Mam?”

“I just wanted to see him again. Just once more, you know.” Her eyes implored him to understand. “He was your Dad’s favorite brother. Now he’s the only one left.”

Jackie scowled as she began to cough, her narrow shoulders jerking in spasms. “You know you’re not well enough to go, Mam. A trip across the moors in John Williams’s open cart would be the death of you. The sea’s coming away like mountains, and you know what it’s like up on high ground when it’s like that. And the wind doesn’t look like it’s going to come round for a few days.”

She was staring into the fire, deaf to his logic.

“Listen, Mam, I won’t let you go, and that’s the end of it.” He came to his feet and paced to the table where Rose was peeling potatoes into a bowl. He rested his palms on the tabletop, leaning down over her. “She can’t go. You can see that, can’t you?”

Her knife pared the peel rapidly, expertly. She dropped the clean potato and began a fresh one. Her eyes would not meet his. When she spoke it was quietly, resigned. “Somebody’ll have to. It’s only right.”

He stared at her for a long minute before he sighed. “That leaves only me, then.”

The knife paused as Rose lifted her head. He saw the clouds had scudded away to leave her pupils clear. The smallest of smiles creased the corners of her mouth.

He gestured behind to his mother, quiet now and slumped in the chair. “You’ll stay here and look after her?”

Rose’s expression said everything. “I’ll be here as long as I’m needed,” she stated firmly, a strength he had never before noticed creeping into her voice.

***

The lookout’s cry brought Paul Jones from his cabin where he had been writing his log. When he appeared on deck he was glad he had thought to bring his cloak. The weather had turned sour. A gray sky spat drizzle at Bonhomme Richard as she lay hove-to, the captured Union a hundred yards away on the port quarter, with Vengeance beyond. Paul Jones considered the sky with distaste then took hold of the companion safety rail as a precaution against the slippery steps as he climbed to the poop. Almost at the top he coughed.

Richard Dale lowered his eyeglass to smile a welcome. “We have company, sir.”

Jones sniffed, blinking at the spatters of rain. “So I heard. Landais, I suppose, late as ever.”

“It certainly looks to be Alliance, but it seems he has brought a guest.”

The commodore grunted, accepting the offered telescope to study the two closing vessels. “She’s flying our colors. M’sieur Landais has not been altogether idle. Another ship to send back to France. No doubt he’ll have it shouted from the top of the Notre Dame in Paris that he caught himself a prize.” He handed the eyeglass back. “Well, if he can furnish one prize crew, he can furnish two. Order him to man Union too, that is, when he pleases to meet us.”

Dale frowned. “Begging your pardon, sir, but surely Union belongs to our crew?”

“She does. They’ll each have their share of prize money. They can rest easy on that, but to furnish a crew will deplete our strength and I’d rather rob Landais than myself. My men are much more use to me.” He smiled wryly. “I sometimes despair whose side our M’sieur Landais is on. Perhaps he is only on his own side, and to blazes with everyone else.” With that he turned and went below.

The wind began to rise, the drizzle persisting as Alliance with her prize, Betsy, another letter-of-marque ship, closed with the squadron. By the time the Frenchman hove-to, Bonhomme Richard was pitching uncomfortably. At mess the sailors grumbled they would rather be under way, but were silenced when a petty officer repeated Lt. Stack’s statement that they were to wait until the frigate Pallas caught up.

In his cabin, face drawn in the growing gloom, Paul Jones’s anger was mounting to fever pitch. No boat had been sent to the flagship with dispatches. After a short wait to allow Landais some leeway, Jones had ordered the signal midshipman to request information.

Landais did not bother to reply.

The commodore ordered another signal, this time demanding the Frenchman to repair on board the flagship. This too was ignored. Left with little choice, he asked Purser Mease to visit Alliance, supported by Colonel de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert with some of their marines to discover in no uncertain terms just what Landais thought he was about. They had been gone two hours and still no word. He did not envy them the journey in an open boat on the growing sea, but that was their duty. They would have to endure. His reverie was broken by a knocking at the door. “Enter!”

The purser stooped as he entered the cabin. Matthew Mease was from Philadelphia and at fifty years old, the eldest of the officers. He was a wizard with accounts and honest, a valuable man when a squadron had to be provisioned. Jones knew that when Mease bought beef, it was of the highest quality the budget could afford, not the poorest with the remainder of the cash lining his pocket. His honesty, Jones mused, would probably condemn him to living shipboard for the rest of his life. As he stood in the doorway, Mease was soaked with rain and spray, his tricorn hat sodden and shapeless. His white eyebrows carried garlands of water droplets, the light catching them above his brown eyes. He stood bowed, a puddle collecting about his shoes.

“You’ll catch your death, man!” the commodore exclaimed, ringing for his steward. A white face appeared behind the purser. “Quickly boy, bring a blanket for Mr. Mease.” He looked up. “Sit down. You a brandy man, Matthew?”

“Thank you, sir.”

While the commodore poured from a decanter the steward returned to wrap a thick blanket around the purser’s shoulders. Glass in hand, Mease drank then coughed before sipping again.

“A bad night, Matthew.”

The purser nodded.

“You saw Captain Landais?”

Mease’s eyes were guarded. “Aye sir, I did. If I did not know he was a French officer, no, an officer in the American Navy, I should think he was a madma…” He lapsed into silence.

“Go on.”

Mease shook his head. “I am not the captain of a ship. It is not for me to say. I have not experienced command.”

“You were going to say he is a madman,” Jones prompted quietly, his eyes sharp, steely.

Mease contemplated his superior, then hesitantly nodded. “If you could have heard him, sir. He ranted and raved like a man…I’ve only seen the like once before, a man dying of black water fever. Landais accused you of the most dreadful things.”

Jones pursed his lips. “Such as?”

“Gibberish mostly. Nonsense. Pure ravings.”

“You won’t upset me, Matthew. Tell me.”

“Frankly, I did not understand most of it, but he said you always stationed his ship where it appeared fighting was going to occur, but you planned it so it would actually happen elsewhere. He said it was a plot to discredit him, and that he only captured Betsy because he had gone out on his own. That…that he should have been in command of the squadron, not you…” He stumbled into silence, eyes wary.

“Please continue. I know you are only repeating what you heard.”

Mease spoke up. “M’sieur de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert both heard him, sir. When he began ranting they insisted on being present throughout the interview. All of his comments about you were highly disrespectful and insolent, and he blurted out that he would see you on shore where one of you must kill the other…” The purser took refuge in his glass, averting his eyes.

Paul Jones’s anger rose. He had expected impudence, but this? The man was stark staring mad. Frenchmen! Every one of them in authority he had encountered since delivering Ranger to France had proved cantankerous in one way or other. Were they always like that, or did they just hate Americans? Or did they despise anyone but another Frenchman? He wished to God he didn’t need Landais, but he did. At least he needed Alliance’s firepower. He could always relieve him of command and replace him with an American, perhaps Dale, but that would bring the politicians into the matter and necessitate a barrage of red tape and paperwork when he returned to Lorient. He had learned all too well that what occurred at sea could look entirely different when back on dry land. Even with his own American government. They had given Landais his commission, and that in itself seemed politic to enlist French aid.

Damn Landais. The whole thing was a mess. He wanted rid of the man, yet could not afford the luxury. It had taken long enough to secure Richard and the squadron. A move like replacing Landais could lose him the squadron if the French decided to withdraw their support. In which case he would likely find himself transferred to command a bucket on the Missouri river. Jones shuffled his papers and refocused his gaze on the purser who was discreetly plumbing the depths of his empty glass, teeth clenched to stop them chattering.

“Would you like another?”

Mease was startled. He pushed the glass away. “My thanks, sir, but no.”

“Thank you for your report, Matthew. You best get yourself into some dry clothes before you catch a chill.”

“Aye aye, sir.” He rose to leave.

The commodore waved a hand. “One last thing. Would you write down everything you told me tonight? Leave nothing out. And ask M’sieur de Chamillard and Colonel Wybert to oblige me also.” He nodded. “A good night to you, Matthew.”

When the purser had left, Paul Jones helped himself to another brandy, sipping as he reflected on his position. It was best to be prepared. Three accounts of the meeting tonight would provide insurance should there be further trouble with M’sieur Landais.

And Paul Jones was sure there would be.

***

There was only the cold wind and the sea. Predominantly gray, the sky closed over the thin line of the horizon, the squall from the previous night still churning the leaden waters, whitecaps showing teeth of seething anger as Bonhomme Richard labored. Aloft, canvas slapped like pistol shots triggered by the eddying wind.

“Take in another reef on the main course,” Lt. Dale ordered of the sailing master. He watched the command relayed, the starboard watch climbing the ratlines under the scrutiny of a petty officer. Dale left the quarterdeck to stroll for’ard along the line of cannon, lashed down against heavy weather. By the manger he cast a professional farmer’s eye over the remaining livestock in the pen. Two pigs, a goat, and a handful of chickens. They would be back on salted rations soon. He grimaced at the thought, then approached the figure hunched at the rail, staring at Alliance plowing the ugly sea a cable length away.

“Good morning, Matthew.”

The purser glanced over his shoulder, face haggard in the freshening breeze. “Ah, Richard. ’Morning to you.”

“Wardroom chatter has it you had a run-in with Alliance’s skipper last night.”

Lines were etched deep in Purser Mease’s cheeks. “The wardroom has it right for a change,” he commented dryly, “and a madder man I have yet to meet. You should have heard him, Richard, like a man possessed. You would have thought he had a fever…”

“Which is what you’ll have if you stay up here in this wind,” another voice remarked, breaking into their conversation. It was the surgeon, Dr. Brooke, hat jammed on his head, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his frock coat. Silence fell between the three men.

“You were saying, Matthew?” Dale prompted.

“Ah, that Landais,” Mease continued, shaking his head, “the things he accused our commodore of…”

“I take it he thinks little of our John Paul Jones,” Dr. Brooke said. “And what do you make of our illustrious commander?”

Matthew Mease frowned. “Me? In what way?”

The surgeon pursed his lips. “As a man. As a leader of men?”

The purser was not sure if he had been asked to give testimony in defense, or whether he was supposed to confirm the surgeon’s opinion. “I think he is a fine man. I’ve never served under a finer officer. He is a gentleman. I can truthfully say he has always been direct and honest in his dealings with me. And he has the ability to command. I don’t think he would ever ask a man to do anything he would not readily do himself, and I think he is capable of getting the best than any man has to give.” He thought for a moment. “The best word, perhaps, for him is honorable.”

Brooke nodded as if he expected no less, then looked pointedly at Dale. “And you, Richard, do you not find him rash, sometimes arrogant? Do you think he is reckless and that all he thinks of is glory?”

Dale rose to the bait angrily, missing the glint in the surgeon’s eyes. “Mr. Brooke, a finer man I have yet to meet,” he stated emphatically. “A seeker of glory and self-advancement? No. Every man who has a brain has ambition in some degree or other, but Paul Jones is not a glory hunter who would crush the bones of another man to take it.” He stopped, looking lost for words, raising a hand to rub forefinger and thumb together to illustrate what his mind sought. “He has an essence, yes essence, that I have detected in no other man. There is no doubt in my mind he is special. Not just me, either. I have watched men when he has spoken to them. They may not understand it, just as I do not, but it is there, and they come under his power.”

He took a deep breath. “I have given it much thought. The nearest I can come is that Paul Jones personifies what America is all about. Untamed, yes, but capable of so many things. And his officers, I swear, would follow him to a man. Wherever he went.” Dale was flushed as he fell quiet, as though astonished he had made the speech. When he looked again at the surgeon, if was as if he was defying him to contradict his opinion.

Matthew Mease was nodding. “Richard, I could not have put it better myself.”

Dr. Brooke wore the smile of a teacher whose pupil has absorbed his lessons well before forming his own conclusion.

“I agree with Matthew. For a farmer, Richard, you have a good mind. And your tongue bears its first coat of silver. You’ll make a politician someday.”

It was then Richard Dale realized it had been a test. His eyes sparked before he broke into a smile. “Thank you sir, but unlike a politician, I meant every word.”

***

Fifteen days later off the Inchcape Rock on the east coast of Scotland, Paul Jones derived little pleasure when he captured two colliers bound from Leith who had sailed blindly under Bonhomme Richard’s guns. He was still smarting from Landais’s outright disobedience. After the incident with Purser Mease and the two French marine officers, Landais had again parted from the squadron without permission. While the commodore sailed back and forth among the Shetland Isles, waiting for Pallas to catch up, Landais took Alliance out on his own initiative and returned with two small prizes. When ordered aboard the flagship for a conference he had flatly refused and again sailed off to hunt. In bad weather, the squadron made headway south. After taking the two colliers they found themselves at the mouth of the Firth of Forth.

The estuary was choppy, wind flicking the wave tops so they broke white like a million gulls flexing their wings. Paul Jones walked the length of Richard’s deck, the wind coloring his cheeks. Listening with half an ear to his heels rattling on the quarterdeck, he glanced at the boats on the sea as they took prize crews to the two colliers. Their return journey would bring more prisoners to crowd Richard’s ’tween decks. The loss of fighting men in a trade for worthless passengers annoyed him. And what for? Two little colliers probably infested by rats and with rotting timbers worth a bare few pounds. If only he could take a prize whose loss would be keenly felt by the enemy.

He paused to lean on the rail. If he didn’t do something soon, he would have no men left to do it with; they’d all be crewing captured colliers and fishing boats. He wondered how the war was faring in America. He had received little news since his days in Paris when Benjamin Franklin had kept him informed. In Lorient there had been little to hear, and since setting sail, nothing. He wondered whether the Royal Navy had been plundering ports. His last news had been that Sir George Colliers had landed at Chesapeake in May, taking the war at sea to the land.

Why not? Why couldn’t he do it too? The very audacity of it, the American Navy taking an English town and demanding ransom. By God, that would hurt them; cut them to the very heart. They valued nothing more highly than freedom. Weren’t they always bragging they had never been invaded since 1066? Well, it would not be an invasion, certainly not by Norman standards, but the shock value would be tremendous. It would show them that the war could come to them too, threatening their homes and families.

The problem was to select a target where there would be minimum risk to his ships. He looked away into the distance where the mouth of the Firth offered a welcome. He smiled then abruptly turned aft. At the foot of the quarterdeck companion ladder, he beckoned the midshipman standing duty by the helmsman.

“Signal M’sieur Cottineau of Pallas and M’sieur Ricot of Vengeance to repair on board the flagship immediately. Pass the word for Mr. Dale and ask him to bring the French officers to my cabin when they arrive.”

While he waited for the captains to transfer, Paul Jones went over his maps and charts, dredging his memory for every detail he could remember about Scotland’s east coast, and the Firth of Forth in particular. He was lost in speculation when Richard Dale knocked and entered. The commodore rose to greet his guests, the two Frenchmen in their best undress uniforms.

“Welcome gentlemen. Please sit down. I have news. We are going to effect a landing.” He stabbed a finger at the chart. “We are going to capture the town of Leith.”

Cottineau flashed a smile. “Well M’sieur, then why not take all Scotland?”

Paul Jones’s eyes were cold as he studied Cottineau’s face. “The French have always wanted to invade England. Well here is your chance. I’m giving it to you on a plate.”

Cottineau’s breath hissed between his teeth. “But M’sieur, I wonder who will be doing the eating. Us or the English?”

CHAPTER 2

“Boat off the starboard side!”

Richard Dale glanced aloft in acknowledgement of the lookout’s cry then crossed to the rail. A thirty-foot sloop was closing, cleaving through the choppy firth, her sail plan capable of manipulating the wind quickly to her advantage. Dale was forced to catch his hat before it was whipped away over the whitecaps. Astern, Vengeance and Pallas wallowed in Richard’s wake. Followed by prizes they had taken, the three warships beat against the wind, so fair at the mouth of the firth but now turned against them. Dale studied the closing sloop. It had all the appearance of a pleasure boat. No working tackle cluttered her decks and her paintwork was fresh.

“Ahoy, HMS Romney!” The sloop swung under Richard’s lee, five men on her deck squinting up at the lumbering man-o’-war. Dale silenced a petty officer’s laugh with a curt gesture and leaned out.

“What vessel are you?”

“Ahoy, Romney! This is Royal Charlotte, yacht of Sir John Anstruther! We come to ask a favor for our master!”

Dale suppressed a smile. “Come aboard, then!” He turned to Lt. Stack, lowering his voice. “Get ready to lower a boat away. If they find out their mistake they’ll run to tell all Scotland we’re here.” He glanced up at the English ensign flying from the yardarm above. “I’d rather catch them quietly. If they believe that ensign, others will too. If we have to run out the guns to stop them we might as well sail out of the firth now.”

Dale kept an eye on Lt. Stack’s discreet organization of a boat party as he watched the visitor from the pleasure sloop climb aboard. He was a thickset Scot with a weathered face and a mouth short of teeth. He exposed the gaps with a grin.

“Andrew Paton, sir.” He executed a mock naval salute.

Richard Dale smiled. “Lieutenant Dale. What can I do for you?”

Paton compressed his lips, eyes twinkling. “Well sir, my master Sir John Anstruther of Elie House, y’ken?” He gestured to the north shore of the estuary. “The master had a report that Paul Jones’s squadron is going to come up the firth. Now, he has a brass cannon and a goodly supply of ball, but all the powder is spoilt. A bad blow a week since took the slates off the store house and the rain wet it all down, y’ken?” He paused and shuffled to emphasize his awkward position. “Well sir, he sent me out to ask you for the loan of a barrel. He said you’d be pleased to know you’ve support on land.”

“That I am.”

The Scot swiveled to face the new speaker. The commodore, hands clasped behind his back in the Royal Navy tradition, showed an indulgent smile. Paton glanced at Richard Dale then back at the newcomer.

Dale jumped into the silence. “Andrew Paton, this is my commanding officer.”

“And pleased to meet you, sir, I am,” the Scot said.

“You need powder?” Paul Jones asked. “Then powder you shall have.” He stroked the side of his nose. “However, I need a favor too. You know the firth well?”

Paton nodded. “Sailed it man and boy. I know every shoal, every current. All the bad, and all the good too.”

The commodore nodded. “In return for your master’s powder will you stay on board and act as pilot?”

The Scot grinned. “T’would be my pleasure, sir.”

“Good. Lieutenant, have a hundredweight of powder brought up, and take Mr. Paton below while I write a letter to his master explaining my need for a pilot.” A smile briefly crossed his lips.

Fifteen minutes later the commodore, flanked by Dale and the Scot, stood on the quarterdeck as the powder was lowered into the sloop. With a wave, Royal Charlotte pushed away, drifting slowly out of Richard’s lee until she caught the wind. Like a dancer, she pirouetted then raced for the land, mocking the whitecaps that snatched at her heels.

“She sails well,” Paul Jones commented.

Paton winked proudly. “She’s a good ’un, my Charlotte. Only we don’t get to sail her much nowadays, what with all the trouble an’ that.” He spat over the rail. “Bloody war.”

The commodore showed interest. “What’s the news?”

Paton grimaced. “Why, that rebel and pirate Paul Jones is off the coast, and he ought to be hanged if you ask me.”

Lt. Dale’s expression hardened. “Do you know whom you are addressing?”

Paton looked from one to the other. His gaze settled on the commodore. “Are you not Captain Johnson of HMS Romney?”

