***
“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 wh
at 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.
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