The Continental Risque

by James Nelson

  He looked at himself in the mirror, adjusted his ruffled shirt, smoothed his breeches, and shook his head in disgust at this nervous and agitated state. It was not as if this would be his first time, far from it. He had been a sailor for years, and as such had experienced all of those things for which sailors were famous, including those shore-side pursuits. But that memory did nothing, absolutely nothing, to assuage his anxiety.

  He walked slowly down the hall, grimacing at every squeak of the floorboards. He moved past Stanton’s door, and Rumstick’s, behind which he heard the loud and familiar snoring. His footsteps would never be heard over that din.

  He came at last to Virginia’s door, breathed deep and knocked twice, the lightest of raps. He waited, thinking that she had perhaps fallen asleep or changed her mind. He considered knocking again, or skulking back to his room, then he heard the latch lift and the door swung open.

  Virginia looked out through the partially open door, looked into his eyes and smiled. She was dressed in her nightgown, a loose-fitting silk affair, low-cut in the front and clinging to her here and there, giving a suggestion of the slim body beneath. Her head was uncovered and her long brown hair hung down her back and forward over her shoulders.

  Behind her the single candle standing in a tin sconce shaped like a fleur-de-lis on the wall cast a warm circle of light, giving the gauzy fabric that draped down around the big four-poster bed an ethereal quality while the rest of the room was lost in shadow.

  Virginia opened the door wider and stepped aside and Biddlecomb stepped in. ‘Captain Biddlecomb,’ Virginia said with a hint of her teasing voice, then shut the door. ‘Isaac,’ she said, this time with an odd note of vulnerability as they stood looking at each other.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ Biddlecomb said, and inside he grimaced and cursed himself for being such a stupid, awkward calf. Such an idiotic thing to say! But Virginia smiled, a shy, girlish smile, not at all what he was used to, and she looked at his face and then down at the floor.

  The light from the candle lit the one side of her face and played off the shimmering surface of her nightgown. Biddlecomb was overcome with desire, a hunger that would be sated before all else. He reached out and put his hands on her little waist, and she looked up and threw her arms around his neck and they kissed, pressing hard against each other. He ran his hands over the smooth silk, feeling her body under the cloth, ran his hands over her back and shoulders and she pulled him toward her, kissing him with a reckless need.

  He reached his arm down and scooped her up, their lips never coming apart, and carried her over to the bed, her weight far less than he would have imagined. He pushed the curtains aside and laid her down and laid down with her.

  ‘Isaac,’ Virginia breathed the word. His lips ran over her face and her eyelids and her neck, he kissed the beautiful, smooth expanse of skin above her breasts. He felt his desire increasing, ready to break over him like a squall.

  His hand ran down the length of her body, over her hips and her waist and her hard stomach. He felt her hands running through his hair, her breath coming faster, and he moved his hand up along her side and cupped her breast, warm and firm. She let out a little moan and moved under him, and he felt her hand on his, pressing his hand harder against her breast. He ran his lips over her face, and then she pulled his hand away, saying, ‘Isaac, no. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  Biddlecomb rolled back, propping himself up on his elbow, stroking her face with his hand. She looked like a trapped bird, confused and afraid. ‘I … I am sorry, Isaac, I love you so much.’ It was not the Virginia Stanton he knew, not the unflappable Virginia Stanton. Now she was vulnerable and frightened, for the first time in his memory, and despite the frustration, the inordinate frustration that he felt, he loved her far more then than he ever had before.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ Biddlecomb wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him, and she pressed her face against his chest, her hands clasped across her chest. He could feel her tears on his skin.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘I love you so very much.’ They lay like that for a long time. Biddlecomb ran his fingers through her thick hair. ‘Fair’s fair,’ he whispered at length. ‘I did write you a note once, alluding to our upcoming marriage.’

  Virginia pulled away from him and looked up at his face. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but she was smiling. ‘You did too. And will you keep your word? Will you marry me?’

  ‘Of course I will, of course I will.’ What in the hell was he saying? Had he at last agreed to something to which his courage would not admit?