“No,” the commodore said quietly.

“This ship isn’t Romney?”

“This is an American ship. The Bonhomme Richard.”

“So you are…” The Scot’s mouth fell open, horror distorting his face. He looked away quickly to where Royal Charlotte sped away, far beyond recall, then back at the two Americans.

“Yes, I am John Paul Jones.”

The Scot fell to his knees, clutching at the commodore’s shoes. “My God, forgive me sir! I did not know! I have a wife and six children. Please God, sir. Have mercy on me.”

Paul Jones laughed, stepping back from Paton’s grasping hands. “Get up, man. I won’t hurt a hair on your head, but you are my prisoner.”

***

The wind was against them from the start. Even before the commodore had pressed Andrew Paton into service as a pilot, the squadron had tacked. Close hauled to use a little of the wind’s might against itself, the American ships crawled up the Firth of Forth. They swung to and fro across the estuary in a series of doglegs, inching toward Leith. Ashore, the natives to the south were not as gullible as Sir John Anstruther’s yacht crew. During the late afternoon the task force was sighted from Edinburgh castle. Drummers and buglers sounded warnings. Townsmen gathered wives and children and property to make escape. The citizens of Leith, acutely aware that Paul Jones would have to make landfall at their town before storming the ramparts of Edinburgh, armed themselves with claymores, pikes, muskets, and even pitchforks. When there appeared little hope for material support, they resorted to prayer.

But always the wind. Paul Jones cursed it silently, screwing up his eyes to make out Leith’s silhouette in the dying afternoon. Inside his coat lay the ultimatum he had written to be delivered by Colonel de Chamillard to the Provost of Leith demanding ransom of 100,000 pounds sterling. Half was to be paid within the hour while 130 marines would take six hostages until the remainder could be raised. If not, then Leith was to be left in ashes.

But the damned wind. It would soon be dusk and too late. His only hope was the weather would calm overnight to make the marines’ journey safer as they landed from the ship’s boats. He watched the sinking sun kill off the day then left the rail to join Lt. Dale who was staring morosely at the sea. “Mr. Dale, I’m, going below. We’ll try for a landing at first light.” He grimaced. “If the cursed wind allows.”

By morning there was a steady blow and a swell too heavy to risk the marines’ boats being swamped. It was time for a decision. Paul Jones glanced up at raw clouds racing across a gunmetal sky. They offered no solace. His hope of a surprise attack had evaporated. There had been ample time for Leith to organize a solid defense and call for help. Disgruntled, he returned to his cabin and ordered breakfast.

Shortly after the noon sighting the sea began to grow alarmingly. Richard began to pitch, her bowsprit goring the firth’s murky tide, spray showering the foc’sle as the squadron came about onto the port tack. Before the braces could be hauled the full might of the shrieking wind fattened the mizzen topsail. It burst, the canvas ripped from top to bottom. The crew, dripping wet and blinking from the spray, stared aloft as the tatters blew away from the yardarm. When the foremast topsail went, the tearing was so horrific they heard it even above the howl of the wind.

“Fasten down all gun ports and batten the hatches!” a lieutenant yelled. “And haul, damn you!” The line of sailors lost their footing on the swimming deck and went down in a heap.

“Get her off the wind!” the sailing master bawled. “Shorten sail!”

Paul Jones and Lt. Dale observed from the quarterdeck, confident of the crew’s ability under the right direction. Persistent drilling in calmer weather had instilled a spirit of competence, orders obeyed instantly without question. To a seasoned commander it was obvious Richard would soon be under control. The commodore’s concern lay with the rest of the squadron. The gale was blowing them off station, crews fighting rioting canvas and rebellious helms. A collier Richard had captured only days before was wallowing badly, her thin prize crew novices at handling the small brigantine. As the two officers watched, she heeled until her main deck was awash then swung broadside to the sea which pummeled her beam ends. She recovered clumsily, way off station.

The cutter Vengeance was head up into the wind, her graceful lines buffeted by wave after wave. Men could be seen aloft, scrambling to reef the sails. The frigate Pallas wasn’t managing nearly so well. Pitching badly, her bowsprit cut a feather through oncoming seas. While a ragged stream of sailors clawed their way up the ratlines, she fell away to leeward, crabbing, the sea broaching her decks to stream from the scuppers. She shuddered under the onslaught of a huge wave, hundreds of tons of wild water piling against her bulwarks. A handful of men were shaken out of her rigging to plunge into the firth.

“We can forget Leith,” Paul Jones said. “This is…” He fell silent as the wallowing prize collier heeled again, sea pounding angrily at her beam-ends until she surrendered. She made no recovery, the masts collapsing like felled trees until they were swallowed by the spume. Where she had struggled the sea was empty. Paul Jones’s gaze swung to his own crew, knee deep in icy water skirling across the decks as they fought to control Richard. He glowered, wiping away spray from his cheeks. “This is madness. Give the order to go about. We’ll run before the wind.”

He had no other choice.

***

The smell was everywhere. It hung over Whitby like a nauseous blanket that stuffed wool into a man’s lungs. If it turned strong men pale and made brave men weep, then they would have to endure until the last blubber from the Greenland fishery had been rendered down. Columns of evil smoke rose from the chimneys of the oil factories bordering the inner harbor and spread out over the little Yorkshire fishing town. A cluster of pantiled cottages huddled under the cliff along the banks of the river Esk, defiantly facing the North Sea.

Jackie Rudd turned his back on the factories, hunching his shoulders against the nip in the September air. At least walking past the Angel Inn toward the sea put the north wind in his face, its numbing caress preferable to the stench of whale oil. He passed the drawbridge that straddled the harbor’s narrowest point and continued along the staithe side, eyes raking the forest of masts cluttering the outer harbor. The rising tide had lifted the big whalers upright out of the mud to stand proud, naked masts tall and straight as though aching to be clothed with canvas to taste the wind. They had barely returned from the north, names easily read. The Jenny, Hope, Delight, Volunteer, Loyal Club, and Providence. While supping at the Dolphin he had heard the season had been poor. The fourteen ships to sail had brought only twenty-seven whales home between them. The Greenlanders who manned the three ships, which had come home clean, without a catch, faced a bleak winter, their wages based on performance. Around the whalers were clusters of fishing cobbles, fastened bow to bow so one could almost walk the breadth of the harbor across their gear-cluttered decks.

Jackie wished he was at home in Scarborough, out among the herring shoals with his friends in the Gin, but here he was in Whitby, idle and restless, his mother’s representative to his sick uncle’s bedside. Still casting an eye at the whalers, he wandered past a group of fishermen mending nets. Solid men dressed in stained smocks and heavy seaboots, pipes clamped between yellowed teeth, were dark eyed and watchful under the peaks of their caps. A glance told them he was a foreigner so they bent to their work. Jackie looked away as a girl came toward him. Her scarf could not contain a halo of wild chestnut hair framing her cheeky face. She moved in a long-legged gait, hips swinging beneath billowing skirts. Clutching a basket of bread, her arm drew a loose blouse taut across her breasts. She wore threadbare clothes like a princess, head up proud as she skipped barefoot. For an instant their eyes met, hers coal black, teasing, before she looked away. He turned as she passed, captivated by the hint of firm buttocks beneath the homespun frock.

One of the fishermen chuckled. “You’ll be Bob Rudd’s nephew out of Scarboro’? I thought as much. If you was taken in by Dorry Aim, you had to be.”

“Dorry Aim?”

“Aye lad. Take your mind off her. She’d take you ’tween her thighs and crack you like a nut. She’d leave pieces of you all over t’deck.”

“That’s no way to speak about a girl…”

The fisherman’s booming laugh cut him off. “Then you don’t know Dorry!” He laughed again, but seeing Jackie’s face was red with anger, he changed the subject. “Anyway, how’s old Bob getting on?”

“Faring badly, I think,” he answered, his mind full of the girl.

The fisherman pulled at his pipe then spat a stream of ochre juice into the harbor. When he looked up he grimaced. “Comes to us all, lad. Don’t you fret none, old Bob had him a fair life.” He glanced back at his weaving fingers. “And a fair life is all you can ask.”

Jackie waved and turned away, ambling slowly along the staithe, trying to make sense of the fisherman’s comments about his uncle and the girl, Dorry Aim. He looked up at the cottages ranging along the cliff, red pantile roofs spattered by gull droppings. Above stood St. Mary’s church with the ruin of Whitby Abbey as a backdrop. It wasn’t that much different to Scarborough’s harbor with the dominating castle really, but it wasn’t home.

Bob Rudd’s cottage was in Church Street, tiny and whitewashed, right next to the alley called Arguments Yard which ran down to the staithe side. Fastened into the wall beside the Rudd’s front door was a harpoon, a reminder of Bob’s younger days as a Greenlander when he could strike a whale with the best of them before frostbite had robbed him of three fingers from his throwing hand. Jackie touched the rusting metal as he came to the door. Before he could lift the latch, his Aunt Winnie opened it and the doctor emerged, black bag in hand.

“Remember Mrs. Rudd. Keep him well wrapped up.” He looked down at the delicate shawl-clad woman. “Well, I’ll bid you good-bye.” He added a nod to Jackie before walking away, glancing down all the while to ensure he didn’t step on any displaced cobbles in the uneven street.

Winnie raised a smile. “You’re back. Been walking, Jackie?”

“Aye, I’ve been down to the harbor.”

Her gaze shifted to the embedded harpoon, mouth turning down at the corners. “Whalers!” she said bitterly. “I wish to God there was no such things. Too many Whitby men have lost their lives chasing those big fish.”

“It brought Uncle Bob good wages.”

Her gaze was far away. “Mebbe when he was a young man, tall and straight with a twinkle in his eye. But it robbed him too. Look at him now.”

“You can’t blame the whales for that.”

“Whales, boats, the sea, I blame them all.” Tears threatened to spill onto her withered cheeks. He put an arm around her narrow shoulders and led her inside. Bob Rudd lay propped up on a small cot close to the smoking fire. He squinted at Jackie, facial muscles too weak to support a smile, but a gnarled hand tapped feebly on the bedcovers, beckoning him forward.

“The tide?” his uncle whispered.

“Tell him about the whalers,” his aunt prompted sourly. “That’s what he wants to hear.”

Jackie leaned forward. He forgot the smell of the oil houses in that dim little room, assailed by the odor of death hovering close by, waiting to steal his next victim. Trying to hide his revulsion, Jackie talked of the big cat-barques lying in the harbor and of the freshening wind. He spoke of the fishermen and how they had asked after him. That raised a nod. He talked until there was nothing left to tell and his uncle’s eyes slipped shut, breath sawing softly in his chest. He watched, frightened the old man would wake if he moved. The opening door freed him.

“Now then, our Jackie,” his cousin Billy helloed, closing out the September wind as he shut the street door. “How’s t’old man?” He jerked his head at the cot.

Jackie made a face in reply. Billy sniffed and nodded, crossing to warm his broad backside at the fire. “Reckon I’ve got some seaboots’ll fit you. When the tide turns we’re going off. You comin’? See if you’re as good with a line as you brag.”

“What about your dad?”

Billy looked down at his dozing father. “You been here two days. Nothing you can do. Catching some fish’ll buy t’old man a fire, and we need the money. Ma?”

Aunt Winnie nodded her agreement. “You go wi’ Billy. There’s stew in the pot, then you lads can have a pint afore you go off.”

Jackie’s guilt evaporated. “Gear all ready?” he asked, trying to suppress his eagerness.

Billy winked. “All set. Bait an’ everything. Just waiting on’t tide. All right Ma, dish up, I’m hungry.”

***

The Dolphin was warm and smoky, the beer cold. On a full stomach Jackie sipped at his pint, eavesdropping on his cousin’s conversation with the other men lined up at the bar. Pipes drew diagrams in the air to emphasize the size of catches, the stories greeted by guffaws of disbelief. Grins split weathered faces, heads shaking. There was nothing a fisherman liked more than a bite on the end of his line, whether it was a big fish or an avid listener to a yarn. They both brought their own rewards.

“Fresh shrimps! Caught today!”

Jackie turned at the voice cutting through the rumble of men’s banter. It was her, the girl from the staithe side. She moved among the drinkers, selling from a basket. When she bent over a seated man, skirt drawn tight over her buttocks, Jackie couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“That right, our Jackie?” Billy grinned. “Ned here says you’ve got a soft spot for Dorry?”

Jackie looked away from her to see the fisherman he had spoken to during the afternoon. Ned nudged the smirking Billy which drew color into Jackie’s cheeks. His cousin laughed out loud then shouted across the room.

“Hey Dorry! Come here, lass!”

She straightened up and turned, caught sight of Billy then pushed through the men, hips swinging. Billy took hold of her arm, leaning close to whisper in her ear. While she listened, Dorry’s eyes twinkled as she speculatively studied Jackie. When Billy drew back she moved up to Jackie so close he could feel her warm breath. She thrust an arm through his, tugging.

“Come outside. I’ve got something to show you.”

Jackie felt his face burning. He tried to act nonchalant, failing miserably. She pulled insistently.

Billy smirked. “Go on, lad. Our Dorry’s got a secret she wants to share.” He relieved his cousin of his beer glass then egged him on with a shove.

Dorry almost dragged him to the door. Outside she coaxed him into an alley that ran up the side of the inn to the cottages behind. After a few yards she stopped, placed her basket by her feet, then leaned back against the wall. He could barely see her eyes flashing, her face framed by the wild tangle of chestnut hair.

“Is it true Scarboro’ lads’re better kissers than Whitby ’uns?”

Before he could speak she silenced his lips with a finger. “Don’t talk, Beauty, kiss me.” He faltered so she took his face between her hands and pressed her lips to his before he could pull away. “How’s that?” she asked. “Am I better than the Scarboro’ girls? Am I a better kisser?”

He stuttered, suffering a pang of guilt about Rose, left behind in Scarborough. Why should Rose always be so reluctant when he wanted to kiss her, yet this girl was kissing him with barely any invitation? “I d-don’t know.”

Dorry grinned. “Try this then.” She kissed him more slowly, teeth parting to allow her tongue to flick quickly around the edges of his mouth before her lips fused with his. Every curve of her body flattened against him. His imagination soared beyond reality into fantasy. Rose was banished like a wraith as a mist clouded his brain, his hands moving to mold Dorry to him. Eyes squeezed tight, he kissed her as best he knew until she broke away, both panting.

“What do you think now, Beauty?” she teased, taking his hand to slip inside her blouse. Her breast was soft and warm in the palm of his hand and she could feel his immediate response where their bodies pressed together. She eased a leg between his, working against him.

“Again, Beauty,” she whispered hoarsely, seeking his mouth, her breath washing hot against his face. Jackie gave in to it, his whole world shut behind his eyelids, tingling nerves concentrated in his searching, caressing hands. She worked at him until he was on fire, knees weak, a hammering in his chest. He wanted, needed more, anything and everything she had to give him.

“Again, Beauty,” a voice mimicked from the mouth of the alley. Billy and two of his friends stood framed in the streetlight, making coarse remarks and lewd gestures.

“Hop it,” Jackie croaked, voice choked by emotion, hands unwilling to release the promise of her flesh.

“Come on, Beauty, tide’s turned. We’re away off now. Howay lad, plenty more of that when you get back.”

Her arms fell. “You go,” she whispered. “I’ll be here when you come ashore. Anytime you come ashore.” She touched his face gently in the darkness. He held her at arm’s length for a moment then snatched a quick kiss before wrenching himself away.

They taunted him all the way down to where Billy Rudd’s sloop lay in the harbor. Speedwell rose and fell at her mooring, gear stacked ready on her deck, the smell of fresh bait almost smothered by the blanket thrown out by the oil factories. Billy lit a lantern to act as a running light and hung it from the mast as Robin and Ian cast off.

“Grab an oar, Jackie,” his cousin grinned, “and let off some of that steam. I’ll hoist t’mainsail when we’re clear.” Speedwell eased out of her berth into open water, falling oars splashing loud in the darkness. “We’ll go off Upgang for a spell then down to Baytown to lift the pots at first light,” Billy said, his strong arms hauling up the canvas as they smoothed between the piers to the sea. “What d’you think of our Dorry, lad?”

Jackie grunted as he stowed his oar.

“Got you going, eh? You get your sixpence worth?”

Jackie screwed up his eyes, trying to see Billy’s face. “What d’you mean, sixpence worth?”

Billy laughed. “Dorry always asks for a silver sixpence. Mind you, if she likes you, then mebbe only a threepenny bit.”

“Sixpence,” Jackie said. “She asked me for nothing.”

Billy stopped hauling. “Nothing? Well, bugger me.”

In the bows it was Robin and Ian’s turn to laugh.

***

“You too, Cottineau?” Paul Jones leaned forward, supporting his weight on the desktop as he glared at the Frenchman. “You defy me? Are you all alike, afraid to fight, or is it that as sailors you’ll only fight at sea?”

The color drained from Cottineau’s face, knuckles white on the arms of his chair. He spoke with a sneer. “Perhaps we French have enough brains not to risk our ships on harebrained schemes.”

Ignoring the insult, the commodore indicated the French marine colonel sitting quietly behind Cottineau’s shoulder. “Colonel de Chamillard does not think it harebrained. His troops are ready, and he is ready to lead them.”

Cottineau nodded as if he expected no less. “The colonel is a soldier and he fights best on land, but he does not understand war at sea. After the Firth of Forth all the English Navy will be searching for us, and I mean all the navy. If you put marines ashore at Newcastle we’ll have to stand by, and that will box us in the River Tyne. The English will blockade and sink us there.” He shook his head, lips clamped together. “Why Newcastle for the love of God?”

Jones’s eyes were steely. “Strategy. We’ll be able to cut off London’s winter supply of coal. The capital will be on its knees.”

“Madness. How long do you think we’d be able to hold Newcastle? A few days, maybe a few weeks at most, and that will do no good at all. The English ships will come like hungry wolves with bronze teeth. Their barks will blow us out of the water.” He rose to his feet. “No, M’sieur le Commodore, no.”

“I am ordering you.”

Cottineau snorted. “Like you ordered Captain Landais? And where is he and his precious Alliance now? Perhaps he was right to depart.”

“I order you to obey. If you refuse I’ll break you.”

Cottineau’s voice was silky, almost unbearably reasonable. “No, M’sieur. You do not have the authority. And if you do not turn the squadron south today, then I and Ricot will leave you to sail alone. Without Pallas and Vengeance you can do nothing. You will be like a neutered tomcat. That is my final word.” He strode to the door, pausing only for a moment. “South.”

When Cottineau had gone, Paul Jones turned his back on the room, glaring out at the North Sea. The coast was visible on the starboard quarter, a smoke haze betraying South Shields. He felt sure it was possible to sail in and capture Newcastle and hold it until the citizens squealed a surrender. But that chance was gone now. Bonhomme Richard could not do it alone. If only there was some way to effectively maintain discipline among the French officers. Behind him, the marine colonel cleared his throat. Slowly, Paul Jones looked over his shoulder.

De Chamillard was a tall man with a weathered face. As a marine, he had spent his entire military career at sea, on board the smallest cutters to the hulking three-decker line-of-battle warships. He sat forward on his chair, elbows on thighs, hands dangling like a prizefighter’s between his knees. Throughout the confrontation he had quietly studied Paul Jones as he had studied lieutenants, captains, and flag rank officers in many such conferences.

