Scarborough Fair

by Chris Scott Wilson

  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 a
ll 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.