Scarborough Fair Read Free Page B

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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWhen 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