  An hour later Virginia’s breathing became rhythmic and pronounced as she fell asleep in his arms, and Biddlecomb knew that if he did not leave then, then he might fall asleep as well, and morning would find them in that compromised position. He rolled her gently on her back, and wisps of her hair fell across her face and her silk nightgown pulled taut, revealing the sensual curves of her body. He felt the desire flare up again, like a fire one had thought extinguished, and he fought down the urge to run his hand over her.

  ‘Are you going?’ she asked in a sleepy voice, and her eyes slowly opened.

  ‘Yes, my love.’ He leaned over and kissed her, and she kissed him back.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’

  ‘No,’ he said, not knowing if it was the truth. Yes, it was the truth. He loved her, he was not angry with her.

  ‘And you’ll marry me?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.’

  ‘Should I make you do it tomorrow, before you sail? You might change your mind, given time to think.’

  ‘Well, I suppose …’ he said, equivocating, trying to guess if she was joking, if he was ready to keep his promise immediately. The thought, in truth, was far more intimidating than the thought of taking his battered brig into the North Atlantic.

  ‘I’m joking,’ Virginia said, closing her eyes and rolling half over, throwing her arm over his legs. ‘You can wait ’till you return. I don’t want you to rush headlong into anything.’ The old Virginia was waking up.

  ‘I’ll marry you when the fleet returns. Now you go to sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning. I have to go back to the ship quite early. But you will come see me off, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, my love, my sweet Isaac.’ She kissed him again.

  Biddlecomb did not wait until the morning to return to the Charlemagne. No sooner had he made his way back to his room than he realized that sleep was no longer a possibility, plagued as he was by his frustrated desires and his apprehension for the future, his unwillingness to leave Virginia and Philadelphia, his concern over his promise of marriage, and his anxiety over the myriad things that plagued commanders of ships the world over.

  He pulled his blue coat on, and his heavy wool coat over that, pushed his cocked hat down on his head, and made his way down the cold and silent streets to his ship, his beloved Charlemagne, tied to the wharf.

  He crunched through the snow, inches deep, and struggled to the foot of the brow, walking carefully over the icy surface. He stepped gingerly onto the wooden plank; in the dark it was hard to tell wood from ice, and he was halfway up when a voice from the deck called, ‘Halt! Who goes there?’

  Biddlecomb stopped and looked up, unsure if he should laugh at the histrionic challenge. He did not recognize the man at the gangway, one of Faircloth’s marines, only about half of whom he had met.

  ‘Who goes there?’ the marine asked again.

  ‘Charlemagne,’ Biddlecomb replied, the standard means of indicating the captain of a vessel.

  ‘Yes, this is the Charlemagne, and who are you?’

  Biddlecomb might have laughed if he had not been in so foul a mood, and he might have given the man a dressing-down, but the marine was only following orders, and doing so conscientiously, and a captain could not lambast a man for that. He even managed, ten minutes later, to give the marine a ‘Well done,’ after he had b
een held at bayonet point on the brow while Lieutenant Faircloth was summoned.

  ‘God, I am sorry for this, sir,’ said Faircloth, dressed in his bottle-green coat, boots, and wool undergarments. He thrashed his arms across his chest as he followed Biddlecomb across the deck.

  ‘No need to apologize, Lieutenant.’ Biddlecomb stepped below with Faircloth hurrying beside him to usher him past the other marine posted at the great cabin door. ‘We shall all have ample time to get to know one another, and to pick up the finer points, such as who is the captain of the vessel. Good night, sir.’ No sooner had he shut the great cabin door than he regretted taking his irritation out on Faircloth, but it was too late to rectify that.

  Thunderheads of excitement about the sailing of the fleet had been building over Philadelphia, and the next morning they broke. With the first clear light at dawn one could see that the ice was thinner than it had been in weeks, with large pieces breaking away from the solid sheets along the banks and swirling away downstream. By the afternoon watch the river would be clear enough for the fleet to sail, and sail they would.

  The crowds began to gather along the quay just as the last of the supplies were struck down and hatches battened securely for sea. Commodore Esek Hopkins, younger brother of Congressman Stephen Hopkins, his face creased by a lifetime at sea and looking every one of his fifty-seven years, paraded the wharf, a lieutenant and three midshipmen trailing behind like bridesmaids.