He had just about reached his conclusions about the American. Perhaps Jones was a little rough around the edges, like a freshly molded boy’s lead soldier. But when the flashing was rubbed away, underneath lay a solid man. The marine had watched him work. He had an ability to draw men to him like a magnet with no visible effort, and once drawn they were his forever. De Chamillard had felt it himself. Only two meetings and he had fallen under Jones’s spell. Another of his qualities was his capability to command without being arrogant or condescending. Bad tempered he may be, but in the Frenchman’s experience men who were experts and who strove for elusive goals did not suffer fools and incompetents who hindered their pursuit. A man had to be strong willed, like Cottineau, to resist the commodore’s charm.

When the right combination was achieved; ship, crew, the time, and place, de Chamillard was convinced Jones would prove lethal. Under pressure he was decisive, and if his means did not fail him, he would deliver a crushing blow to his adversaries.

“Do not take M’sieur Cottineau’s refusal as a judgment of your leadership, Commodore,” he said. “His kind of insubordination is common enough in European fleets. If a commander is ready to attempt the unexpected, then captains like Cottineau become afraid for their men. To lose their men is to lose authority. Sadly, one day they will pay dearly for it.”

“You would think they did not like to fight the English,” Jones commented.

The colonel bit off a laugh. “A Frenchman is born to hate the English, M’sieur. We have made war against them from the beginning of history. And of course, with them shackling your country as a colony, you must hate them just as much.”

Jones’s eyebrows raised. “Hate the English? Not blindly, only when I fight them as I hate everyone I fight in the heat of battle.”

De Chamillard smiled. “My own thoughts. Not so much who you fight against, but that you win. It is really all that matters.” Jones eyed him, wondering at the truth of it. The Frenchman shrugged, smiling as he spoke again. “On land, objectives and how to achieve them are more clearly seen. As Cottineau pointed out, at sea things are different.”

Paul Jones nodded as he opened the door. “Steward! Ask Mr. Dale to come below at once!” He glanced at de Chamillard. “Keep your men ready. In the meantime we’ll stand off the coast.”

Only an hour after the squadron had stood out to sea, the first of the shipping slipped out of the Tyne. Before they could run, the Bonhomme Richard squadron came about and was down among them like hawks stooping into a flock of sparrows. A brig and two small sloops fell prey within an hour of the chase. Their capture was small consolation for the loss of Newcastle, but proved a boost to the morale of Richard’s crew. On reflection, perhaps Cottineau had been right. If Newcastle could not be held for at least three months, sacrificing their ships was futile.

“Mr. Dale,” he said, “We will sail south. If the English come looking for us here, we’ll surprise them. We’ll nip at their heels and run, then come back and nip again until they know how sharp our teeth can be.”

***

“Are you going to Scarborough fair?

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

Remember me to one who lives there,

She once was a true love of mine…”

Jackie’s melancholy voice drifted out over the calm sea. He was thinking how different Rose and Dorry were. With all he felt for Rose, he wondered how she could have been driven from his mind so easily by the first touch of Dorry’s warm lips. And now, afterwards, why did he feel no guilt? It was as if one thing had nothing at all to do with the other.

The moonless night hung about the boat like a curtain. He sat amidships, staring at his slack line where it dipped into the sea. The two fish laid on Speedwell’s deck beside him had long since ceased their death throes and lay still. Fishing was slow. None of the men in the sloop had caught much. Billy had most to show, only four. Without the excitement of a bite to erase his circling thoughts, Jackie had begun to feel cold and hungry. He started to sing again, hoping the effort would warm him and exorcise the hollowness in his stomach.

“Remember me to one who lives there…”

“You mean in Whitby, don’t you?” Billy crowed from the bow. “Our Dorry with the hot kisses, eh, my Beauty?”

“Stow it, Billy,” Jackie muttered. “Besides, I thought you knew where the fish were round here. There’s nothing running here but your mouth.”

“Hah, cousin. It’s your howling that scaring them off.”

“God, I’m hungry,” Robin said from the stern. “Any of you got a butty left? I could eat a scabby cow.”

“Like Dorry, you mean?”

Jackie wound his line around the oar thole and rose, fists bunched. “I meant it. Stow it, Billy.” The sloop rocked, the mast lantern flickering as Jackie moved forward. Billy was hunched over his line when his cousin came up behind. Casually he swung back an arm. It chopped Jackie’s legs out from under so he went down in a heap. Without a pause he was up on his feet, but before he could strike, Billy was standing, his eyes on his line.

“I’ve got a bite.” He hauled. “By God it’s a big ’un. Lend a hand here, Jackie.” Their quarrel overshadowed by the prospect of a big fish, the two cousins laid hold, the line biting into their numb fingers.

“Can’t see a damned thing,” Jackie complained.

“If he’s as big as I think he is, I don’t want to see him until he’s gaffed and landed in this boat. If I see him and he gets away, I’ll be crying in my beer down The Dolphin.” Billy grunted with effort, pulling in then letting the line go slack, fearing the fish would snap it or throw the hook. “Feels like a bloody shark.”

“Sure it ain’t a whale?” Robin laughed from the stern.

Ian, who had been fishing amidships, his back to the scuffle in the bows, stiffened. He started to mutter. “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus.”

“What?” Billy frowned, sweat running down his face as he fought the line. A jerk broke his attention from Robin, his concentration back on the taut line.

Then he saw his big fish.

CHAPTER 3

Billy’s big fish was an oar tied with a muffle of rag. His line had drifted with the current and was tangled around the blade, the baited hook fast in the cloth. And holding on to the other end was a powerfully built sailor, face split by a grin. The closing boat appeared from the night then butted into Speedwell. An instant later men swarmed over the little sloop. Lanterns were lit and the four fishermen found themselves staring into the cavernous mouths of pistols. Every one of the boarders also held a wickedly sharp cutlass, the steel gleaming in the lamplight.

“Looks like we’ve got a nice little catch here,” a seaman remarked, looking from the prisoners to the few fish on the deck. “Which looks to be more than they got.” He gathered the dead fish, skewering them through the tail with a spike. “Well, somebody might as well eat ’em.” He glanced at his human captives with equal distaste. “Right lads, into the cutter with ’em. Johnson, Crawly, and Jacko, you sail this toy boat.”

The warship loomed out of the inky night like a ghost. Only the sea lapping at her topsides declared her reality. The cutter came alongside, oars rattling as they were righted and stowed while the bowman reached with his gaff to catch the trailing painter by the ship’s main chains. Jackie stared up at the double row of gun ports aft of the ladder and then at the slack canvas spread on her yards, barely discernible. Apparently she had hove-to so a boat could be lowered away to take Speedwell. Why hadn’t he and the others seen the ship? Only now, he realized why she had seemed to be a ghost, for lanterns were being lit on deck. They had run without lights. But why bother to capture a fishing boat? The only answer was the press gang.

“All right, boyos, up the ladder.” A coxswain prodded Jackie in the ribs with the muzzle of his pistol. “Get on with you.”

They scrambled upwards and through the gangway onto the warship’s deck. With lanterns held aloft, sailors moved forward to examine the captives. Suddenly, marching feet parted the onlookers as a squad of marines arrived to form a circle about the four fishermen. Bayonets surrounded them.

Billy muttered. “These are Frenchies,”

“Jesus,” Robin groaned. “And I thought I was press-ganged. Now we’re bloody prisoners of war.”

The sailors who heard him laughed. “You heard this one, shipmates? He thought we was his Britannic Majesty’s Navy!” A fresh burst of laughter was silenced by Lt. Stack.

“Silence there! The commodore’s coming!”

Paul Jones emerged from the officers’ quarters flanked by Lt. Dale and a midshipman aide. “You’ve taken the sloop? Good, then get this ship under way.” He waited as Lt. Stack issued orders that scattered the sailors. Left only with the protection of the marines, Paul Jones moved forward, hands clasped behind his back. He inspected his prisoners. “Which is your home port?”

“What’s it to you?” Billy Rudd demanded, thrusting out his chin.

Lt. Dale gestured. A marine stepped forward from the circle, swinging his musket high. He crashed the butt down. Billy crumpled to the deck. Dale gestured for Jackie and Robin to lift him back to his feet.

“Which port?” Lt. Dale repeated. Billy rubbed at his shoulder, glowering. Lt. Dale glanced at the marine again, prompting an answer.

“Whitby.”

“Whitby what?” Dale barked.

Billy frowned. “Whitby…sir.”

The lieutenant flashed a smile. “Better. Much better. You are being addressed by Commodore John Paul Jones of the American Navy, so please do not forget your manners again.” At the mention of the commodore’s name, the little group of fishermen shrank closer. Dale smiled at the effect.

“Whitby,” Paul Jones repeated. “Are any of you familiar with the waters south of Scarborough?” When there was no sign of response, he shrugged. “Very well, not that I believe you. You have a choice. You are prisoners of war and as such will be chained below. Alternatively, you can join my crew and work for your keep. As crewmen you will be entitled to a share of prize money for any ship we may capture under the articles of war. What do you say? If you’d rather stay up here in the fresh air, then speak up.” He looked from one silent face to another. “Very well. If you please, Mr. Dale. Take them away.” Without further interest he stalked off.

Below decks the brig was already crowded with a harvest from the prize ships. Rows of men were chained wrist to wrist, sprawled in matted straw. Even Billy, well used to the Whitby oil factories, reeled from the stench. After the chill of fishing in the open Speedwell, the heat was almost unbearable as it rose from the crush of bodies, unwashed and surrounded by their own filth. The guards used belaying pins to force space for the new prisoners, bullying the wretched inmates who cowered away, struggling to make gaps.

“On your knees,” a petty officer ordered. “Smithy! Come on man, get to it. The stink of these pigs is going to bring up my supper.”

Jackie held out his hands onto a block for the manacles, rivets were slotted through, then hammered, closing them tight about his wrists. “Next!” the smith shouted, jerking his head so Jackie moved back against the hull timbers. The hammer rang again and again until the new prisoners were strung together like mackerel in a long line on a chain threaded through ringbolts bedded in the deck timbers.

“Reckon we won’t find out what’s in those pots off Baytown now,” Ian grunted, testing his chains as though they were fishing line.

“We’re in our own bloody pot, now,” Billy Rudd replied, massaging his shoulder where the musket butt had felled him. “The bastards. Damn Frenchies and Americans. Foreigners sailing my Speedwell.”

Someone cackled mirthlessly in the gloom before a Scots voice asked: “What kind of boat?”

Pride swelled Billy’s answer. “A sloop and a damned fine one. Whitby built and strong as a whaler, but swift as a bird.”

“I had a sloop once,” the Scot continued in a melancholy tone. “Till I was tricked into piloting for that pirate Paul Jones.” He snorted. “But my Royal Charlotte is home in Scotland. She got away. Yours’ll be at the bottom by now.”

Billy glared. “Sunk? My Speedwell?”

“Aye laddie, he can’t spare the crew to sail her. He’s manned so many prizes that everything under eighty tons is scuppered, be they pretty or not, ye ken?”

Billy’s head dropped between his forearms. “Sunk, my Speedwell.” He lifted his face, cheeks drawn tight, mouth grim. “And that American bastard asked us to crew for him. I’d rather swing.”

The Scot’s voice was low. “There’s time enough for that yet, laddie. You’re in the middle of a war now.”

***

They hoisted a Union Jack at the fore-topgallant masthead, the English signal for a pilot, and two pilot cutters came dashing out of the Humber Estuary. It was as simple as that.

Since taking Speedwell off Whitby, Bonhomme Richard had sailed south through the night, capturing a Scarborough collier before taking a brigantine within sight of Scarborough castle. Paul Jones and Richard Dale had watched the red flag—Enemy in Sight—raised above the battlements, Richard well out of range of the castle’s battery. Now they were off Spurn point on the north flank of the Humber river mouth. Tacking under a light wind, Pallas sought permission from the flagship to give chase to sails bearing north. Paul Jones assented, standing off the estuary, the captured brigantine keeping company with Richard. He walked the quarterdeck, restless before ordering the signal for the pilot.

Lt. Dale frowned. “Sir?”

“A pilot will know what is going on in these waters and I want to know too.” Jones gestured to the prize brigantine. “Colliers and sloops and brigantines. Nothing of importance. For all the sail we have taken, not one that will hurt the English. Not a solitary one.” He peered off the port bow where several pilot cutters showed billowing sails above the estuary’s choppy water. “Too much activity. Something is going on and I mean to know what. If one answers the signal, get him aboard and find out. When he discovers we are the enemy, he may need persuasion. You have my permission to use any means necessary.” He waited until the Union Jack fluttered from the halyard and a cutter responded, her bow cleaving toward Richard. “I’m going below. Call me when you know.” He glanced again at the approaching cutter. “I have a feeling, Mr. Dale.”

An hour passed before the commodore looked up from his papers to Richard Dale’s smiling face. “Yes?”

“Sir, a convoy is expected from the Baltic, and by the pilot’s description, a big one. He expects it to be escorted by at least two warships, perhaps three, probably frigates.”

“When?” Paul Jones’s fingers toyed with his quill, a hint of a smile curling his lips.

“Anytime now, today or tomorrow. That’s why all the pilots are on the water. They’re all eager to secure the contract.”

The Commodore consulted a chart. “So, knowing the Royal Navy, they’ll make landfall as soon as possible then hug the coast south. What’s more, if they’ve been at sea they won’t know I’m here. That’s my little surprise.” He fingered the chart then stabbed a finger at the coastline. “And we’ll be waiting here. We’ll hang in the shadow of the land and when they clear the point we’ll sail into them like trawlers into a shoal of herring.”

Dale leaned forward over the chart. “Where?”

Jones stabbed the map again. “Here. Flamborough Head.”

***

“So now we know,” Captain Richard Pearson said, refolding the parchment the cutter had carried out from the commander of Scarborough garrison. Along with the dispatch was a cartoon cut from a London newspaper. It portrayed “the pirate” Paul Jones drawn like a circus clown with flapping pantaloons and baggy jacket, face caricatured into a scarred buccaneer topped by a plumed hat more suited to a merchant from Genoa than an American.

Captain Richard Pearson allowed himself a mirthless laugh and glanced at the land where the red danger flag flew over Scarborough’s silent gun battery. His gaze swiveled north at the empty horizon, as though he could still see the thirty ships which had left his convoy at Whitby for the last leg of their journey to Scotland. He had protected them throughout the eight-day voyage from Christiansund in Denmark and now he was left with forty-two merchantmen to be escorted to London. Their cargo was badly needed stores for the Royal Navy, and he had only two ships to ensure their arrival. His own, HMS Serapis, was a fast new frigate, extra speed gained by a copper bottom which discouraged marine growth. Rated at forty-four guns, she carried fifty. The main armament was twenty eighteen-pounders mounted on the lower gun deck with twenty nine-pounders on the covered deck, while the quarterdeck carried ten six-pounders. His support vessel was HMS Countess of Scarborough, a sloop-of-war boasting twenty guns, commanded by Captain Thomas Piercy.

Captain Pearson stared south. He had served in the Royal Navy for thirty years and had experienced combat on several occasions. At the siege of Pondicherry he had been caught in a blast of grapeshot. Suffering broken ribs and internal bleeding, he had bravely stood to his post until the action had terminated. For the last nine years he had held the post of captain, commanding two frigates before being handed Serapis. For a moment his thoughts wandered to his wife and two daughters at home in Appleby, Westmorland, wondering whether he would see them again. Reluctantly, he put them out of his mind. He handed the dispatch to his first lieutenant who was covertly watching him.

“Here. Read this.”

First Lieutenant Wright had read many dispatches during his twenty years in the navy, mostly during ten years as a lieutenant. He skimmed the contents, eyes lingering for a second on Paul Jones’s name and the size of his squadron before offering the letter back to his captain. He refrained from commenting on the cartoon still clutched in his superior’s hand. “He’s here then, sir.”

Captain Pearson nodded. “Yes, and to the south of us. If he knows of our presence you can guarantee he’ll be waiting. He’d like nothing better than to sink a few of our merchant friends. He’s too much of a pirate to take on only British warships.” He crumpled the parchment along with the newspaper cartoon and tossed them angrily over the rail. “Well, by God, if he tries to sink my convoy he’ll find himself facing up to broadsides from an English man-o’-war. I’ve not lost a ship yet and I don’t intend to start now. We’ll stand out to seaward of the convoy, astern of the leaders. Signal Countess of Scarborough to sail astern of us, forward of the tail-enders. I want us both to be in flexible positions with plenty of options. He’ll either meet the convoy square on, or stand out to sea and nip in behind. We know nothing of how he fights so we must be ready for anything.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Captain Pearson nodded. “Very well. Let’s get this convoy under way. The day is wasting.”

***

“23rd September 1779,” Bonhomme Richard’s officer-of-the-deck wrote in his log. “09.00 hrs. Sailing north, making 6 knots. Light and variable winds under a clear sky. Alliance sighted at 05.30 hrs. First sighting for 14 days. Pallas rejoined squadron at 06.00 hrs. Now numbers 4 excluding prizes. Approximate position 20 miles S.W. of Flamborough Head, Yorkshire, England.”

Paul Jones watched his crew manipulating Richard’s sail plan as they changed course. He nodded at their efforts, drawing his watch from a waistcoat pocket. Two o’clock. He glanced ahead at the open sea, then at his squadron fantailed astern. How far away was the English convoy and how long would he have to wait? And would the Frenchmen still be sailing with him when the convoy was sighted? For a moment he envied the Royal Navy its discipline.

“Sail on the starboard quarter! Bearing south-east!”

The commodore looked up sharply at the lookout’s call, tucking away his watch with one hand while he reached for his telescope with the other. Only an uncertain patch of sail could be seen. He collapsed the telescope to wait impatiently for the next call.

“Only one sail! A brig!”

Behind the commodore, Lt. Dale snatched a speaking trumpet. “Only one? Are you sure?” he stared up at the lookout in the mainmast crosstrees as though to hang him for a liar.

“Aye sir! One brig!”

“Signal Lt. Lunt in the pilot boat to give chase,” Paul Jones ordered. “With this wind it would take Richard an eternity to overhaul a brig. If they refuse to yield to him, Lunt can hold them until we close.”

Within minutes Lt. Henry Lunt answered the flagship’s signal and the nimble pilot cutter’s profile altered as her crew crowded sail, swinging across Richard’s stern. Paul Jones could see the marines readying their weapons and the swivel guns being loaded as she raced away. He looked back to the empty sea in the north. “Bring her about and we’ll give Mr. Lunt our support…” He was interrupted by the lookout’s call, loud and clear.

“Sail off the port quarter! Large ship standing south round the head! Bearing nor’ nor’ west!”

The commodore raised an eyebrow, opening his telescope and pressing it to his right eye in one fluid movement. Flamborough Head was plainly visible, the 450-foot chalk cliffs white as fresh fallen snow against the leaden sea.

“Two sail! No! Belay that! Three, four!” They began to appear so rapidly the lookout could not keep count. “Fifteen! No, twenty! All bearing nor’ nor’ west!”

The commodore watched the first blurs of canvas drift slowly into the lens of his telescope, reluctant to believe the lookout’s frantic calling. He watched them for a full minute before lowering the glass with a knowing smile. “It’s them, Mr. Dale. The Baltic convoy. We have them. Wear ship, set royals and stun’sails then give chase. Hoist the English colors to give them something to think about before we start blowing holes in them.”

