The Continental Risque

by James Nelson

  It was a fairly dejected band of American rebels that met in the great cabin of the flagship Alfred three hours later. Once the fleet had come about, once they realized that they had been discovered, Hopkins led them to the north and then east, skirting around the far shore of Hog Island and working their way through the tricky reefs.

  As Fort Nassau disappeared from sight, Biddlecomb allowed the marines up on deck. They poured out of the hold, sweating, coughing, some looking a most unhealthy color, and for the rest of the trip they milled about the waist, talking loud and impeding the work of the sailors.

  Hanover Sound, to which they were bound, was, from the level of the deck, indistinguishable from the open sea. It was only from high aloft, looking down, that one could see that the Sound was in fact a deep indentation in the reef, something like a harbor in a submerged island. In that sheltered area, amid the long, low-lying islands to the northeast of New Providence, the American fleet anchored.

  Biddlecomb had just luffed his sloop and was waiting for the first sign of sternway before ordering the man forward to let the anchor go when Rumstick reported, ‘Signal from the flag.’

  ‘I can well imagine,’ Biddlecomb said, then shouted, ‘Let go!’ to the sailor in the bow.

  ‘All captains to repair on board.’

  The sloop’s boat, which, for lack of space on deck, had been towed astern, was brought around and manned, and Biddlecomb took his place in the stern sheets for the short trip to the flagship.

  ‘Hold a minute, Ferguson,’ he said to the seaman at the tiller. ‘Take us by Charlemagne first; we’ll see how things are going there.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Ferguson pushed the tiller over, and a moment later the boat was gliding under the Charlemagne’s counter and alongside her starboard quarter.

  ‘Ahoy, Charlemagne!’ Biddlecomb called out, and Tottenhill’s head appeared over the quarterdeck rail, and then, oddly, Hackett’s as well.

  ‘No surprise that bastard’s made his way aft,’ Ferguson muttered, and before Biddlecomb could ask him what he meant by that, Tottenhill called out, ‘Oh, sir!’ and then turning forward shouted, ‘Side party! Smartly now!’

  No, belay that, Mr Tottenhill,’ Biddlecomb called. ‘I’m going aboard the flagship. I just wanted to see that everything was all right.’

  ‘Fine, sir. Couldn’t be better.’

  ‘Have you enough hands?’

  ‘Quite, sir. Plenty.’

  And hardly a Yankee among them, Biddlecomb thought. Probably the happiest you’ve been in months, you miserable bastard.

  Stop that, he thought, that kind of thinking will not help at all. He ran his eyes over the Charlemagne. She looked good, but not excellent.

  ‘Perhaps you could get a boat in the water and square up the yards a bit, Mr Tottenhill. And I think a fresh pull on the backstays would not be amiss.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Tottenhill said, but his tone was different now. He seemed to bristle at the suggestion.

  Don’t get too used to being in command, Biddlecomb thought. ‘Very good. Carry on. I don’t know when I’ll be back aboard.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Biddlecomb glanced around the deck, that part of it that he could see from the boat. ‘Where’s Weatherspoon?’

  ‘Masthead, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I caught him in the cable tier, sleeping, when he said he was working on his trigonometry.’

  ‘I see.’ Biddlecomb had to smile. As an apprentice he had spent a good deal of time asleep in the cable tier when he was supposed to be at more productive pursuits.

  Tottenhill gave a crisp salute, which Biddlecomb returned, and the boat was under way again, pulling forward along the brig’s length to duck under her bow.

  ‘Kinda odd, sir, ain’t it, Hackett being up on the quarterdeck?’ Ferguson said casually, too casually to be genuine.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just mean … well, nothing. Just, Hacket didn’t seem to be doing nothing. No work back there, I mean. I reckon he and Tottenhill are friends from back home.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Biddlecomb said, then after a pause added, ‘Ferguson, what are you trying to say?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  And that, Biddlecomb was certain, was not true. What was Ferguson implying? That Hackett was exerting some influence on Tottenhill? That was not possible. Even Tottenhill, Biddlecomb had to imagine, could see what a weasel and a sea lawyer Hackett was. He wished that Ferguson would just say what he was thinking.

  But he would not. Biddlecomb knew that that cryptic warning was the closest that a sailor like Ferguson would come to informing on a fellow foremast jack, despised though he might be. Without further comment Ferguson pulled the boat alongside the Alfred’s boarding steps and Biddlecomb climbed aboard. He was led by a midshipman to the great cabin, which was, once again, filled to capacity with officers of the navy and marine corps.

  This gathering, however, had none of the jovial, festive atmosphere of the meeting at Cape Henlopen, or Hackett’s court-martial. The American Navy had just failed in its first ever attempted action, and the faces in the great cabin reflected that.

