Scarborough Fair Read Online Free
Author: Chris Scott Wilson
everywhere dirty cherubs stared and grinned cheekily.
Paul Jones ignored them all, eyes above their heads toward the ocean and the ship he had come to see. Slower now, the horses shambled to a walk, rattling harness bits between stained teeth and tossing tangled manes. In the center of the market where the harbor steps led down to the water, the driver hauled back on the reins and wound them around the brake lever. The team came to a stamping halt, iron shod hooves scraping sparks from the cobbles.
Brisk now, Jones threw open the coach door and stepped down. Faces turned to him as he doffed his tricorn hat to smooth back his hair before firmly placing the hat back on. His step was so confident people moved instinctively from his path as he walked to a capstan wrapped with the painter of a shipâs boat moored at the steps. A sailor in a blue shirt with a belaying pin stuck in the waistband of his canvas trousers guarded it. When he saw the captain approaching, he unfolded his arms and came to attention. Richard Dale materialized from the captainâs wake to confront the sailor.
âSeaman, where lies Epervier ?â the midshipman demanded.
The sailorâs head moved a fraction. âYonder in the bay, with the black and yellow topsides, sir.â
Dale looked out to where a captured English corvette bravely held her head into the breeze as though remembering better days. Her topsides were holed and scarred by ball, her gunwales splintered by grapeshot. Shrouds and ratlines were ragged, a tangle of blocks and pulleys. The mainmast remained as a cracked stump, standing six feet above the bloodstained deck. Her foremast carried depleted yards, hastily jury-rigged under storm canvas, now furled. She wore the desolate air of a captive, her weary timbers deaf to the enticing whispers of the open sea, miserable among the cluster of fishing boats and coasters. Richard Daleâs mouth tightened as he stepped closer to John Paul Jones.
âThatâs her, sir. LâEpervier .â The midshipman felt like a child beside the captain. It wasnât the difference in years, more the quiet oozing confidence, an assurance of capability. Jones revealed little, but there was a certainty about his slim shoulders. Show him a problem and he would smooth it away. Dale tried to fathom the aura and came no closer to an answer. He noted Jonesâs relaxed stance but suspicion nagged that he was looking at a purring cat that could turn into a tiger in a bare instant.
Unaware of Daleâs perusal, Paul Jones clasped his hands behind his back. He stared out into the bay, legs planted firmly on the land as though on the quarterdeck of a rolling ship. His eyes were cold, calculating, his chiseled face granite. But his voice betrayed disgust and disappointment as he turned away from the battered corvette.
âI see her,â was all he said.
CHAPTER 2
âDamn them! Damn their eyes!â Paul Jones spat, hands bunching into fists. Sun flashed from the buckles of his highly polished shoes as they crunched on the gravel as he strode back and forth. Sweat glistened on his forehead and upper lip as if his frustration was boiling out into the summer air.
The gardens at the Hotel Valentinois were exceptionally beautiful that year, Therese de Chaumont thought, turning a deaf ear to the captainâs blasphemy. She sat quietly on the long seat, immaculate coiffeur untouched by the breeze, satin ruffles of her gown falling in a carefully arranged cascade about her tiny feet. A parasol defended her complexion and bare shoulders from the summer sun while a fan lay in her lap should the heat become uncomfortable.
While the captain ranted, she viewed the work of her gardeners. The lawns were perfect, symmetrically divided by raked gravel paths into rectangles, arcs, and octagons. Flowerbeds blossomed, kaleidoscopes of color contrasted by lustrous evergreens. Although the blooms gave her immeasurable pleasure, the trees were
Paul Jones ignored them all, eyes above their heads toward the ocean and the ship he had come to see. Slower now, the horses shambled to a walk, rattling harness bits between stained teeth and tossing tangled manes. In the center of the market where the harbor steps led down to the water, the driver hauled back on the reins and wound them around the brake lever. The team came to a stamping halt, iron shod hooves scraping sparks from the cobbles.
Brisk now, Jones threw open the coach door and stepped down. Faces turned to him as he doffed his tricorn hat to smooth back his hair before firmly placing the hat back on. His step was so confident people moved instinctively from his path as he walked to a capstan wrapped with the painter of a shipâs boat moored at the steps. A sailor in a blue shirt with a belaying pin stuck in the waistband of his canvas trousers guarded it. When he saw the captain approaching, he unfolded his arms and came to attention. Richard Dale materialized from the captainâs wake to confront the sailor.
âSeaman, where lies Epervier ?â the midshipman demanded.
The sailorâs head moved a fraction. âYonder in the bay, with the black and yellow topsides, sir.â
Dale looked out to where a captured English corvette bravely held her head into the breeze as though remembering better days. Her topsides were holed and scarred by ball, her gunwales splintered by grapeshot. Shrouds and ratlines were ragged, a tangle of blocks and pulleys. The mainmast remained as a cracked stump, standing six feet above the bloodstained deck. Her foremast carried depleted yards, hastily jury-rigged under storm canvas, now furled. She wore the desolate air of a captive, her weary timbers deaf to the enticing whispers of the open sea, miserable among the cluster of fishing boats and coasters. Richard Daleâs mouth tightened as he stepped closer to John Paul Jones.
âThatâs her, sir. LâEpervier .â The midshipman felt like a child beside the captain. It wasnât the difference in years, more the quiet oozing confidence, an assurance of capability. Jones revealed little, but there was a certainty about his slim shoulders. Show him a problem and he would smooth it away. Dale tried to fathom the aura and came no closer to an answer. He noted Jonesâs relaxed stance but suspicion nagged that he was looking at a purring cat that could turn into a tiger in a bare instant.
Unaware of Daleâs perusal, Paul Jones clasped his hands behind his back. He stared out into the bay, legs planted firmly on the land as though on the quarterdeck of a rolling ship. His eyes were cold, calculating, his chiseled face granite. But his voice betrayed disgust and disappointment as he turned away from the battered corvette.
âI see her,â was all he said.
CHAPTER 2
âDamn them! Damn their eyes!â Paul Jones spat, hands bunching into fists. Sun flashed from the buckles of his highly polished shoes as they crunched on the gravel as he strode back and forth. Sweat glistened on his forehead and upper lip as if his frustration was boiling out into the summer air.
The gardens at the Hotel Valentinois were exceptionally beautiful that year, Therese de Chaumont thought, turning a deaf ear to the captainâs blasphemy. She sat quietly on the long seat, immaculate coiffeur untouched by the breeze, satin ruffles of her gown falling in a carefully arranged cascade about her tiny feet. A parasol defended her complexion and bare shoulders from the summer sun while a fan lay in her lap should the heat become uncomfortable.
While the captain ranted, she viewed the work of her gardeners. The lawns were perfect, symmetrically divided by raked gravel paths into rectangles, arcs, and octagons. Flowerbeds blossomed, kaleidoscopes of color contrasted by lustrous evergreens. Although the blooms gave her immeasurable pleasure, the trees were
Readers choose
Kurtis Scaletta
Jussi Adler-Olsen
Amber Bardan
Brian James
Simon R. Green
Neil Gaiman
Kathy Lyons
Charles Williams
Samantha Grace
Nelson Nye