***

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Captain Pearson said irritably, leaving his late lunch half eaten. He took a last mouthful of ale to wash the scraps of salt pork from between his teeth, rising to buckle on his sword. Heading for the deck he straightened his belt to alter the hang of his scabbard, then the set of his hat, stooping to avoid the low timbers. On HMS Serapis’s main deck he glanced aloft, noting the light wind, almost too feeble for maneuvers, before turning to mount the companion ladder.

Although off-watch, Second Lt. Stanhope and Third Lt. Shuckburgh were both standing with Lt. Wright on the quarterdeck. The three officers saluted before Wright moved forward.

“My apologies for disturbing your lunch, sir, but the lookout has just called down a sighting to the south.” He paused. “I thought you should be informed, sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Wright.” He moved to the rail to use his telescope but could see nothing.

“Ahoy the deck! Four ships hull down on the horizon! Fifteen miles!”

Lieutenant Wright watched the captain expectantly.

Pearson glowered. “Seeing how everything that floats has been locked in a safe harbor since Mr. Jones was sighted off Scarborough, it may just be that these four ships are the pirate himself.” He paused, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “It’s too soon to tell for certain. Call me when they can be seen clearly from the deck and what colors they are flying.” He peered landwards at the white cliffs of Flamborough Head three miles distant. There were treacherous shoals off the point, the worst known as Flamborough Steel where the tide split north and south, churning the sea into a froth. At their present position the charts marked ten fathoms, and Captain Pearson liked to keep plenty of water beneath his keel. With a glance at the slack sails above, he turned to Lt. Wright. “Plan your tacks to give us plenty of sea room when we come up on those ships. If the wind does not improve I fear Serapis won’t be able to give what I may demand of her.”

Within two hours Captain Pearson was back on deck. The nearing ships were plainly visible. His lieutenants stood in silence as he scrutinized the strangers.

“They fly our colors,” he muttered, shaking his head. “If ever I saw an old East Indiaman, that leading vessel is one. And if it’s not Paul Jones, I’ll resign my commission. Two frigates with him and a brig too. No doubt Frenchmen by their lines. I hope to God they sail like Frenchmen.” He lowered the telescope slowly. “There’s little doubt. It looks like we’ve got a fight on our hands, gentlemen.”

Cannon fire erupted from the leading merchantman of the convoy. A second shot followed, smoke billowing from the freighter’s bow gun ports. Men scrambled aloft to loose topgallant sails in a bid to capture every puff of wind as she began to come about.

Pearson pursed his lips. “Our merchantman is going to make a run for Scarborough. Signal the rest of the fleet to follow him, then bring Serapis to and order Countess of Scarborough to join us.” He smiled grimly. “What is it the men say? One Englishman is worth five Frenchies or three Yankees? It appears today we are going to find out.”

***

Paul Jones restrained himself from hammering his fists on the taffrail. With teeth clenched he watched the slow motion maneuvers of the Baltic convoy as they went about to run for shelter. The English warship Serapis was sliding into the gap between the convoy and his own squadron.

“Curse them,” he muttered. “Always the wind. At Leith I wanted none and got a storm, and now when all I ask is enough to make my sails draw, there’s scarcely a breeze.” He twisted away from the rail. “Mr. Dale. Crack on the stun’sails. The sooner we reach and deal with him, the quicker we can get amongst the convoy.” There was no doubt in his mind Bonhomme Richard, with the help of Alliance and Pallas could make short work of the two English men-o’-war. It was inevitable. The Englishmen were hopelessly outgunned. He looked up to see the studding sails open, but the breeze barely rippled the canvas, making little difference to Richard’s headway. “Clear for action,” he ordered. Frowning, his gaze fastening onto Richard Dale’s face. “Where will you be?”

“I’ve elected to command the main battery, sir.”

Jones nodded. “Who will be here with me?”

“Midshipman Mayrant, sir. A good lad.”

The commodore nodded again, loosing a brief smile. “If you picked him, I believe you. I rely on you to maintain the standard you’ve set so far, more especially today.”

Lt. Dale came to attention, eyes locked with his commander’s, aware that something special was about to happen. Perhaps today was that day he had earlier prophesied, the day he would follow Paul Jones wherever he would lead. “Thank you, sir. I shall try to justify your faith in me.” He saluted formally, then about-faced with a click of his heels before marching to head of the companion. He stood silently for a moment, registering one or two upturned faces on the weather deck. Slowly, he drew a deep breath.

“Clear for action!” he bellowed. “All hands stand to their posts!”

There was barely a murmur from the men as they moved quickly to their stations. Since the convoy had been sighted Bonhomme Richard had carried an atmosphere of apprehension so thick it was almost visible. Now, throats constricted with tension, wagging tongues stilled, their eyes rested silently on the horizon where HMS Serapis blocked their path like a bulldog on a chain. Each man knew his place, second nature from frequent drills. While Richard Dale descended to the main gun deck, Lt. Stack climbed to the main-top where twenty sailors and marines stood to swivel guns and small arms. Midshipman Fanning took up his station in the fore-top with fourteen men while the mizzen-top held Midshipman Coram with nine men. On the poop deck Midshipman Mayrant joined the commodore as his aide, glancing behind him for reassurance at the twenty marines under the personal supervision of Colonel de Chamillard. In the waist, the marine drummers stared straight ahead as they beat out “General Quarters,” crisp snare drums rattling out the music of war.

An hour later Paul Jones glanced astern at his following squadron then for’ard to where HMS Serapis was matching him tack for tack. Fear crawled somewhere in his stomach, its ugly hand twisting his bowels, but confidence lay harbored there too; that today would be a day of all days. He smiled, half fearful, half exhilarated, as though he had cast the dice of his fate and now he would have to see it to the end. Now was the time.

“Signal: FORM LINE OF BATTLE.”

“Aye aye, sir,” his aide, Mayrant replied, his high voice cracking from nervous strain as he turned to call down the command. Within moments a blue flag opened at the fore followed by a blue pendant at the main truck. The mizzen sported the final part of the order, a blue and yellow flag.

Bonhomme Richard sailed on, the light wind nudging her so slowly she seemed stationary, bow wave sluggish. Almost as if we have all the time in the world, Paul Jones thought.

“The squadron does not acknowledge the flag, sir,” Mayrant said timidly as though somehow it was his fault.

“What?” The commodore twisted to glare astern. Alliance, closest to Richard, had hauled her wind, veering away landwards onto the flagship’s port quarter. “Landais, the damned fool. He complains I don’t give him the chance to fight. I give him a battle on a plate. Not just any battle but an English man-o’-war, and what does he do?” Farther astern, Pallas was sheering off to starboard and the open sea, plainly declaring her neutrality. Paul Jones’s whisper was bitter. “Cottineau, you too? You refused me Newcastle because you wanted to fight at sea. Now you deny me that.” His smile of minutes before was gone. Perhaps luck was gone too. He shook his head with despair. The odds in the coming engagement had suddenly been shortened, giving the Englishman the edge with his newer ship. What had looked easy now looked impossible. “Damn you, Frenchmen,” he moaned. “It would have been better if I had never set eyes on France.”

“Pardon, sir?” Mayrant frowned.

Paul Jones turned his back on the squadron’s insubordination. “Haul up the lower courses so we can see what we’re about.” He fixed his gaze on the patient Serapis while Richard’s crew toiled to reef and furl the lower sails, hampered by the cargo nets strung six feet or so above the deck, ready to catch any debris blown down by cannon fire. Under the canopy of nets the gun crews stood by their charges.

Henry Gardner, an Englishman turned American, wore his rank as Chief Gunner seriously. He prowled the decks checking the rope falls, testing tackle everywhere before any senior officer could find cause for complaint. Muzzle lashings had been cast off, the eighteen-pounders drawn down parallel to the deck before the tompions were withdrawn from their snouts. The powder monkeys had ferried up cartridges of black powder from the magazines, then on command a wad and cartridge had been rammed down each muzzle to make a bed for the shot.

“Run out your guns!” Gardner ordered when the lieutenant caught his eye. He watched closely as the ports were hauled up and lashed, before the barebacked crews put their shoulders against dull bronze, heaving until trundling carriage wheels thudded against hull timbers. The tackle falls flaked neatly on the deck, ready to handle the recoil. Bonhomme Richard’s flanks bristled with cannon.

“Prime!”

A gunner stepped forward with a powder horn to fill each weapon’s touchhole.

“Point your guns!”

Under the direction of the cannoneers the crews grunted, manhandling the long barrels and driving in wedges until the top sight hovered in line with the nearing image of HMS Serapis as Richard rounded onto the enemy’s weather quarter. The two ships were sailing side by side, slowly converging. The day had died, darkness falling over the ocean. Between the ships the sea shone, smooth as a lake, reflecting the rising moon. Opposite, Serapis had triced up her gun ports to reveal a formidable double row of cannon. Those of Richard’s gun crews who had not broken out into a sweat setting their cannon now found chests and armpits soaked, mouths suddenly parched. No easy merchantman faced them now.

When the two ships were almost within pistol shot, a voice hailed: “What ship are you?”

Midshipman Mayrant followed his instructions to the letter. “The Princess Royal!” he shouted in reply.

“Where from?”

The answer was a muffled shout and the next statement was called with all the authority of a King’s officer well used to being obeyed. “Answer immediately or I shall open fire on you!”

How formal he sounds, Paul Jones thought as he gripped Mayrant’s arm to still any reply. The boy looked up at him, face and lips bloodless. He saw green fire leap and flash in the commodore’s eyes.

“Sir?”

“We’re close enough. Strike the English colors and hoist the American ensign.” He released the boy who passed the order. Only the swish of Bonhomme Richard’s passage through the sea could be heard to accompany the squeal of the halyard running through the blocks. When the colors fell open into the breeze, Paul Jones started for the rail.

“Starboard broadside! FIRE!”

CHAPTER 4

The first broadsides were deafening.

Gunpowder thunder rolled over the sea, cannonballs searing the sky before shredding canvas and wrenching away rigging. The distance between the two ships was so narrow there was little chance of missing. The eighteen-pound shot smashed into decking, spears of white wood rearing up as planks were ripped from crossbeams and flung into the air like firewood. The thunder drowned the screams of agony as men’s limbs were torn from their bodies while the red-varnished timbers of the gun decks disguised spurting blood.

HMS Serapis did not suffer alone. When Captain Pearson saw the stars and stripes he had no hesitation. His gunners had long been ready, smoldering matches close to hand. He gave the order for the port battery to open fire, the broadside merging with the American’s. Bonhomme Richard shuddered as the English shot sought and found targets, smashing into her topsides.

Below the main deck Lieutenant Richard Dale stood with one arm hanging onto a stanchion, eyes screwed into slits against the smoke and stink of spent gunpowder. After only one broadside the heat from the cannon had already brought out fresh sweat on his back and shoulders where the cold sweat of fear had dried. The gun crews on Richard’s port side stood by their unfired charges, numbly staring at the sweat drenched starboard gunners working their cannon. Flung back by the recoil, the smoking muzzles were inside the ports.

“Reload!” Lt. Dale shouted.

The men had begun without him. The leading hand pulled a stave from the low beam above then dipped the sponge tip into a water bucket before ramming it straight down the barrel to kill sparks or scraps of burning cartridge. Turning a deaf ear to the cannoneer’s sequence of orders, they automatically followed the ritual. Cartridge, wad, ball, heave the gun carriage until it hit the topsides, prime, aim. Only when all was ready did they glance at the lieutenant braced against the stanchion, or glance at their shipmates who had watched the performance.

“Fire!” Dale shouted.

The cannoneers held slow matches to the touchholes. An almighty explosion ripped through the gun deck. Men were flung into the air to bounce off beams like dolls discarded by petulant children. Another explosion followed, horrified faces turning open mouthed, starkly lit by orange bursts of fire. Carnage everywhere. The idle port gunners still on their feet were spattered by spraying blood. A head, complete with open eyes, ragged tendons dangling bloody from a sheared neck, was caught by a sailor in a reflex movement. He stared at it for a second in disbelief then threw it away. The second blast sent him staggering to his knees. The severed head rolled back in front of his face. He vomited as he tried to scramble away but his feet slipped on the gory deck.

“Oh my God!” a man wailed, his eardrums burst by pressure waves. “The magazine’s blown! We’re dead!”

Richard Dale pulled himself upright, wiping blood from his eyes. Picking through the debris, he moved forward to inspect the scene. Two of the eighteen-pounders had burst, barrels blown open like flowers. With carriages upended, the ruined muzzles stared uselessly at a gaping hole in the timbers above. Their crews were nowhere to be seen in the smoke, blown to bits along with the crews from several cannon on either side and men from the port battery. Horribly disfigured sailors lay moaning among the human debris of bone and gristle, clutching wounds in a bid to staunch welling blood. It was as though a madman had run the length of the deck whirling a scythe about his head.

Lt. Dale hid his revulsion and fought the heaving in his stomach by issuing a rapid stream of orders.

“Those guns still intact! Reload and fire at will! You, yes you, get your crew to take the wounded below to the surgeon. You port side men, make up the men missing from the starboard crews. Jump to it!” Behind him, an English cannonball punched through the topsides, leaving a charred trail as it careered across the deck. He never flinched. “You heard me! Get to it or I’ll know the reason why!”

***

Smoke had begun to permeate into the brig below the main gun deck. The prisoners-of-war crouched in rows, shackled together with nowhere to run and nobody to fight. The deafening roar of the eighteen-pounders bursting had driven heads lower between hunched shoulders, hands clapped to ears. Except for distant warning shots when the Baltic convoy had sighted Bonhomme Richard, Jackie Rudd had never heard cannon fire. Broadsides thundering out overhead left him staring helplessly upwards, fearful of the decking crashing down.

“Soon be out, Jackie boy!” his cousin Billy shouted, a wild grin cracking his face. “Sounds like one of our frigates has come to teach this pirate a lesson!”

Jackie turned his gaze toward his cousin.

“We rule the waves and don’t you forget it,” Billy went on. “Our navy’ll make mincemeat out these Yankees.”

“If they don’t sink us first,” commented the dour Scot.

“Best place for this bucket,” Billy retorted.

The Scot was unmoved. “If this bucket goes down, laddie, we’ll go with it.” He lifted his hands to remind them of their chained wrists. “You’ll not be thinking they’ll send a smith down to break these off if she goes down, are you?”

Billy glared at him, the truth sinking in. Overhead, another salvo of cannon fire silenced any reply.

***

On the quarterdeck Commodore John Paul Jones paced back and forth. The power of the Englishman’s first broadside had surprised him. The man-o’-war’s hull was shrouded with smoke as gunners loosed their charges. The explosion below decks on Richard during the second broadside had surprised him too. He had not expected the Englishman to find a vulnerable spot so quickly. That they had was obvious from the ragged salvos now coming from the main gun deck below.

Without Landais and Alliance or Cottineau’s Pallas, it seemed the English firepower and accuracy would make short work of Bonhomme Richard. As well as the damage below decks, they had already lost some spars and rigging. The only hope was to fight a close action.

“Back the fore and main topsails,” he commanded. Long minutes passed, the Englishman blazing broadside after broadside before Richard fell astern, safe for the present from the long English guns. With an eye on the filling topsails, Paul Jones judged the right moment. “Weather the helm! Hard over!” he called, anxious she would respond.

As the lazy wind began to push Richard, she paid off to starboard across the tall stern of Serapis. “Rake as you come to bear!” the commodore called down through the smoke. The unfired port battery, shotted and ready, discharged one after another in a staccato pattern, the deck shivering with the recoils. Splintering wood and screams could be heard over the water in the aftermath, time for only one salvo before the guns were unsighted. Within seconds, Richard’s port side smashed amidships against the starboard quarter of Serapis’s transom.

The deck officers were quick to see the commodore’s plan. They rushed to the bulwarks to supervise the placing of a boarding plank, rallying the men close by. Callused hands flung the baton across. An officer sprang onto it, waving a pistol in one hand, a short sword in the other.

Paul Jones, both hands on the rail, could see the officer’s mouth working, arm urging boarders forward. With only enough contact between the two ships for one plank, the English were waiting. Before he had taken three steps, the American was cut down. His pistol and sword dropped into the abyss between the hulls as he crumpled off the plank. His place was filled immediately, marine following marine. Support was given by the men in the mast tops who pouring down small arms fire on the English. A swivel gun crashed, spraying death onto Serapis’s deck, but where the dead and injured fell, their places were taken as though by sorcery. The French marines were shot off the plank as fast as they put feet on the wood. The odd man who succeeded in reaching the English deck was hacked to pieces. Paul Jones could almost hear the English officers laughing at him. When twenty men’s lives had been wasted he saw it was futile.

“Belay the assault! We’ll sheer off!”

***

As Bonhomme Richard fell away, Captain Pearson took the initiative. From his position on the quarterdeck of HMS Serapis, he had personally directed his crew as they repelled boarders, content to leave the gangplank in place as long as necessary. While the Americans kept coming, his men could shoot them off with little risk. But as soon as the enemy abandoned their attempt, Pearson saw his chance.

“Helm hard a-port!” he shouted, Serapis eating her fill of the meager wind. She swung but could not muster enough headway to overhaul and cross Richard’s bows. He cursed, all too aware the American had seen his intention, the old East Indiaman dogging his stern. His marines lined the taffrail, loosing ripples of musket fire toward Richard’s nearing jibboom.

“He’s going to ram us,” Lt. Wright said in astonishment, aiming and firing his own pistol. The report was followed by the crash of twin swivels mounted by the lanterns. Seconds later, Serapis still swinging to starboard, Richard’s bowsprit plowed into their bulwarks like a raging bull, bodily lifting cannon from their trucks and tossing them across the deck. Captain Pearson lost sight of the Stars and Stripes in the confusion, thinking Paul Jones had hauled his colors down, the universal signal of surrender. Squinting through the smoke, he pushed forward to the rail, two marines moving aside. He held up his speaking trumpet and called through a lull in the musket fire.

“Paul Jones! Has your ship struck!”

On the quarterdeck Paul Jones laughed heartily, boosting the morale of the marines who stood in a protective circle about him.

“Struck?” he shouted back. “I have not yet begun to fight!”

While the men on the weather deck cheered his courage, the commodore considered his next move. He had to get Richard clear before the swivel gunners in the enemy’s stern could inflict more damage. With his own ship pointing directly at the Englishman, swivels in the mast tops were unable to bear because of Richard’s rigging and sails.

“Back topsails,” he ordered, speculating on the Englishman’s next move when Richard eased off. The answer came soon. As the bowsprit wrenched free, Serapis began to wear to port, turning on her heel to run westerly.

“Pardon, sir?” Midshipman Mayrant asked.

Jones frowned. “What, boy? No, I didn’t say anything. You see what he wants me to do? He wants me to wear ship so he can use his broadsides on me again. Very well, I shall. Pass the order.”

It was Mayrant’s turn to frown. “Sir?”

“Don’t question me! Pass the order!”

Bonhomme Richard wore, swinging parallel to Serapis, but moving much slower than the agile English frigate. Paul Jones knew Pearson would have to back his sails to allow Richard to draw level, and it was for that moment he waited, watching the enemy rigging. It was as he foresaw. Serapis backed her topsails, checking her headway. The commodore smiled.