  ‘Biddlecomb, good, you’re here,’ Hopkins said as Biddlecomb stepped into the great cabin and saluted. ‘Sorry about that whole thing getting buggered up like that. Damn wind set us further east than we thought, of all the stupid, blackballing mistakes. Sun comes up and we’re right on the buggering bar. Take any casualties?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that, anyway. Steward, a rum punch for Captain Biddlecomb. Step up here, Captain, we’re trying to figure out what in hell we’ll do now.’ The other captains, as well as Lieutenant Weaver, late of the second captured sloop, and Lieutenant Jones, who always seemed to make himself present at these occasions, were gathered around the great cabin table, across which was spread a chart of New Providence Island and the surrounding waters.

  Biddlecomb took the rum punch, which was the last thing he wanted at ten o’clock in the morning, from the steward and made a halfhearted attempt to push his way to the table. Lieutenant Jones was making an animated point about a landing sight and gesturing to the chart, but Biddlecomb was still thinking about the Charlemagne. He felt as if his ship were breaking up under him, and he did not know what to do to prevent it. In any event, it was clearly not helping things, allowing Tottenhill to run amuck. As much as he hated to do it, he would have to send Rumstick back aboard. It was the only way to assure that discipline would be maintained.

  ‘Perhaps Captain Biddlecomb has something to add? Captain Biddlecomb?’

  Biddlecomb looked up at Abraham Whipple, who had just spoken his name, the second time in a tone calculated to snap him from his reverie. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘Lieutenant Jones is proposing that he lead a landing party here’ – Whipple placed a finger like the trunk of a young sapling on a point on the chart – ‘just south of Fort Montegu.’

  ‘No, that’s no good,’ Biddlecomb said without thinking, distracted as he was with other concerns.

  ‘And why not, sir?’ asked Jones, a hint of confrontation in his voice. ‘The batteries from the ships could keep the fort well occupied until the marines were landed, I’ve no doubt.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not a question of the fort. The whole shoreline there is steep-to coral and a lee shore. The boats would be smashed to pieces if they tried to land there, and even if they weren’t, the poor bastards would never be able to get ashore.’ Biddlecomb turned to Lieutenant Weaver, who was maintaining a respectful silence. ‘Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Yes, quite, sir. There’s no landing anywhere along that northeastern shore.’

  ‘Well, then, what’s your plan, Biddlecomb?’ Hopkins asked.

  ‘My plan?’ Biddlecomb had simply answered a question, he had no plan. He looked around at the dozen faces looking back at him and decided that he would not admit as much to this crowd.


  ‘I think Lieutenant Jones had the right idea,’ he began, hoping to assuage the lieutenant, who was clearly upset, ‘with a landing, but not at that point. Right here at East Point’ – he leaned over and put his finger on the chart – ‘is the place to land the marines. Right around here the shore becomes less steep, and here, while it’s still rocky, you do have some shallows of sorts to land men. Would you agree, Weaver?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There’s no sand beach at all to speak of around there, but you can definitely get boats ashore just above East Point.’

  ‘Well, good, then,’ Hopkins thankfully interrupted. ‘We land there, just north of East Point. We’ve lost our chance at surprise, and we ain’t going to get it back, but the marines are already on the sloops. No reason to wait. Biddlecomb, you got the local knowledge, so we’ll just keep things the way they are. You’re in charge of the landing, Captain Nicholas will lead the attack against Fort Montegu, and we’ll see how things go from there. Gentlemen, shall we return to our ships?’

  As the meeting broke up, Biddlecomb stared out of the salt-stained windows of the great cabin at the two captured sloops riding easily at their anchors. He was, once more, responsible for landing marines on a hostile coast. He would put them ashore, under enemy fire if the enemy had any sense, and would then participate in the attack on a strongly held and alerted fortification. How in the hell did it happen that he was in charge?

  Lt Roger Tottenhill stood at the leeward rail of the Charlemagne’s quarterdeck, the captain’s sacred spot, aloof and alone. It felt good to be there. It felt good to be in command, and to be free of Faircloth and his arrogant ways. It felt even better to know that Rumstick was gone as well, and not second-guessing him, telling Biddlecomb lies about his abilities. He was relishing the moment, trying not to think of the future when the Yankee cabal would be back.

  ‘Sir, beg pardon.’ Hackett appeared once more on the quarterdeck and saluted. ‘It ain’t my place, sir, but I had a thought, and, well … please, never mind.’

  ‘No, go on, Hackett, what is it?’

  ‘Well, sir, the men have been working awful hard, sir, and they were disappointed something cruel about being turned away from Nassau harbor, on account of them Yankees making such a hash of things, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Tottenhill said. Behind his back he could hear Woodberry shift uncomfortably. The seaman was seated cross-legged on the deck, long-splicing a chafed section of the main topsail outer buntline.

  ‘Disappointed something cruel,’ Hackett said again.