  ‘Hopkins is on a rhumb line for our brow, Captain,’ Rumstick mentioned, nodding to the entourage just stepping off the Cabot. ‘Reckon he’ll expect a side party and all.’

  ‘I reckon you’re right. Do we … ah … do we have a side party? Has that detail been told off?’

  Rumstick smiled. ‘I got it well in hand, Captain.’

  And, as usual, he did. The ship’s boys turned out with white gloves, and Faircloth’s marines, dressed in identical bottlegreen uniforms, much to Biddlecomb’s surprise, stood ready to present arms. Their drills were ragged, but not overly so, considering that the very Marine Corps itself was not above two months old.

  As Biddlecomb stood at the end of the line of marines, he was not surprised to see Tottenhill slide up next to him, a look of grave injustice on his face. ‘Sir, Mr Rumstick has set this whole thing up without consulting me. The side party is my responsibility, not his, and I resent the intrusion.’

  ‘Mr Tottenhill, did you think to organize a side party at all?’ Biddlecomb was becoming tired of this. ‘Did you have the gloves for the sideboys and alert the bosun and his mates and the marines? … No, I thought not. Please be so gracious as to thank God, at least, for Rumstick’s foresight, if you cannot bring yourself to thank Rumstick himself.’

  Tottenhill stepped back, his pride wounded deeper still. Biddlecomb knew it and did not want the wound to fester, so he said, ‘Still, Mr Tottenhill, I will see that Rumstick clears these things through you in the future.’ He felt like the headmaster of a boarding school.

  ‘Biddlecomb, Biddlecomb, God damn my soul to hell, right to hell,’ Commodore Hopkins said, stepping up the brow and shaking Biddlecomb’s hand over the noise of the side party. Shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper hair fell out from under his cocked hat and was tied loosely behind, and his craggy and lined face with its protruding hawk nose was softened somewhat by his smile. He ran his eyes over the Charlemagne’s rig and along her deck. ‘Lovely, lovely. Stanton always built the best, none of your false economy you see too much of in America, too much by half. It’s good to lay eyes on you again.’

  Biddlecomb had known Hopkins for ten years at least, just as he had known Whipple, commanding the Columbus, and Hopkins’s son, John Hopkins, commanding Cabot, and, for that matter, Dudley Saltonstall, flag captain aboard the Alfred. New England ship captains all, and all, save for Saltonstall, from Rhode Island. ‘It’s good to see you as well, sir, and joy on your promotion.’

  ‘Joy, my arse, we’ll see how much joy I get out of it. You ready for sea?’

  ‘Ready in all respects, sir.’

  ‘Good, good. Alfred’s still got a few hands ashore, run or just waking up in some whorehouse. Cabot’s waiting on a midshipman and four marines, and Columbus is short a few as well, I believe. We’ll wait until eight bells in the forenoon watch and not a minute more, then we go. I’ll fire a gun from Alfred and we’ll all raise our ensigns. I sent an ensign over; does your signal midshipman have it ready to go?’

  ‘I’m certain he does, sir,’ said Biddlecomb, certain of no such thing, but certain at least that Weatherspoon would be made to find an ensign if he had misplaced the one Hopkins had provided. With a thought toward future subterfuge Biddlecomb had brought aboard the ensigns of a dozen different nations, and he hoped that his own country’s flag was among them.

  ‘Good then. Wait for my gun, then raise the ensign, and we’ll start to cast off, get under way in grand style. Won’t need to warp out, this blessed breeze will lift us right off the dock. Alfred’ll go first, then Columbus, then Cabot, then you and Andrew Doria, right up the line.’

  They waited for the gun, waited through eight bells in the forenoon watch, then one bell in the afternoon watch, then two bells and three bells, with midshipmen from the flagship racing down the quay every twenty minutes or so to explain the latest delay.

  Stanton came aboard, and Virginia, to bid their farewell. Biddlecomb pumped Stanton’s hand and thanked him for his blessings, and he kissed Virginia on the cheek. Her eyes said more and said it better than any words he had ever spoken to her. He hoped desperately that he was able to convey to her in that all too public farewell all that he wanted to say: his love and his commitment – grown stronger in the light of day, but he could not rid himself of the image of her lying on the big bed, and it distracted him.