“We have him. Let her run!”

Richard gathered way. When she drew level, her sails stole the Englishman’s wind, Pearson’s ship almost at a standstill. The American surged ahead. A staccato broadside chased them, but the commodore was grinning as they moved out of range.

“Helm hard a-weather!” he ordered. The quartermaster spun the wheel, Bonhomme Richard cutting across Serapis’s bows. “Trim the braces!” he shouted, realizing they were not going to weather with enough sea room to rake the Englishman. He glanced at the rigging and saw some of the yards’ braces had been shot away. He knew then the two ships would collide again. He had wanted it close, but not like this.

He cursed as Serapis’s jibboom and bowsprit plunged into Richard’s mizzen shrouds. For a moment he thought the rigging would be torn away and the mizzenmast would fall. It held, but Richard’s momentum, spiked by the enemy’s bowsprit, swung her so the two ships lay flank to flank, bows to stern. Still moving but unable to shake free, Richard’s topsides crashed into the English man-o’-war, American cannon muzzles jammed tight against the still unopened gun ports of the Englishman’s starboard battery.

As Paul Jones registered the fact Captain Pearson would now be unable to use his broadsides, Mayrant came back to his side from the head of the companion.

“Sir! She’s hooked us on a fluke of her starboard anchor! We’re held fast!”

Jones grinned. His mistake had turned to advantage. “Well done, lads! We’ve got her now! Throw on the grappling irons and stand by for boarding!” He strode to where one of the enemy’s forestays had fallen across the quarterdeck during the collision. He grabbed and tied it to Richard’s mizzenmast. “Make her fast, lads! She’ll not run away now!” The men cheered him. He waved in acknowledgement, then turned to Stacey, the officer who had taken over duties as sailing master. Stacey grinned, dropping the line he had brought to lash the forestay.

“We’ll show the English bastards now, eh sir?”

The commodore’s smile froze, but amusement danced in his eyes. “Mr. Stacey, it’s no time to be swearing. You may be in eternity within the next few minutes, and have to answer for it. Let us do our duty!”

***

Captain Pearson strode Serapis’s quarterdeck in a fury. That accursed American in a decrepit old merchantman had outmaneuvered his brand new frigate. His rage was such he was oblivious of the musket balls hammering into the deck about him, fired from the foremast crosstrees of Bonhomme Richard. His own marines knelt by the rail, loading and firing through a pall of powder smoke.

“Wright!” Pearson bellowed, hands clasped behind his back, head hunched bulldog-like between his shoulders.

“Sir?” First Lieutenant Wright answered, matching the captain pace for pace.

“What’s happening down there?” He jerked his head at the weather deck, obscured by fallen rigging and smoke.

“They’re throwing grapples, sir.”

“Cut them free and order the starboard battery to open fire. Hah, point-blank range. We’ll blow that old wreck out of the water. And her insolent upstart of a commander with her.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but the gun ports on the starboard side are blocked by the American cannon.”

“Blow them off from the inside.”

Wright looked horrified. “But sir…”

Pearson ignored him. “When the guns are ready, order the crews clear but for the cannoneer. It’s been done before, it can be done again. Well? Get on with it, man!”

As the English sailors rushed forward with axes to chop away the grapples, sharpshooters in Richard’s mast-tops shot them down. It was revenge for the massacre during the earlier boarding attempt. When Lt. Wright returned with news that the gunners were preparing to blow the ports and that attempts to sever the grappling lines were failing, Captain Pearson changed tactics.

“Let go the forward port anchor. The wind and tide should pull the pirate clear. And when the guns come to bear he’ll soon strike his colors.” He estimated they stood about three miles southeast of Flamborough Head, the white cliffs faint in the moonlight, and the tide was running strongly. If Serapis’s anchor held fast to the seabed, the plan should work.

***

Paul Jones was unable to stand still, adrenaline racing through his bloodstream as he paced about the quarterdeck. His eyes raked the various scenes of battle unfolding before him. The nearly full moon had climbed above a bank of heavy cloud on the eastern horizon to throw its ghostly grin across Bonhomme Richard as she swung with the tide, clinging to HMS Serapis like a limpet to a rock. Muzzle flashes, bright orange in the dark, drew a latticework of the entangled rigging. Richard’s yards overhung the Englishman so far he could see his men sidling across on the safety ropes to fight hand to hand with the English sailors in the mast-tops.

He grinned when he saw his men win their skirmish, tossing their opponents out over the side before pouring down gunfire onto the deck below. They threw grenades, thunderous explosions littering the English deck with those too slow to flee. Fire flickered in a dozen places, powder igniting with dull whumphs and clouds of murky smoke.

Within minutes, Serapis’s battery of ten-pounders on the weather deck was abandoned, murderous grapeshot flung by Richard’s swivel guns at any English tar who thought to regain the deck. Sparks and smoke blossomed against the gray sails of both warships accompanied by the bark of muskets as sharpshooters beaded on selected targets.

Bonhomme Richard winced and shuddered. If Serapis had temporarily lost her main deck battery, then the gun deck battery bore no loss lightly. The cannoneers had blown away the blocked ports and now loaded and fired as fast as shot could be rammed down the muzzles of the eighteen-pounders. Ball after ball smashed into Richard’s shivering topsides, crunching the heavy timbers into wicked splinters that flew about ’tween decks like a rain of Zulu spears.

Paul Jones was almost deaf under the roaring of the English cannon. He wondered how either ship could withstand the crippling broadsides and fires which had broken out everywhere. It seemed Richard’s guts would be wrenched and twisted until she gave up and went to pieces. Eyes running from smoke he turned away, searching the dark sea for the rest of his squadron. Spying gunfire he used his telescope, studying until he was sure of what he saw. The other English vessel, the sloop-of-war Countess of Scarborough was being engaged. But by whom? As the squabbling ships maneuvered, blasting broadsides, he had to wait until a French ship was silhouetted against the night sky. Pallas! So Cottineau had not deserted him after all. Originally built as a privateer, Pallas fought like one now, dodging and weaving, salvos rippling from her ten-pounders.

Someone touched his arm. He lowered his glass to see Richard Dale’s dirt-streaked face. Hatless, his hair was singed and tacky with blood, and through rips in his uniform jacket his smoke blackened shirt could be seen. His white knee breeches and stockings were spotted by sprayed blood.

“Sir, we’ve lost the main battery. Two of the eighteen-pounders exploded during the second broadside, and the rest have been destroyed since. Not that there are any men left below to man guns if I had them. They’re all dead.” His right eye jerked with a nervous tic, mouth contorted into a humorless grin. “All dead. They’re all dead…” He shook his head as though to disperse the horrors he had witnessed.

The commodore nodded. “Damage control? I want you…”

Dale waved a tired hand. “I’ve got fire parties working without rest. They no sooner douse one fire before another breaks out…” He covered his ears as a ragged salvo thundered from the English guns. Bonhomme Richard protested beneath their feet while a spar fell from aloft, trailing a tangle of rigging.

Screams broke out from the starboard rail. Both officers craned necks. A man lay howling on the deck by the wreckage of a nine-pounder. A ball had demolished the gun carriage and taken the cannoneer’s legs with it. He sat stunned, staring wide-eyed at two ragged stumps where his legs had been. Nearby, an officer rocked back and forth, clutching his face where a huge splinter had torn away his cheek. Blood poured from the gaping hole, a full side of yellowed teeth exposed above the brilliant white of his jawbone. It was Purser Mease who had been in charge of the quarterdeck battery.

“Give me a hand!” Paul Jones barked, moving to the rail. He prodded a finger at two marines occupied reloading muskets. “Get these wounded men below! You and you! Get this debris cleared!” He gestured to the shattered gun carriage. When they stepped forward to carry out his orders he turned away, grabbing Lt. Dale’s sleeve to pull him over to the port rail where an unmanned nine-pounder stood silent, miraculously intact, aimed uselessly at the open sea. Without waiting for help, the two officers began to drag the cannon across the deck. When a marine joined them the commodore nodded his thanks, but when a second came up he waved him away. “Get back to your station! And use that musket!” When the soldier frowned Paul Jones remembered and repeated the order in French.

Explosions ripped across the weather deck. Sweating, the commodore straightened up in time to see the devastation of his battery of twelve-pounders. His position on the quarterdeck gave him an aerial view as cannon bucked loose from carriages, rope falls flailing the smoke-heavy air like whips. As powder kegs exploded one after another, it was hard to believe it was night, so clearly could he see the systematic destruction. It appeared the only armament he had left was the three nine-pounders on the quarterdeck where he stood. With only two trained gun crews, the third cannon was left to himself and Mr. Dale.

He was no stranger to cannon. He had worked them often enough as a junior officer, the routine never forgotten, only dulled. He glanced down at the main deck again. Who could be sure who was winning in all this chaos?

“Sir?”

“What?” The commodore snapped, irritated.

“Look! Can you see?” Dale pointed astern into the night.

Paul Jones squinted. His eyes did not lie. A vessel was bearing down on them, bellying sails ghostly gray, towering over the unmistakable lines of a frigate.

“Well, well,” he said. “Now we shall see.”

CHAPTER 5

Midshipman Fanning crouched uncomfortably on his haunches in the foremast-top. Fumbling with his powder horn he tried to reload his pistol. His hands were trembling with excitement while his body shook, chest heaving. He had never felt so alive, every nerve end tingling, every sense magnified as the battle raged around him. He had never felt so close to death either. Time had no meaning. He did not know whether they had been fighting for minutes or hours or forever.

When he had climbed the ratlines to his station in the fore-top with fourteen marines, the men had been apprehensive while trying to appear cheerful. Each was fully equipped and knew what he had to do. There was a professionalism and orderliness about it all. Now, equipment littered the blood-slippy planking and half were dead, stripped of powder and shot then pushed over into the nothingness of night to make more room for the living.

The remaining men fought consistently. Some lived up to his expectations of how professional soldiers should perform. They fought grim faced, almost deliberately slow as they loaded and carefully aimed before shooting. Others screamed their hate like cornered animals, almost climbing over the rail, eager to inflict pain and death. They reloaded with frantic speed, cartridge-ball-wad-ram-prime, almost one fluid movement fueled by anger. Others were silent, legs jerking uncontrollably as they shot or threw grenades down onto the English warship. He wasn’t sure whether they trembled with rage or terror.

Ears numb from the battering of cannon fire below and crashes of muskets in the mast-top, the midshipman glanced around the half circle of marines. However they fought, and whatever their feelings, they fought well. He tried to still his shaking hands long enough to prime the pistol. Powder scattered over the dirty knees of his white breeches. Suddenly his hand was wet with blood. He stared at the great splash of crimson, too shocked to scream or move. He hadn’t felt anything. Nothing at all. Now he knew what it was like to be wounded. God, you didn’t even feel it! He choked back a hysterical laugh. There was nothing to fear but fear. Eyes wet with tears of relief, he rocked back on his heels.

Shadows moved. Fanning glanced up as a figure lurched above him, keeling over. A musket clattered unheard on the planking. Automatically, he lifted his arms to protect himself and caught the crumpling soldier. The French marine was already dead, eye socket empty where a ball had screamed into his brain. Fanning fended off the deadweight corpse. It fell at his side. Covered in the dead man’s gushing blood, he wiped both hands on the tail of his uniform jacket. When he looked down gore was smeared across his hands but there was no wound. With the knowledge he had not been hit after all, the fear returned. Grimacing and sobbing, he completed reloading then hauled himself to his feet. He brandished the pistol and yelled.

“Dead man here! Clear the deck!”

A marine who had fallen back to reload rested his smoking musket on the deck then bent to hoist his dead comrade over the rail. The action was complicated by the cramped confines of the mast-top. Dancing shadows from below confused a man’s eyes. Gun smoke provoked coughing fits. Each explosion nearby made nerves already raw jangle, expecting to take a hit at any moment. Clumsy, he was unable to get a firm grip on the body.

“Here man,” said Midshipman Fanning in a commanding voice he did not recognize as his own. He tucked his pistol into his belt before bending to lend a hand. They dragged the corpse to the seaward side, hoping it wouldn’t land on any of their own men fighting below. Sweating and cursing, they hauled him up until his chest was balanced on the rail, arms hanging over the side. The officer and the marine paused in their efforts, eyes locked for a long second. Fanning wondered at what he saw in the other man’s eyes. Pity, shame, resignation, hatred of himself, and hatred of an officer for ordering a man to be thrown casually overboard as though loss of life meant not a thing. Most of all he divined fear. Fear of the living man’s own death and that he too would be unceremoniously dumped over the side to rot at the bottom of the sea. Not even a patch of ground. Only bottomless, always shifting water where a man’s hopes and dreams would be rinsed from his dead mind and dissipated with the tide, lost without trace among the fishes.

In unspoken agreement they broke the stare, then heaved together. The body vanished into the chaos below, a flickering shadow against a muzzle flash. Fanning suddenly felt calm, a sense of inevitability settling over him. What must have only been a few seconds since the marine died seemed like hours and he knew in that instant they would fight until they were all dead and Bonhomme Richard was a ghost ship, drifting and burning in the endless night.

He sighed and looked away from the battle, out to sea where the darkness waited to claim them. It was then he saw the frigate bearing down. He squinted, eyes raking her hull and sail plan. Alliance!

Stunned for a moment, his emotions somersaulted. Now they would beat the Englishman. They would blow him to smithereens! He jerked his pistol free of his belt and pointed it skywards, finger curling about the trigger. Startled by a shot so close behind their heads, two or three marines spun from the rail to glare at him.

“Look men!” Fanning shouted. “We’re saved! Alliance! It’s Alliance! She’s come to help us!”

The Frenchmen shouldered to the seaward rail. After a brief moment of disbelief they began to slap each other on the back and cheer. Their voices turned other eyes to the sea and the cry was taken up from bows to stern of the crippled Bonhomme Richard. Heartened, each man turned back to the fighting with new vigor, tapping resources already thought drained.

“You there!” Fanning yelled hoarsely. “Lay on or I’ll have you flogged at the gangway for breakfast! This is no musket drill! Lay on!”

***

“Look sir!” Lt. Wright shouted. He was watching from HMS Serapis’s quarterdeck, gauging when Alliance would cross their bows as they lay shackled to Bonhomme Richard. “The Frenchie’s going to rake us!”

Captain Pearson’s lips curled upwards, eyebrows welded together in a frown. With his head low between his hunched shoulders, he nodded he had seen the newcomer. “I expected it all along. We can count ourselves lucky the whole squadron did not have at us on first contact. I was surprised when only his flagship engaged; that he had the gall to think he could take one of His Majesty’s ships with only an old East Indiaman. Well, they won’t find us easy. Jones has lost nearly all his cannon and he will shield us when the frigate has passed our bow. There will only be time to rake once, and if he comes about onto our port side, we’ll give him a good English broadside. No, damn him, let him come.”

Lt. Wright was amazed at Pearson’s confidence, but discarded it as reassurance for the junior officers within earshot on the quarterdeck. With two vessels engaging them, they had no chance. Serapis was almost a wreck now, burning nearly from end to end. And if they managed to bring the fires under control, they would still probably burn to the waterline when the flames raging on the pirate ship spread back to them. If he could rally the men to retake the main battery…

A deafening explosion from one of the forward hatches shook Serapis like a bone clamped between a dog’s jaws. The deck heaved, hurling the two officers on their faces. Great splinters scythed the air overhead. Struggling to his knees, Pearson had hands clapped over his punished ears.

“Grenade!?” he shouted.

“Aye sir,” Wright called back, pulling himself up by the rail, eyes turned back for’ard. A sheet of flame outlined the hatch, sparks jumping to nearby rigging. Burning halyards sheered away, released tension curling them into the air in fiery tatters.

“Don’t wait here, man,” Pearson said irritably, hauling himself to his feet. “Get down there and bring that fire under control.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And get those damned Frenchies or Americans or whatever in God’s name they are off my yards!”

***

Richard Dale ran for’ard past the smoldering wreckage of the marines’ roundhouse on the open deck. Leaping mounds of cordage and smashed spars that had fallen from aloft, he dodged around burst cannon and the broken bodies of men. Musket balls thudded into the deck timbers around him as English sharpshooters followed his progress. He was too busy to notice, ears ringing from the persistent cannon fire. Even in a lull there was no silence, echoes of broadsides hammering back and forth in his mind. That and the crackling of flames eating both ships, and now the cheering at Alliance’s arrival. Men who seconds before had been on the point of giving up now fought with renewed fury. Some grinned like madmen, oblivious of their wounds and the horrors they had seen.

Dale kept moving. From one huddle of men to another, always for’ard. A French marine sat with his back to the bulwarks, loading paper cartridges from a powder horn that his comrades snatched as soon as they were full. He paused in his work, turning his smoke-blackened face upwards when Dale halted beside him. That was when the lieutenant saw the marine had been blinded, but had stayed at his post to load for his friends. Dale smiled then bent to pat the marine’s arm.

“Bon, bon, le courage.” He didn’t know whether it was the correct French or not, but it was near enough. He gulped down smoky air into his lungs for the last dash. Ready, he sprinted for the foc’sle, scrambling up the remains of a shattered ladder. With Bonhomme Richard and Serapis shackled together, facing opposite directions, Richard’s bows were hard against the Englishman’s quarterdeck. Captain Pearson’s marine bodyguard was laying down a murderous crossfire with their muskets. Hunched on Richard’s foc’sle top was group of sailors who had taken refuge when the main weather deck battery had been decimated. A petty officer had organized the men. Having retrieved a few muskets and pistols, they were giving as good as they got.

Dale fell panting to the deck. The petty officer turned to offer the semblance of a smile when he recognized the lieutenant. He pointed aft into the smoke from where they could hear cheering.

“That be Alliance, sir? We got the word.”

Dale nodded, gulping air. Alliance was the reason he had come for’ard. It was impossible to see their own ship’s bows from the quarterdeck because of the smoke-heavy night. The commodore had sent him up to make a head count and to watch Alliance after she crossed their stern and moved up the port side. She should then swing around their bows and rake the Englishman’s stern. When that happened, Dale was to lead a boarding party to capture Serapis’s quarterdeck and her principal officers while they were still stunned.

“How many men have you?”

The petty officer looked about, estimating recent losses. He made face and shrugged. “Twenty, maybe thirty. Hard to tell. And there ain’t enough muskets for all.”

The lieutenant scanned their meager equipment. Discounting the few firearms, they had pikes and cutlasses for combat hand to hand. Besides, it didn’t matter what they had, even only belaying pins, they would have to make do. He opened his mouth to issue the boarding orders…

***

Captain Pierre Landais stood on Alliance’s quarterdeck as she forged through the darkness. Ahead lay the two struggling men-o’-war, locked together stem to stern in a deadly embrace. Multiple fires lit the sky as they pounded each other to pieces, reflections between the palls of gun smoke showing a clutter of wreckage floating around both battered hulls. Below him, Landais’s own main deck was manned in textbook fashion, each man standing to his post, ready for action. The marine drummers beat a steady roll, staring blindly ahead. Wisps of smoke trailed from slow matches in the cannoneers’ hands, awaiting only the order to open fire.

