Scarborough Fair by Chris Scott Wilson

Author:Chris Scott Wilson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780917990755
Publisher: Boson Books
Published: 2012-02-14T20:01:28+00:00

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.

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