  At last the Stantons went ashore and joined the crowd lining the quay and Water Street three deep. Ten minutes later the Alfred’s gun went off. On the flagship’s quarterdeck Isaac could see the first lieutenant, a young Scotsman with red hair whose name he could not recall, hauling away on the flag halyard.

  The ensign rose up the staff, a flag of red, white, and blue stripes, the union jack in the canton. The Grand Union Flag. From the ships and the crowd on the shore came a shout like rolling thunder, wave after wave of cheering as the ensigns went up on the other men-of-war.

  The cheering did not abate, indeed it grew louder, as Alfred’s topsails fell and the yards were hoisted and her inner jib jerked up the fore topmast stay and was set aback. Her bow swung majestically away from the dock, the ship pivoting on the one stern line held fast. Then that too was slipped and the flagship moved out into the river, free of the shore at last, her round bows nudging the heavy chunks of ice aside.

  The Columbus followed, portly Abraham Whipple standing like a stunted tree on her quarterdeck, his eyes everywhere, seemingly oblivious to the frenzied crowd on the shore. Then came the Cabot, momentarily delayed by a gasket left tied on her jib, but that was soon cast off and the brig followed the two larger ships downstream.

  Biddlecomb smiled, quite involuntarily. His feet were tingling with excitement. This was what he loved above all else, the moment when the brig became an extension of himself, every action aboard the vessel a reaction to his spoken word. The sensation was only heightened by the hundreds of people watching and cheering. He was the focal point now of the great military show, and he loved it.

  ‘Get the main topsail on her, and topgallants as well, if you please,’ Biddlecomb said to Tottenhill, and Tottenhill ran forward to see that done. ‘Mr Rumstick, I would like the best bower cockbilled, in case we must drop it quickly. In any event we don’t have above two hours of daylight left, and I rather doubt Hopkins will choose to feel his way through this ice in the dark.’

  Fifteen minutes later the anchor was hanging from the cathead, and the topgallants, which had just been set, were clewed up and stowed, the extra canvas having made the Charlemagne surge ahead and threaten to overtake the slow-moving ships
sailing downriver under shortened sail. The lovely city of Philadelphia was off the starboard quarter and disappearing astern, and the crowd that had lined the waterfront was gone.

  The fleet pushed through the broken ice, one mile, then two miles downriver. The sun moved quickly toward the western horizon, and the sky, the flawlessly clear winter sky, was orange and red in the west, then white, pale blue, dark blue, and black in a great variegated arc overhead. A low, marshy, frozen island appeared off the starboard bow, an island that Biddlecomb had known for years as Mud Island but which had apparently been caught up in the general sweep of patriotic fervor and renamed Liberty Island.

  ‘Signal from the flag, sir,’ said Weatherspoon, and then in a less certain tone he added, ‘I think.’

  Biddlecomb looked over at the Alfred as Weatherspoon rifled through the list of signals for the fleet. The flagship’s main topsail was clewing up; an odd thing to do if it was not meant as a signal. The ensign, which was absent from the ensign staff, was hoisted again, tied in a long bundle like a hammock. ‘Main topsail clewed up, ensign hoisted with a weft,’ he prompted the midshipman.

  ‘Oh, here it is, sir. “Fleet to anchor.” But it doesn’t look like he’s going to anchor, sir.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ said Biddlecomb. The Alfred was making for one of the long piers that jutted out from the island, apparently intending to tie up there. It was not clear if the commodore wished them to do so as well, and he had given the signal closest in meaning, or if he genuinely wished for the fleet to anchor. As Biddlecomb speculated on this point, he saw the Columbus heading for the pier as well. ‘Mr Tottenhill,’ he said. ‘We’ll be warping alongside the northern pier, there. Please see things laid along.’

  Hopkins had no choice, of course. There would be just enough daylight for the ships to safely tie up and not a minute more. And it was just as well. It had been a hectic day, and at least half of the crew, he was certain, were still suffering from the farewell celebrations of the night before, himself and Rumstick included.