Scarborough Fair

by Chris Scott Wilson

  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 gravey
ard. 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?”