Pierre Landais wore a wolf’s head grin. His eyes glinted as he stared fascinated at the close-fought duel between warships. He reveled in each explosion, each wail of pain that pierced the night. So, it looked like the cocksure American commodore had met his match after all. It served him right after giving out orders as though instructing little boys. It should have been him, Pierre Landais, who was commodore of the squadron anyway, not the Scots-American upstart. Oh yes, he knew all about him; how he had only got his ship and then the squadron by keeping Madame Therese de Chaumont’s bed warm, and no doubt by keeping that patch of fur between her legs warm too. He had seen Jones at the Comedie in Paris, strutting like a peacock with her on his arm, all the stupid, thickheaded women making doe eyes at him in his fine uniform. All of them had been hot for him, the silly bitches.

HMS Serapis released a vicious broadside that sent timber and rigging spewing from Bonhomme Richard into the littered sea. Landais tittered, knuckles drawn into fists of delight. M’sieur Paul Jones was getting all he deserved, and there would be more. This would repay him for always keeping the best prizes for himself, always ordering Alliance where the fighting would be the least rewarding. He had promised the American that on the day he was cornered like a rat and held out his hand for help, then he, Pierre Landais would spit on him.

This was that day.

The Frenchman laughed, throwing his head back. The outburst startled his sailing master who was standing halfway down the companion, holding on to the shrouds as he watched the battle. The master twisted, balancing his weight on the line as he looked back. Landais choked off his guffaw, staring down, bright eyed.

“Take her closer. Cross on the port beam.”

“Aye aye, sir. Are we going to help?”

“Help?” Landais laughed bitterly. “Oh yes, we’re going to help.”

The master began to shout a string of orders. Alliance heeled as the wind caught her abeam when the helm went over. She responded with the grace of a gypsy dancer, sidestepping and tiptoeing over the wave tops. As they closed, Bonhomme Richard’s predicament was all the more obvious. Even Landais wondered what was keeping her afloat. There was little doubt she was lost, while the English man-o’-war looked no better. For all he knew the commodore could be already dead. Sharpshooters always tried to pick off the officers first. A ship’s crew without leadership was merely a rabble without direction or purpose. The American dead or not, it gave him an idea.

If he sailed in close he could rake the commodore’s ship and so speed her sinking. It would then be a simple matter to make the crippled Serapis surrender, and he, Pierre Landais, would take the credit. Of course he would modestly acknowledge Paul Jones had engaged Serapis first. But it would also be known the American had failed where the Frenchman had triumphed.

Should the maneuver fail and both Bonhomme Richard and Paul Jones survive, he could always claim English turncoats in Alliance’s crew had been angry at the mauling of HMS Serapis and had decided to switch allegiance again, mutinying then attacking Bonhomme Richard. Either that or a sudden switch in the wind at a crucial moment had caused a broadside to strike the wrong vessel. No, perhaps the first story was better. It could be further embellished that he had quelled the mutiny among his crew with a few sharp and decisive countermoves, and when again in control of his frigate he had taken the English warship.

The more he thought about it, the more plausible it sounded.

***

A broadside crashed out, one cannon after another, firing as they came to bear. Dale’s mouth hung open as he stared aft. Horror gripped his bowels as a cannonball screamed out of the darkness. It smashed into the foc’sle immediately below his little band of survivors. White wood spears torn from the timberwork cartwheeled upwards. A man screamed. Dale swiveled involuntarily. A sailor was picked up and thrown ten feet then skewered to the deck through his stomach. His voice rang high and pure before disintegrating into a burble as blood flooded his mouth.

“My God,” Dale said in disbelief, rubbing a grubby hand across his eyes. “Alliance is raking us. Our own ship is trying to sink us!”

The petty officer was muttering. “He’s a bloody maniac, that damned Frenchie. Or else he’s bloody blind. You couldn’t mistake us for t’other. Christ, Richard’s black as night and yon Serapis has got yellow topsides.”

As the other men shook fists and cursed, Lt. Dale turned his back in order to watch the seaward quarter. Alliance loomed out of the darkness, swinging to starboard, so close he could see expressions clearly on faces lit by battle lanterns. They were reloading as she crabbed to cross their bows. She was going to rake them again! Dale cupped a hand to his mouth. “Ahoy Alliance! Lay on board the enemy!”

The seamen joined in. “Don’t fire!” They even heard a boy’s voice call from the mast-top: “I beg you not to sink us!”

They fell silent as Alliance’s battery was run out again. There could be no doubt. It was deliberate. The petty officer shook his head, whispering. “God help us, and the Devil damn his soul for all eternity.” Then they saw the flashes, long tongues of orange licking from the guns. One, two, three, they rippled along the frigate’s flank, seven, eight, nine. Huge chunks of chain whirled over their heads as the noise of the detonations reached out over the North Sea. Grapeshot pounded the hull, punching holes the size of sovereigns.

Not one gun was fired in reply to the treachery. Richard’s decks were a shambles of burst and useless cannon from Serapis’s continuous broadsides at point-blank range, the shattered planking strewn with the dead and the dying.

On the foc’sle Lt. Dale came up onto his knees for a better view. Alliance, untouched, was sailing calmly onward as though a player in some bizarre game. How much more could Bonhomme Richard take? Surely to God, they must be sinking now, he thought. There could be nothing left keeping her afloat but dreams, and there were precious few of those left. He looked over his shoulder at the sailors still crouched by the rail. Some had recovered and were shooting their muskets. Others were stunned, plumbing new depths of despair now their hope of aid was dashed.

“Keep your men here, and keep them fighting,” Dale ordered. When the petty officer ignored him, he put a hand on his shoulder. The man keeled over to sprawl on the deck. Dale rolled him over. Dead. Another one gone. Suddenly, he was exhausted. He was sick of it. A shadow crossed his face.

“Sir? Sir?” A junior lieutenant knelt to shake his arm. “Sir? The commodore wants to see you aft.”

Dale’s gaze was bankrupt. Slowly, he forced his eyes to refocus and his breath rushed out in a long hiss. “Very well. Take command here. Keep them busy. Preferably keep them fighting.”

***

The prisoners crouched helplessly in the brig below the main gun deck, shackled together in rows of misery. The air was fogged with gun smoke, the stench of burnt black powder in their nostrils. Those not deafened by the bursting eighteen-pounders watched the roof timbers fearfully as salvo chased salvo from the English guns, ripping through the ship. Between the stutters of cannon were always the sharp cracks of musket fire and deeper detonations from grenades. Here and there they heard a burst of cheering or a wail of agony.

Even the normally talkative Billy had fallen quiet. His hopes of freedom had sapped away during the long hours of the battle. Reflexes dulled, his chin rested on his arms. He no longer darted glances upward when explosions occurred close by. His thoughts were full of his lost sloop Speedwell. Without her he had nothing, not even the means to make a living. The other two Whitby men were silent too, both Robin and Ian drained by tension to the point where nothing could be a surprise. Whatever happened was going to happen whether they wanted it to or not.

Jackie Rudd sat with his head back against the hull, chained wrists hanging between his knees so that with each vibration the links clattered. He could not believe his life had veered course so dramatically within the space of two or three days. This time last week he had been at home in Scarborough with nothing more to worry about than having ample bait for the next day’s fishing and enough bright copper pennies to fill his mug with ale at the King Richard. Then had come the cart journey over the moors to see his dying uncle.

Whitby would always conjure wonderful memories now, the place where his body had fully woken. The pressure of Dorry Aim’s thighs against him, and her breasts, warm and soft in his hand. Her lips pliant under his. The promise of fulfillment she had made where Rose always held him at arm’s length. The smell of Dorry. The feel of her. He had only just rattled the gates, the mysteries ready to unfold when he had been called away, the taunting of the Whitby men ringing in his ears while they fished away the night. And now this, chained like an animal in filth.

His anger had no release. Frustration drew a tight cage about his lungs, hands flexing until his wrists were sore from the chafing of iron manacles. If only he knew what was happening above. The most frightening thing about cannon fire was ignorance. He would have given anything to know. Beside him, a sailor was bowed forward, gray streaked hair hanging over hands pressed together. Jackie could hear the man’s confession as he prepared for his entry to the next world. Jackie grimaced. That was the furthest thing from his mind. He was concerned with the here and now, not tomorrow. Fire and brimstone meant nothing. He had only just begun and there was so much living to do. No, he was not going to die here, not if he could help it.

“Oh, Holy Mother of God, save us!” a man bawled halfway along the hull. Not another one, Jackie thought as a man struggled to his knees, straining to shuffle inboard. As he pulled, every man along the line had his chains jerked. Jackie leaned forward to shout at him, then his mouth hung open as he saw the jet of seawater spouting from the hull timbers where the man had been sitting. A plank had sprung!

Abruptly, everybody was shouting with fear. To drown, chained below! Men were fighting each other to get to their feet. One man staggered and fell, before the whole line collapsed like dominoes. At the far end a crowd of prisoners clamored at the door, hammering with their fists, pleading.

“Let us out, for the love of God! We’re sinking!”

CHAPTER 6

Lieutenant Dale came to his feet and moved aft, grimacing, running the gauntlet of the English sharpshooters across the debris-scattered deck. Amidships, he stumbled over a tangle of ratlines ripped from the mainmast. Hands grabbed at his uniform. Splinters of raw wood tore at his knees and elbows as he was dragged under a bulwark. A small knot of men were fighting from there, marines and sailors helping each other.

Wiping smoke-sore eyes, Dale squinted into the anxious face of Henry Gardner, the chief gunner. Before the battle started, Gardner had been the very model of a sailor; cool, confident, watching over his cannon and demanding nothing less than perfection. Now he was a wreck, as dirty and tired as any of them, but his face was contorted by nerves, watery eyes blinking rapidly. For a moment Dale could not reconcile the two images, mentally deaf to the gunner’s chattering. Then Gardner fell silent, staring at him expectantly. When Dale said nothing, Gardner began to shake him like a dummy.

“Don’t you think I’m right?”

“About what?”

“Don’t you agree we should strike? We’ve lost all our cannon. What good are muskets against that man-o’-war’s eighteen-pounders, for God’s sake? Johnson here has been below and Richard’s got no bottom left in her. He says the water’s pouring into the bilges! We’ll be at the bottom within an hour! We must give this up. We’ll all die…”

“Silence!” Lt. Dale barked. “Get to your post and do your duty! The commodore is the only man who can order us to strike the colors. This battle’s not over yet!”

Henry Gardner glared at him for a long second, scowled, and pushed himself erect. “I’ll strike the colors myself! I’m the only man here with a head on my shoulders!” Then he was gone, silhouetted by flames from a nearby fire before his running figure was swallowed by gun smoke.

On the quarterdeck Paul Jones pulled the plug of a powder horn with his teeth and sifted black powder into the touchhole of the nine-pounder he had rescued from the port side. He pushed the plug back in, glancing around to make sure the marines were clear of the rope falls. A hand offered a slow match. He nodded his thanks, too exhausted to waste words. He bent wearily over the cannon to line up the back and foresights on the Englishman’s mainmast. Satisfied, he stepped aside then put the match to powder. The gun roared, recoiling to slam against the tackle. The rail was shrouded in smoke. He motioned for the marine with the sponge to prepare for the next charge, taking a moment to wipe the grime from his forehead. The battle was still raging the full length of both ships. Smoke, explosions, flames, barking muskets. It went on and on. Below, on the weather deck a man moved through the drifting smoke like a wraith. The commodore smiled when he recognized him.

“Gardner? Just the man. Come up here. You can take over this…”

The gunner stormed onto the deck and pushed the commodore aside without a glance. Single-mindedly, he stepped through the French marines. At the taffrail he reached the stump of the ensign staff then stopped. His head swung to and fro as he searched for the colors which had been carried away by shot. When he realized he could not surrender the ship himself, he confronted Paul Jones.

“Quarters! Quarters, for God’s sake!” he shouted.

The commodore’s eyes flashed at the insubordination. “Hold your tongue, man! Are you mad?” he snapped.

Gardner seemed not to hear him. “Quarters, I say!” He paced forward, arms outstretched in supplication. “Surrender, or we’ll all die.”

A marine rammed home double-shot into the nine-pounder. Seeing the commodore was busy he began to prime the cannon from his powder horn. Gardner saw him from the corner of his eye and switched direction. He lunged, knocking the horn from the bewildered Frenchman’s hand. “No! No! Quarters, I say!”

Seething, Paul Jones pulled an empty pistol from his belt. He threw without pausing to aim. The steel barrel crashed into the gunner’s skull. Felled, Gardner collapsed over the cannon, limp. Paul Jones grabbed his jacket by the scruff of the neck and tipped him casually on the deck. He retrieved his pistol before bending to finish priming the cannon as though nothing had happened. As he aimed, he heard the voice he had come to recognize as the English captain’s, calling out between the two ships.

“Sir, do you ask for quarter?”

Jones spared a disparaging glance at the inert Henry Gardner, unconscious on the deck, then began to line up the nine-pounder’s sights.

“Sir, do you ask for quarter?” Captain Pearson repeated.

Aggravated, Paul Jones straightened up. Hands on hips, legs planted wide apart, he shouted back. “No sir, I hadn’t even thought of it! I’m determined to make YOU strike!”

Among the bedlam on Richard’s weather deck, Lt. Dale had been moving aft to try and stop Henry Gardner from hauling down the American colors. He heard the commodore’s reply and failed to repress a smile. It quickly disappeared when instead of a retort, the English captain called: “Boarders away!”

In mid stride, Dale swung back. “Cutlasses! Pikes! Stand by to repel boarders!” He pulled free his own short sword, brandishing it above his head in encouragement. Men materialized, looking to him for leadership. “Hold the rail!” As he spun to face HMS Serapis the enemy came leaping over the rail, yelling to bolster flagging hearts. “Have at them!” Dale screamed, swinging his blade at the leader. “Long live America!”

Bonhomme Richard’s sailors rallied, resolute if they could not capture the English man-o’-war then no English sailor or marine would set foot on Richard. They welcomed the invaders with hot musket balls, thrusting pikes and the cold steel of scything cutlasses. Hewing and jabbing, Dale held his ground as apparitions in striped jerseys or red uniforms appeared over the rail. His men clustered about him, lungs screaming for air, adrenaline waking exhausted bodies. The killing was over quickly. The smoke and the night cloaked the defenders. The English fell back from brutal resistance, too many of their comrades butchered on the American deck. They fled, dragging the wounded with them.

Lt. Dale passed command to a warrant officer before again starting aft. He grabbed the shattered rail to haul himself up to the quarterdeck. The commodore was laboring over the cannon. Dale noted Gardner’s body then waited for his commander to stand up.

“Boarders repelled, sir. The men are holding.”

Paul Jones rested against the for’ard rail as he considered his ragged first lieutenant. “That new uniform I bought you is almost as bad as the one you wore when I first met you,” he observed. “But at least you’ve got an excuse this time.”

“Sir, I’ve had word we’re making water in the bilges.”

Jones scowled. “I can’t spare men to man the pumps. Fire is eating us above, and water grabbing us from below.” He looked away, teeth clenched. When he turned back his expression had softened. “Send someone to the brig and tell the prisoners they’ll have to work for their keep. If they don’t pump they can stay below in chains and go down with her when she goes.”

“Richard sink, sir?” Dale looked horrified.

“It’s not unthinkable. If we’re taking on as much water as you say and we don’t beat this stubborn Englishman soon, then sinking is a possibility not to be ignored. Very well, carry on, Mr. Dale.” He turned back to his adopted cannon, rolling up his sleeves.

***

The brig was knee deep. Seawater gushed through the smashed hull timbers like a flood through open sluice gates. The prisoners nearest the door pounded their fists to pulp against solid oak. Without a hope of being heard, they competed with the fury of the raging battle above.

Jackie Rudd stood with his back to the inner sheath of planking. It was like steeping in a sewer, the prisoners’ filth floating about their knees in the icy seawater. The thought of drowning obsessed him. There seemed no escape. Each man was chained to the next, the last in line shackled to a ringbolt bedded in the submerged deck timbers.

“What do you think?” Jackie asked his cousin.

Billy moved his feet so the stinking water swirled about his legs. He glanced away into the smoke near the door, absorbing the misery around him. Desperation turned his face granite. “I think we’re in hell already,” he said. “It’s even worse than the preacher’s promise. There’s no place else to go but down.” He gestured to the gaining water. He was about to say more when a commotion at the door stole his attention.

Pressing inside the brig, two marines had to use their muskets to lever a way through. One had a bloody bandage around his head while both wore uniforms blackened and torn. The smith was with them, tools in hand, accompanied by two sailors hefting an anvil. The prisoners began to yell.

“Shut up, you damned scurvy rats!” the smith shouted. When his voice had no effect he motioned to a marine who fired a round over their heads. Those nearest the door retreated, cringing, while the remainder fell silent. “Now listen to me you muttonheads! You’re being released to man the pumps! Any man among you who won’t work will stay down here! Now, who won’t work?”

His yellowed teeth bared in an evil grin. “I thought so. Now stand quiet till you’re loose, then follow my men topside. By God, you might wish you’d stayed down here!”

The two sailors placed the anvil on the deck. With the surface almost awash, they grabbed the first prisoner’s wrists to stretch the links on hard steel. Using a cold chisel, the smith swung his hammer. Sparks flew. The prisoner stood up free and the others began to clamor again. The smith looked up with a scowl.

“Silence! Any man to shout stays down here in this midden!”

The threat was enough. Hushed, the prisoners-of-war waited their turn as the anvil moved slowly down the line. Eyes alternated between the cursing smith and the level of rising water. Jackie tried to estimate how long before he would be free. After half an hour he was next in line. The man before him still had his head bent, hands clasped in prayer, lips moving silently. The two sailors pulled him down, swearing as they forced his fingers apart so the manacles could be stretched on the anvil. The hammer rang, driving the chisel through the iron. The prisoner opened his eyes, stunned. He stared for a moment at his freed hands before raising them aloft.

“Thanks be to God! He is here at this hour!”

The smith snarled, leaning forward. He grabbed the prisoner’s belt then heaved him aside. “Forget your God, scum. Thank me instead!” He turned hard eyes on Jackie. “You. Get your hands down here. I’ll spend no more time in this cesspit than needs be.”

Jackie gritted his teeth as he stooped to spread his wrists. The chisel was placed. He watched the arc of the hammer. The anvil rang as the chain was severed. Free. Moving aside, rubbing his wrists, he darted a glance at Billy who stared back enviously. Jackie gestured upwards, suddenly grinning. Billy nodded grimly. One of the smith’s aides thumped Jackie’s shoulder.

“Get topside! All hands to the pumps!”

He nodded dumbly, not trusting his voice. He waded along the deck, seawater tugging at his canvas trousers, reluctant to lose him from its clammy embrace. Then he was in the companionway, slopping up the ladder. Musket fire grew louder. He emerged onto the gun deck, stooping under the low deck beams as he turned for the next stretch of ladder. Upended and smashed weapons and men lay strewn everywhere, cannonballs like huge black marbles dotted among the blood and human gristle. One depleted gun crew was still feverishly working their eighteen-pounder, ramming down the charge and shouting as they strained to run the truck up to the topsides. The cannoneer screamed as he set fire to the touchhole. Jackie almost cried with pain when the cannon roared, bucking back like a wild animal as it threw death out the port. Grimacing, he climbed on toward the sky. If the devastation of the gun deck battery had been a nightmare, then he was totally unprepared for the scene on the main deck.

Beneath the night sky, the rigging of the two ships stood gaunt against the moon through patches of drifting smoke. It was difficult to tell where the spars of one ship ended and the other began. They seemed tangled in a mess of trailing shrouds and braces, the remains of the sails like tattered battle pennants. Below, smoke billowed, smearing wreckage that cluttered both decks. Flames threw crimson into the sky fore and aft, and he could see flashes and hear barking of muskets from the mast crosstrees. For’ard, there was the clatter and rasp of swordplay, screams and yells from everywhere. A cannon bellowed from what he guessed must be the quarterdeck, grapeshot whistling a deadly melody toward the English warship.

For a moment he almost turned to go back below. It had seemed safer there. His mouth hung open as he tried to take in all the information thrust at him. He started to move then stumbled over the body of a prisoner who had been shot down on reaching the deck. Jackie recognized him as the praying man. So his God hadn’t helped him after all.

“You there! Standing like a lump of wood! Lend a hand here!”

At the foot of the mainmast an American petty officer stood over a line of men working at a pump. It was a winch with several extended bars so a dozen men could wind at each handle together. Jackie recognized it as a chain pump which pulled a string of valves through the bilges, more efficient than the normal two piston machines. He took his place, the petty officer calling time so the men worked in unison. Water began to spew from the outlet by their feet in a regular rhythm, flowing across the deck in search of the scuppers. Heave, heave, heave. Before long Jackie fell into the monotony. Whatever happened about him, all effort was concentrated on that handle. The anger and frustration of the brig was burned out with each wrench of his muscles. He closed it all out: the smoke, the cannons, and the fear.

Pain bit into his back with the fangs of a rabid dog. He yelped in surprise, swinging his head to stare back over his shoulder. The American petty officer was coiling the knotted rope he had used as a whip. His mouth was an ugly slit.

“Lay on, you miserable bastards! One of the pumps is shot away. If you don’t want to see Davy Jones, lay on!”

***

Captain Pearson’s chin was almost driven into his chest as he prowled HMS Serapis’s quarterdeck. His bodyguard of marines had diminished considerably. The wounded had been carried below to the cockpit, and those who had died had been hurriedly consigned to the embrace of the dark sea. He had no idea how many fighting men he had left or in what condition they were. Estimates had to be revised every few minutes. The broadsides from the eighteen-pounders on his gun deck had long since grown ragged, and from what he could deduce there were perhaps five or six still firing. The battery of ten-pounders on his weather deck remained silent, Americans in the mast-tops of the pirate ship laying down a heavy crossfire on any man attempting to load them. Some of the pirates had even got into his own mast-tops and were dropping grenades onto the deck below and directly down the splintered hatches.

Pearson pulled his gold watch from a waistcoat pocket and prized open the lid. Without reading the heart-warming inscription from his wife, he consulted the dial. Ten o’clock! They had been fighting for three hours! And God alone knew how many dead. He shook his head as he closed the watch and absently pushed it into a pocket. They seemed the longest hours he had ever known. There was little hope for Serapis now. His beautiful new ship was burned and ripped apart, nearly a hulk. He glanced at the staff where he had ordered the Royal Navy ensign nailed to prevent it being shot away. He had never thought he would see the day when he would even consider striking it…

“Captain?”

Pearson turned. Lt. Wright was at the head of the ladder. A short sword dangled from his right hand, a smoking pistol in the left. He was tottering on his feet. Pearson could see where sweat had run furrows through the dirt on his face. “What news, Mr. Wright?”

“I have just seen Countess of Scarborough. She is almost dismasted. One of the French frigates engaged her. I’m afraid she is lost.”

“Sinking?”

“No sir. Surrendered. She’s hove-to, her colors struck and the Frenchman is alongside.”

Pearson’s mouth was a grim line. “And what of ourselves? Have you a report on our damage?”

Wright’s shoulders slumped. “Only four of the eighteen-pounders are still in commission. No man can get near the ten-pounders. We have suffered terrible explosions below decks. If we had powder left I would fear for the magazines. At present the American is firing double-headed shot at our mainmast. All the marksmen are trying for him.” He paused, shrugging. “In my opinion, sir…”

“I did not solicit your opinion, Mr. Wright.” Pearson interrupted, fixing him with a stony glare. “Kindly confine yourself to statements of fact.”

“Begging your pardon, sir.”

Pearson nodded, deep in thought. The Countess of Scarborough was lost, so Serapis stood alone. And if he eventually beat the American Paul Jones, what then? There were still the other French frigates standing off, skulking like vultures, ready to nose in and pick the bones. He walked slowly to the head of the ladder, the lieutenant stepping aside so he could look yet again at the bedlam into which his ship had degenerated. The only way he could reconcile the destruction was knowing he had accomplished what he had intended. He had given the Baltic convoy breathing space to crowd all sail and run. Although he did not know for certain, by now they should be close to the protection of the batteries at Scarborough castle. Fair Scarborough. The pirates could not plunder them now. All he stood to gain by continuing the battle was more death, possibly of every man under his command. He sighed then turned to pace back to where the Royal Navy ensign was stretched taut by the carpenter’s nails. He stared grimly at it.

***

“Can you see it?” Paul Jones asked.

Lt. Dale rubbed his eyes, watering from the smoke of the nine-pounder. He and the commodore were still working the cannon in the absence of a proper crew. His vision clearing a little, he squinted into the night. Paul Jones was stooping over the piece, supervising the marines as they loaded again with double-headed shot. Watching them work, he shouted for a powder monkey to fetch up more cartridges.

“Well, Mr. Dale, can you see it or not?”

“I think so, sir. It looks to me as though it’s trembling. Yes, I believe it is.”

“Is it, by God,” the commodore grinned. “I thought my days of gunnery were over, and here I am, trying to knock down the mainmast of an English man-o’-war.” He gestured for the marines to get a move on, glancing at his lieutenant. “I’ll have that ship yet and win this…” He fell silent, frowning, before his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Did you hear it, or was it a trick of my mind?”

Richard Dale was rigid, ears strained. Suddenly, all the musket fire from Serapis stuttered to a halt. Only sporadic shots from Richard’s mast-tops continued. Then they both heard it again, loud and clear.

CHAPTER 7

“Quarter! Do you hear me? Quarter!”

Paul Jones stood up to his full height, brushing away strands of chestnut hair from his smudged face.

“Do you ask for quarter?” he called back, pushing to the bulwark for a view of the English decks. Musket fire broke out from the English marines when they sighted the American officer.

“CEASE FIRE!” Captain Pearson bellowed. “I have asked for quarter! CEASE FIRE!”

The shooting stopped. Paul Jones could see the red-jacketed marines throwing down their weapons. Muskets, pistols, cutlasses, hangars, and pikes clattered to the deck. The beaten men clustered into groups where they had fought, sullen, shoulders slumped in defeat. The commodore surveyed them, his cheeks drawn, steely eyed, but he broke into a weary smile when his crew began to cheer. Voices rose from every corner of Bonhomme Richard, hoarse with victory. Paul Jones peered aloft where arms waved from the mast crosstrees. Even the prisoners at the pumps stopped, slumped against the winch handles to massage drained muscles while their overseers moved to the rail.

Paul Jones quelled the wild laughter that threatened to bubble up in his throat, nodding when Richard Dale came to stand with him. When he spoke, his tone was formal but with an underlying humor.

“Mr. Dale, would you kindly go aboard and take possession?”

Dale could not suppress his grin. He drew himself to attention, then saluted, a grubby, cheeky-faced farmer. “With the commodore’s permission?”

Jones answered his smile briefly. “When you have taken command, escort the English captain to me here, then organize the prisoners into fire control parties. If we can’t hold back the water, at least we can douse the flames. And have all the wounded attended to by Surgeon Brooke.”

Lt. Dale took a detail of French marines and American sailors over the bulwark onto the foc’sle of Serapis. They worked aft in formation, collecting prisoners as they went. Surrounded by the remainder of his officers, Captain Pearson waited on the quarterdeck. Lt. Dale approached the ladder, mounting it slowly under the wary gaze of the Englishmen. Pearson ignored him, staring instead at the ragged bunch of prisoners who had been his men. They had fought long and hard and deserved better than to be herded like animals by the French marines. He could not help feeling he had betrayed them, although he had surrendered to save their lives. But for a flaw in his character or better judgment, they could have been the victors, not the defeated.

“Sir, I have orders to escort you on board the ship alongside.”

Captain Pearson pursed his lips as he met Richard Dale’s eyes. So young, he thought. Most of them boys, hardly men. This one had the look of a plowman with his ruddy face. If ill-organized yeomen could achieve what these had in their battered old East Indiaman, then what heights would the Americans eventually scale when properly equipped?

“Sir?”

“Yes,” Pearson said absently, “I heard you. Very well.” He turned and walked to the staff where the ensign was nailed. With his own hands he wrenched it away from the wood, leaving scraps of cloth still attached to the embedded nails. He about-faced and held out the symbol of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy. Dale took the tattered flag, rubbing the heavy cotton between his fingers.

“If you please, sir.”

A marine fell in on either side of the Englishman. The captain looked at the deck then gave his first lieutenant a sad smile. “Carry on, Mr. Wright.” Slowly, he straightened his back and began to walk.

Paul Jones had put on his uniform jacket over his blackened shirt and cursorily tidied his hair. The two commanders looked each other over. Each had heard the other’s voice during the battle but neither had seen his opponent.

“Sir, this is Captain Pearson of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy,” Lt. Dale offered. “Captain Pearson, may I introduce Commodore John Paul Jones of the American Navy.”

Pearson said nothing. Slowly, he unfastened his sword scabbard then offered it as a token of surrender. Paul Jones accepted it solemnly, weighing it in his hands. He raised his head to speak, only to be interrupted by a crack like a clap of thunder from HMS Serapis. All eyes swiveled to the English warship. Her mainmast, punished by so many charges from the commodore’s own nine-pounder, split like a thunderstruck oak. Groaning, it toppled slowly. Yards swung loose then crashed to the deck. Braces and shrouds were entangled. The mizzenmast, too, shivered like an aspen in the wind, before its topmast splintered away. The whole mess collapsed overboard into the North Sea. A ravel of rigging trailed after. When the dust and the sea settled, the commodore turned his attention back to Captain Pearson.

“I accept your surrender.” He handed back the sword. “You have fought gallantly, sir, and I hope your king will give you a better ship.”

Pearson’s face was haggard, set to disguise his self disgust and shame. Only his eyes betrayed the lie of pride written on his face. The American felt for him, imagining their positions reversed. “You cost me the Baltic fleet, sir,” Jones stated, a compliment.

A glimmer of small triumph flared quickly in the Englishman’s eyes. A moment later, it had died away. “And you, sir, cost me my command.”

Jones ignored the retort, wondering which of them had lost the most. “Would you care to accompany me below to my cabin?” He switched his gaze to Lt. Dale who had witnessed the exchange. “I would like a report on HMS Serapis’s condition, and of Richard’s too. At your convenience. Carry on, Mr. Dale.” His tone implied he wanted it as quickly as possible.

Dale saluted. “Very good, sir.”

***

Lt. Dale remained on deck for a few minutes after the two senior officers disappeared below. Without the urgency necessary under fire, his gaze skittered over the two men-o’-war, still grappled together. He walked slowly down to the main deck where a water butt was lashed to the foot of the mainmast. Miraculously, the dipper still hung from a nail. He scooped it full and drank deeply. When his thirst was slaked he pulled out his handkerchief, dampening it to wipe his face and hands. Refreshed, he wondered where to begin his task. Every hatch, hold, and compartment of both vessels had to be examined. He trusted only his own eyes and the carpenter’s for accurate assessment.

Dead and dying lay everywhere. While the deck pumps sloshed and fire fighters formed bucket chains, burial parties cleared the decks. Here and there a man thought dead would suddenly moan, then be carried to wait in line for the surgeon’s expertise. Doses of grog were issued before shattered limbs were sawn off and dumped in a bin to the accompaniment of screams. Those with flesh wounds were washed and bound. Many were deaf, others blinded. Men with chest and stomach wounds were made comfortable while they waited for death. They knew instinctively release would only be brought by the grim reaper, so they waited stoically for his arrival. The time for fear had gone, but for many the battle still raged inside tortured minds. Broadsides thundered back and forth in fragile mental corridors, every footstep of reality a pistol shot, every shadow an advancing enemy, every shaft of light a gunpowder explosion. Their eyes were shiftless, forever seeking an imaginary foe. For them the battle would never end, a nightmare never to be banished by the coming of day, each moment relived time and time again.

When the lieutenant completed his survey he returned to Bonhomme Richard. On his first knock he was admitted to Paul Jones’s cabin. Inside, Captain Pearson sat stiffly opposite the commodore, the desk neutral ground between them. Half filled wine glasses stood next to crumb-covered plates, all that was left of biscuits the steward had managed to find. Although the cabin was a shambles, the two officers held their bearing as though seated in the grandest royal court in Europe.

“Yes?”

Dale glanced hesitantly at the English captain, but Paul Jones gestured his presence was immaterial. “Well, Mr. Dale?”

The lieutenant sighed, at a loss where to begin. None of the news was good. “HMS Serapis has lost most of her spars, sails, and rigging. Her foremast still stands and part of the mizzen. She is sound structurally, but looks a lot worse than she is. Most of the damage is superficial and can be repaired under way.”

Jones’s eyes flashed. “And Richard?”

Dale shook his head. “Captain Pearson’s eighteen-pounders took a heavy toll.” As he spoke he glanced about the stern cabin, examining timber joints and planking. “Our rudder is held on by only one pintle and the stern frame is nearly shot away. From the mainmast aft the lower deck timbers will not hold without much work. The quarterdeck is ready to collapse over the gunroom. The worst is that we are holed below the waterline and the pumps are losing ground. The men are working as hard as possible, but the water is still gaining.”

“Have you a head count of the prisoners?”

“Including those captured earlier from merchantmen there are almost five hundred.”

“Work them in relays,” the commodore said flatly, “and have them form bucket lines from the holds.”

“Pardon me, sir, but the fire parties are using all the available buckets. They assure me the outbursts are under control, but it will be several hours before we can be certain the fires are out.” He paused. “She may sink before that happens.”

“We’ll see about that.” Turning away from the English captain who sat watching and listening, Paul Jones frowned. “Thank you for your report. I will remain on board here. You take command of Serapis. Jury-rig her, then stand off. Take whatever you need. Ask for volunteers among the prisoners, but give yourself a clear majority of men you can trust. I will reassess the situation at daybreak. If Bonhomme Richard can be saved, I’ll do my best to save her.”

***

The sun rose at ten minutes to six. The morning was gray, gloomy with fog that shrouded the two ships like gun smoke from the previous night reluctant to abandon the battleground. Fires were still burning on the warships, under control but not extinguished. Smoke imprisoned by the fog thickened the still air, clogging lungs that craved oxygen to feed aching muscles. The prisoners-of-war had worked through the night at Bonhomme Richard’s pumps, two hours on, two hours to rest. Petty officers walked among sleeping men, prodding and kicking, swinging knotted ropes to rouse them to their feet. Dreamers, they struggled upright, shambling to places at the pump bars. Each time they were called demanded more effort to obey.

Jackie Rudd was gray with fatigue, miserable with cold, and so hungry his stomach growled continuously, refusing to be quieted by sips of water. He stood with drooping head between sagging shoulders, his weathered fisherman’s hands raw with blisters. His feet had been wet for so long and numb with cold he was almost oblivious of the seawater spouting from the outlet onto them each time he completed the circle around the pump. He listened with only half an ear to the petty officer’s hoarse chanting. Jackie just pushed, then pushed again, and yet again until his existence was a sickening blur. All he wanted was to crawl away into a corner of the deck and be consumed by sleep.

“All right, rest. Change places. Come on, you lazy bastards,” the petty officer said wearily, walking away to kick awake the next shift to take their turn.

Gratefully, Jackie released the bar, arms dropping lead heavy to his sides as he trudged to a heap of cordage. When a man rose to take his turn at the pump, Jackie sank down in his place, the hemp at least dry. His eyelids slid out of control over his hazy vision. It seemed only moments before a hand was shaking his shoulder.

“Wake up, damn it.”

“Not already. Let me sleep…” He tried to curl away from the intruder.

“It’s me, Billy. Don’t you want to eat? I’ll have it then…”

Jackie pushed himself upright, heavy as a cannonball. “Eat? I’ll eat. Give it here.” Some hard ship’s biscuit was pushed into his hand. Eyelids gummed together, he shoved the food into his mouth. It tasted like sawdust on his swollen tongue. He gagged, spitting out crumbs, mumbling obscenities.

A voice he didn’t recognize spoke beside him. “What d’you expect, lad? Hot rabbit broth? Maybe a bit o’ prime bacon, eh?” Jackie wrestled his eyes into focus. The speaker was a sailor in a tattered striped jersey. A ragamuffin of a man, his head a shock of ginger curls. He threw a questioning glance at his cousin.

Billy caught it. “This here is Thomas Berry. He was on the English man-o’-war.”

“That I was,” the Englishman nodded before biting into his hardtack carefully, biscuit crunching between rotten teeth. “A sailor in the King’s Navy, that’s me. And press-ganged too. I was a fisherman like you and your oppo here. We heard ’em coming up the street one night so I dived out the cellar door of the alehouse and a brute of a tar laid me out cold with a belaying pin. I woke up in a cutter with ten other men, trussed up like a chicken on the way to market. And me with a fat-arsed wife waiting nice and warm in bed at home.”

“When was that?” Jackie asked, although he couldn’t have cared less.

“Nearly ten months since, and every sodding day a bastard. I’m from the west country, I am, or I’d steal a boat and row like hell for it.”

“So would I if I knew where we are,” Jackie added drowsily.

“That’s just it, lad,” Tom Berry said with a sly grin. “Your cousin here says you belong to Scarborough?”

“What of it?”

“Well, laddo, that’s where we are. Off Flamborough Head a few miles. We can’t have drifted far in the night. Nowhere at all if that anchor we dropped held ground.”

“You sure?”

Billy snorted. “Course he’s sure. He was on the deck of Serapis there, not chained up below like us.”

Jackie came awake. Flamborough. Then, they were really but few miles from Scarborough. Home. After the last endless hours, the news seemed impossible.

“So you know the waters around here?” Tom asked, leaning close. “The tides at the Head look fierce. A man who didn’t know the waters could get carried out to sea or smashed to pieces on the rocks…”

“I know them all,” Jackie interrupted with a sneer, pride ruffling his feathers. “I have my own boat at Scarborough. I’ve fished all the way down to Kingston-Upon-Hull, and up past Whitby with our Billy here.”

“Then you’re my man. You and Billy.”

“What are you going to do?”

Tom Berry winked. “You wait and see.”

***

Paul Jones swilled his face with the lukewarm water the steward had brought. He dabbed his cheeks with a towel, peering into the mirror to inspect the line of his jaw for any stray whiskers. There were none. He folded the razor back into its ebony handle and placed it by the washbowl. How his man had produced a clean shirt he did not know, but he shrugged into it gratefully then donned his freshly brushed uniform jacket and hat. A last mouthful of tepid coffee remained in his cup, the silver pot empty. Eight hours of sleep had left him feeling almost human.

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 studied the commodore’s stony expression. “The pumps can’t keep up, sir. We had number four going for a couple of hours but it broke down again. It’s beyond repair.”

“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 orderlies at the operating table wore blanched faces. Paul Jones looked on while the harassed doctor cleaned up the amputation, tying ligatures at the ends of the arteries before using a needle and black thread to blanket-stitch flaps of skin folded across the stump. Finally, he splashed brandy over the wound as antiseptic before leaving an orderly to bandage up. He stepped back, hands on hips, his leather apron shining with fresh blood. “Another peg-leg sailor. Take him away. What’s next?” He drooped with exhaustion, wiping a wrist across his forehead. His other hand impatiently gestured the orderlies to hurry.

“Good afternoon, Surgeon.”

Brooke’s head turned slowly, red-rimmed eyes grim. “Afternoon it may be, Commodore, but good it certainly isn’t.”

Paul Jones ignored the sarcasm. “How many have you seen?”

“More than I care to remember. Occupational hazard. Nothing to do for months, then everybody comes at once. What else can I expect?” His gaze wandered beyond Paul Jones’s shoulder. “It appears you are heavily in demand too.”

Gingerly stepping across the bloody floor, the carpenter entered the compartment. Pipe clenched between his teeth, he looked neither right nor left, gaze firmly fixed on the commodore like an ostrich shutting out whatever he did not want to see. Behind him, two orderlies carried in another patient, supporting him until the operating table was sluiced down.

“How do we stand?” Paul Jones asked, eyes flickering to the table where the groaning man was laid before his blood-sodden shirt was torn away.

The carpenter shook his head. “It’s no better than this morning, sir. Worse, in fact. Nearly another three feet in the bilges.”

“No hope?”

“I would say…” He was interrupted by the crunching of bone. Visibly wincing, he drew a deep breath. “She’ll perhaps stay afloat another two days if no more of the pumps break down, and if there’s prisoners to work them, and if we get no weather. If…well, after that I couldn’t say.” He shrugged.

“If we lose a pump?”

His eyebrows raised. He sucked on his dead pipe for reassurance then pulled it free. “If we lose one pump, perhaps tomorrow morning. If we lose two then she won’t last the night.”

A strangled scream broke from the table. Paul Jones ignored it while the carpenter fought to keep his eyes from straying.

“Only one arm! Jesus Christ! What will I do?…Only one arm!”

The surgeon snapped back. “Thank God for one. You’ll live. Another two inches to starboard and you’d have been tossed over the side. Remember that when you curse me for a butcher. Here, bandage him up.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Jones commented. “Keep the pumps going through the night. I need time to transfer the wounded to the other ships. Keep her afloat till then.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Very good. Carry on.”

As the carpenter left, the surgeon moved away from the table. “All the pieces I’ve cut away. I could have built a hundred men from them.”

“I’m going to transfer all the wounded onto the English ship.”

The doctor’s eyes turned on him, piercing. “I’m not finished yet. There are men who may die if they are not attended to as soon as possible.”

“They may drown before then. She’s going down.”

Brooke blinked, lips clamped together.

Paul Jones continued. “At least you’ll have help. The English surgeon can share the burden. Working about you’ll be able to get some rest. Don’t argue. You haven’t slept for two days. Any longer and you’ll be no help to any of them.” He glanced around the makeshift surgery with its crude instruments. “As soon as they’re all off, I’m abandoning ship.”

***

“Who can pull an oar?” the midshipman asked, walking along the pump line, peering into prisoners’ faces. They stared dully back. “I’m not talking for the good of my health!” the midshipman barked, voice as high as a petulant child. He gritted his teeth, adjusting his sling to make his arm more comfortable. “I say again, who can pull an oar?” Three men stumbled out of the line. Midshipman Mayrant waved an arm in dismissal as he turned away. “Belay that.” The volunteers looked fit for nothing. His eyes rummaged among the other prisoners, most of them sprawled asleep in any available space. He selected a likely candidate to prod with his shoe. The waking prisoner shrugged away sleep, pushing against Thomas Berry as he did so.

“Can you pull an oar?” Mayrant demanded.

The prisoner merely glowered. Beside him, Tom Berry prized open his eyelids. When the officer’s gaze turned to him, he nodded, not trusting his voice. When the midshipman looked away, Berry took the opportunity to nudge Jackie Rudd awake. As he came up onto his elbows, Mayrant’s eyes fell on him.

“You too. You look a likely lad.” He passed on, searching sleeping faces.

“What’s going on?” Jackie asked, rubbing his eyes.

Tom Berry’s voice was a harsh whisper. “He wants men to crew a small boat. Wake Billy. This could be the chance we need.” He looked at the sun sloping toward the horizon. “Be night before long. Darkness could be our friend.”

Jackie’s eyes came into focus at last. Berry was right. A small boat and the cover of night could mean everything or nothing. He shook Billy.

“What? Let me sleep.”

Berry leaned over to poke a stiff finger in the Whitby man’s ribs. “Time enough to sleep when you’re dead, lad. Get your wits about you. Open your eyes and ears and shut up.”

CHAPTER 8

“It’ll be daylight soon,” Jackie said to nobody. Seated on the starboard side of the ship’s boat as it nudged HMS Serapis’s hull, he did not have to port his oar. He could let it trail in the water, resting his arms across the handle. Slowly his head sank onto his wrists. The agonies his body had suffered through the long hours at the pumps had been reawakened. Every muscle and tendon screamed. Rowing! And it had all been Tom Berry’s idea. So much for that. At least manning the pumps there had been rest periods. No so rowing. The only break was when the wounded were being loaded or unloaded. They had labored from twilight into the night and now it was almost dawn.

Back and forward. And with each journey from Bonhomme Richard to the captured Serapis, the boat was filled with groaning men. The stench of festering wounds invaded even the bluntest sense of smell, hard to endure on a stomach that had seen only meager rations and sips of water.

Now he rested as best he could, drawing the cold salt breeze deep into his lungs. What he would have given for a quiet corner to sleep, and he would have sold his soul for a straw pallet and the luxury of a blanket. Fighting away sleep’s beckoning arms, he glanced up at Billy who was doing his best to lean on his upright oar, eyes closed. Across the boat Tom Berry was watching everyone, cat eyes restless. He saw Jackie turn so he made a face, one eye threatening a sly wink. One of the wounded passed between them, being helped to the specially rigged accommodation ladder. His head was swathed in bandages that bore a spreading crimson stain. It seemed half his head had been shot away. Jackie had seen so many of them by then, he felt nothing, not even pity. He turned away. Off the starboard quarter a small flotilla of ships’ boats were pulling steadily toward him, each crammed with wounded.

In the stern sheets, one of the two armed American sailors muttered. “I’m going to be sick if we do this much longer. Never did like small boats. I don’t mind when we’re making way, but when we’re not I’m queasy.”

His partner looked away. “It’s just the swell.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t care. I just feel bad.”

Jackie moved his head slightly so he could see the complaining sailor. He made a mental note then heard a scuffle of oars as the boat in front pushed off to return to Bonhomme Richard for its next fragile cargo. From their position the American flagship was only a cluster of riding lights. A thin veil of mist lay on the sea, showing signs of thickening.

When the last of the wounded had been half hauled, half carried up on deck, the midshipman clambered down the ladder and came between the oarsmen to take his seat by the tiller. As he settled, the sick sailor turned a jaundiced eye on him.

“What now, sir?”

Mayrant nursed his sling-bound arm. “The wounded are nearly accounted for. Now we go back to ferry the prisoners. When they’re all brought over, Bonhomme Richard will go down with nobody at her pumps. Serapis is the flagship now.” He inspected the sailor’s face. “What’s the matter with you?”

“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 twisted to look back. Serapis was lost to sight behind a solid gray wall. “If we get lost on the way back, a lantern’ll give them a chance to find us.”

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. As soon as Billy’s in, send up the first one. And have a look in the stern sheets to see if there’s any rope. If there isn’t, cut the painter. We won’t be mooring anywhere.”

Inside the stern cabin, while Billy held the musket, Tom tied and gagged the midshipman. When he was secure he asked for the next man. Within ten minutes the three Americans were bound up tight. Tom studied them as they sat on the floor, eyes blazing hatred above the gags. As an afterthought, he threaded their legs around those of the bolted down table and strung them together before tugging the last knots firm. He stood up to inspect his work.

“That’ll keep ’em from getting to the door to bang for help.” He jerked his head at the open port. “Come on.” They clambered back down into the boat. “Seen anything?”

Jackie shook his head. “I can hear the other boats but none have rounded the stern.”

Tom faced the two lines of oarsmen, all prisoners-of-war. “Are you with us?” he asked, his expression leaving no doubt as to his opinion of potential dissenters.

“Aye, I’m with you,” the nearest man agreed. The second nodded, and the third. Soon they had all joined the conspiracy.

Tom turned. “These are your waters, lad. You’re the pilot. Which way?”

Jackie pursed his lips, the onus of command thrust on his tired shoulders. “Take her straight off the stern. Once in the fog we’ll turn.”

Tom grinned suddenly, waving a hand. “Billy and me’ll get back to the oars. You take the tiller. The quicker we’re away from this damned ship the better.”

“Right,” Jackie said softly, taking the tiller bar. “Starboard oars, trail. Port oars, pull.” The boat swiveled on its own axis until the bows faced the open sea. A world of solid fog awaited them. Jackie took a deep breath, then suddenly inspired called: “All oars, pull! Pull for your freedom!”

***

“Look!” Jackie croaked.

The oarsmen rested, leaning on their knees, heads hanging with fatigue. Two hours before, when they had broken out of the fogbank into a deserted sea, they discovered an unseen current had coaxed them out of sight of land. Guided by the sun and intuition, Jackie had corrected their course immediately. Weary almost beyond endurance, their progress had slowed until the oars barely made an impression on the leaden swell.

Hunger and thirst had taken toll.

When no pursuit materialized there had been an initial burst of elation. It quickly died. Continuous rowing exhausted them into silence. Now when they spoke it was hoarsely. Only when they threatened to surrender to sleep did Jackie or Tom berate them, Tom even scooping hatfuls of freezing seawater to toss over drowsy men.

“Look!” Jackie brought them back to reality, pointing. In the distance was a flotilla of boats. Lugsails brimming with wind, they tacked back and forth, their appearance distorted by the sun sparkling off the sea. The oarsmen glanced up at the mirage before disbelief allowed their heads to droop once more without even cursing Jackie for a madman. Tom Berry turned toward the sea, saw the sailing smacks, then closed his red-rimmed eyes tight before reopening them. The boats were still there. He opened his mouth to speak but could only wring a croak from his arid throat. He swallowed before trying again.

“You’ve lost us now, lad.”

Jackie laughed, a cackle that left him coughing. “Lost? No, don’t you know what they are? That’s Scarborough herring fleet. They’re casting nets.” Then he was on his feet, peeling off his shirt to use as a flag. Waving it madly, he began to shout. Billy stood up to join his cousin, using the last of his strength to hoist an oar from its thole, the painted white blade swaying unsteadily over his head.

Tom Berry watched the two young men, incredulous. Slowly, their joy infected him until at last a smile cracked his grizzled jaw.

***

“That’s some kind of tale, our Jackie,” Harry the fisherman mused, pushing forward his cap so he could scratch the back of his head. “Well, I don’t know. You lot escaping from that pirate.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Jackie stated, reaching again for the can of cold tea. The stolen ship’s boat taken in tow, the escaped prisoners had been shared among three fishing smacks for the homeward voyage. Billy, Jackie, and Tom sailed together in the Gin, Jackie’s pride and joy. Between them, they had devoured the bread and strawberry jam Harry and his crew had brought out for their noon meal. Still hungry, Tom was even eyeing the raw herrings that had somehow missed the catch boxes and were scattered across the bottom boards. Bilge water rolled them back and forth, minute currents giving dead fins the illusion of life.

“Oh, will you just look at that,” Jackie murmured.

Scarborough’s headland had swollen to fill the horizon. The castle battlements lined the cliff top, dominating the town which crawled up the hillside from the seashore. To the left was St. Mary’s church with its central tower and the twin dwarf spires at the south end, surrounded by the graveyard. Paradise House stood between the two ancient monuments, its garden a manicured square.

At the foot of the cliff the harbor was crammed with vessels of every size and description, the east pier’s arm thrown protectively around them. At anchor to the south of the west pier, unable to squeeze inside, lay the Baltic convoy that had turned tail and run from Flamborough Head. Locked in the brig when Paul Jones’s squadron had challenged the English escorts, Jackie had not seen the fleet. Now, he gazed at them with awe. They seemed to huddle so close together under the security of the castle battery it was impossible to separate one ship from another, let alone attempt to count them. Masts stood like a forest of winter-naked trees, rigging a complicated mass of spiders’ webs. They looked anxious, bowsprits straining to the land as though to deny their presence in the North Sea.

Jackie’s fascination with the ships faded as he looked again at his hometown. Everything he loved was there. His mother and his friends. And Rose. What else did a man need? In his own boat, with his stomach full and the smell of herrings in his nostrils, already it was as if his adventure had been a dream. The waiting chained in the brig while thunderclaps of gunfire crashed overhead, the interminable hours at the pumps, then the ferrying in the boat before their escape into the clammy fingers of the fog.

Going home. A good warm feeling.

“You see it, Billy?”

“Aye, I see it all right,” his cousin answered. He drank in the panorama. With a sigh, he lay back, eyes closed. The sun warm on his face, Billy knew where he was now. It was all over. He could doze until they moored. He relaxed for a few minutes, listening to the rush of the sea against the hull and the rumbling of the canvas lugsail luffing slightly when Harry changed tack. It was almost too quiet for his ragged nerves.

“Jackie?”

“Aye, what?”

“Sing us a song.”

Harry swung his eyes from the open sea to smile at the two lads and the seaman with the mop of ginger curls. Arm along the length of the tiller, he leaned on it a little so Gin tilted her nose toward the land. He nodded his agreement. “I’ve missed your voice, our Jackie.”

Jackie’s mouth curled in an easy smile, still gazing fondly at his hometown where the waves marched in to dissolve on the beach. He thought of Rose for a moment, comparing her to Dorry in Whitby. He wondered if she would ever be like Dorry, wild and eager, but then he knew there would never be anybody like Dorry for him again. That was a different part of his life, excitement which had brought danger and fear too, the last few days when he did not know what the next hours held. Slavery, prison, or freedom, even death. No, he would always associate Dorry with that, but he would remember her now and again. Rose would have her moments too, he was sure, but more tender…

“Are you going to sing, then?” Harry prompted.

Jackie nodded, already trying to bury the memories. He cleared his throat, soothed by the cold tea. With a smile, he put back his head and opened his mouth, and the words came clear and sweet, carried by the breeze.

“Are you going to Scarborough fair,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme?

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 Serapis? The battle at Flamborough Head had been eight long years ago. And little thanks he’d had at the time. While the king of France had presented him with a magnificent gold hilted sword, inscribed: Louis XVI, the rewarder of the valiant avenger of the sea, and a decoration, l’Order du Merite Militaire that accorded him the title Chevalier, Congress had offered nothing. Only praise. He had even had to beg them for permission to accept the French medal, and still they had offered him nothing more than verbal reward. He fingered the dark blue ribbon in his buttonhole with a touch of bitterness. On his return to America, Benjamin Franklin and Jefferson had recommended him for the rank of rear admiral, but two of the captains above him on the seniority list had succeeded in having his appointment suppressed. The irony was that both of them had never achieved the open sea in their ships, landlocked throughout the entire war.

At the sound of a footstep in the hallway he turned from the window. The door handle rattled, then she was in the room. Just the sight of her awoke his hunger. The widow Therese Townsend. Flawless skin and wide dark eyes that held all the promise of night. They contrasted vividly with her silvered wig, that touch of aristocracy she affected to endorse her claim as cousin to Louis XVI. She wore a green velvet dress, cut to emphasize her slim neck and ample bosom. Her waist was barely a hand span and she stood now, one hand on hip, appraising him from the doorway, mouth curved into a smile.

How like a cat she looks, he thought. A cat who has its paw on the mouse’s tail, relishing the anticipation of games to come. She reminded him of another Therese, a confrontation much the same as this but in a room far more elaborate. But then, M’sieur de Chaumont had earned considerably more than a naval officer. And how many ladies had there been since that Therese? He smiled. A gentleman does not keep count.

“I am happy, Commodore, you are pleased to see me,” Therese Townsend smiled. “I am flattered to be the first person you asked to see since you arrived back in Paris.”

He held open his arms. “Do I get a Parisian welcome?”

She came into his embrace, lips soft and yielding, her body a mold for excitement. Her scent invaded his very mind, an aperitif to the afternoon. The kiss was long and deep before she drew back, pouting, to study his face.

“Chevalier, the Knight.” She raised a teasing eyebrow. “A pun, or deliberate?” When he laughed, she touched the ribbon in his buttonhole. “And this is your medal?” He nodded and she pressed close. “I think I could give you a medal too. No wonder half the ladies in Paris titter when your name is mentioned.” She freed herself from his hold and began to peel off her gloves. “And what of America? Did they welcome you as I did?”

He chuckled. “At last America has recognized my achievement.”

“Help with my dress, please.” As he moved behind her to loosen the fastenings she looked over her shoulder with a frown. “I do not understand these things. Tell me, exactly what was so special about what you did?”

He stepped back as she wriggled free of the emerald velvet. He watched as she hung the dress over a chair then kicked off her shoes and began to roll down her silk stockings. His mouth was suddenly dry. She paused. “Well, what was so special?”

He cleared his throat, hands gesturing. “I challenged the ocean supremacy of the English in their own waters, within sight of England. The locals, you know, lined the cliffs at Flamborough Head and watched the battle. But most importantly, I won. And against a far superior ship, a brand new frigate when my own ship was a converted old East India merchantman.”

“Bonhomme Richard? My stays, please.” She turned her back to him again. He stroked her bare shoulder, his other hand beginning to unwind the stays of her corset. “But surely you had a whole squadron?”

He snorted. “Yes, but they refused my order to engage. One ship, Alliance, even fired into me at the height of the battle.”

“Alliance? I have heard of her captain, Pierre Landais.”

“A most erratic man. He was eventually court-martialled for that and other things. The navy dismissed him in disgrace.” As he completed the explanation, he released the whalebone corset. Deftly, she caught and set it down on the chair before tugging down her pantaloons. Naked but for a garter, she turned to face him. She allowed him a long look, then tiptoed to the bed. Covered by the sheets, chin resting on raised knees, she watched as he undressed.

“You said America has recognized your achievement now. How?”

He faltered, turning to give her a small smile. “I am to receive a Congressional Medal of Honor. It has yet to be designed, but it will be cast in gold.” He brushed a hair from his uniform jacket before hanging it on the chair back. She fell silent as he peeled off his shirt and breeches, folding both carefully before turning toward the bed. She lay back, holding open the covers for him to join her. In bed, he propped himself up on one elbow and looked down into her face.

She peered up, wide-eyed. “And so, if America is now proud of you, what brings you to France?” After a moment she chuckled. “I would like to think you came back for me.”

He smiled gallantly. “Would that I had. No, I am to be attached to the French navy again. It appears La Belle France will soon be at war with England.”

She grimaced. “Not again. War, there is always war.”

Paul Jones pulled her close, kissing her nose. She hooked a leg over his thigh, her body pliant, inviting.

He smiled slowly. “My lady, what else is there but love and war?”

END