  In fact Tottenhill had been thinking just that thing about the men’s hard work and their disappointment, but he was not certain he cared for any of the men’s actually saying as much, not even Hackett, his friend and chief advocate on the tween decks. Woodberry made another noise, calculated to get Tottenhill’s attention. The lieutenant found that irritating in the extreme.

  ‘So, I was thinking,’ Hackett continued, ‘perhaps a splice of the old main brace, sir? It would do a great deal, to lift the men’s spirits.’

  ‘Splice the main brace, eh?’ The suggestion made Tottenhill uncomfortable. Issuing an extra ration of rum, which was what Hackett was suggesting, might well lift the men’s spirits, but did they need lifting that much? They might think him weak if he did it.

  But again, here he was chaffing under Biddlecomb’s lack of consideration, yet ready to deny this little thing to the men. And they had been working awfully hard, as Hackett said. Biddlecomb, inconsiderate whore’s son that he was, would never do the men this little favor.

  ‘Sir? Beg pardon, sir.’ It was Woodberry. Tottenhill knew that the Yankee, Biddlecomb’s pet, would not resist giving his entirely unwanted opinion. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Wooodberry, what is it?’

  ‘Well, sir, I couldn’t help but overhear what Hackett here said. Now I like my rum as much as the next man, but I don’t know as up-spirits is the best idea now, sir. And the men’ll all think Hackett talked you into it, sir.’

  Tottenhill felt his irritation mount with every word Woodberry said. ‘You presume to tell me how to run my vessel? Who do you think you are? I shall do what I think right, and if I want your counsel I’ll ask for it, and I don’t imagine that will happen anytime before the conversion of the Jews.’

  ‘Sir, I just meant—’

  ‘Oh, I know what you meant, never doubt it. If you do not want a tot, then you need not have one. In which case I’ll thank you to get a broom and see to sweeping out the cable tier.’

  ‘But, sir, the buntline—’

  ‘Damn the buntline, get a broom and get below before I stop your tot for good!’

  Woodberry took a long second to glare at Hackett, and then at Tottenhill, before mumbling, ‘Aye. Sir,’ and shuffling forward.

  ‘Very well, Hackett,’ Tottenhill said with finality. He knew that after his display with Woodberry he could no longer deny Hackett his request. ‘The men have earned as much. Fetch the purser and tell him I have decided to issue an extra tot today.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Hackett said, saluting crisply. ‘The men will be wonderfully grateful.’ And saying that he hurried off forward.

  The distribution of the rum, like anything done by a well-trained and properly motivated crew, was carried out with amazing speed and efficiency. Not above four minutes later, Hackett settled on the heel of the bowsprit, displacing two of his messmates, and took a long pull from his tin cup.

  ‘There. And didn’t I tell you I could get that stupid bastard to issue us a tot? That’s a shilling apiece, you gentlemen owes me, by my reckoning,’ Hackett said, barely containing his triumph.

  ‘And we’ll pay you once we gets it, mate, and you’ll just have to wait till then,’ said Michael Jenkins, a fellow North Carolinian. ‘I’d like to see you get away with this with bloody Biddlecomb or Rumstick aboard.’

  ‘Sod Biddlecomb and sod Rumstick, them Yankee sons of bitches,’ Hackett said. ‘They don’t run things here, any more than that dumb arse Tottenhill.’

  ‘You’re getting a bit full of yourself, ain’t you, Captain Hackett?’

  ‘“Captain Hackett”? I like that, I like that full well. Sets good on me, don’t it?’ Hackett took another pull of his rum and stared out at the flagship, with all the fleet’s boats clustered around it.

  It had been a productive twenty-four hours. Sneaking down into the cable tier to steal a nap, he had come across Weatherspoon doing the same thing. He raised a great ruckus, pretending to believe the sleeping midshipman injured or dead. Now Weatherspoon was relegated to the masthead as punishment for taking a caulk. With the other Yankees off the ship Hackett had made great advances in Tottenhill’s confidence, and with Tottenhill in command it gave him great freedom to work his will.

  He smiled as he thought of how suspicious he had been when first recruited. He had been afraid that the navy would be a floating hell, but in fact it was turning out to be the highlight of his career at sea.

  And now was the time to prove once and for all who ruled on the lower deck.

  ‘Look here, you bastards, you owe me a shilling each,’ he said.

  ‘We ain’t got a shilling, dumb arse, like I said,’ said Jenkins.

  ‘Okay, then. What say you gentlemen help me in a little job and we’ll forget all about the shilling.’

  Hackett looked at the five men sitting around him. His courtiers. His court jesters. They looked suspicious, as well they might.

  ‘What job?’

  ‘It’s just a little thing. Got to do it right now, so drink up, boys. But don’t you worry, you’ll like it as much as I will.’

  The five tilted the last of their rum into their mouths, then sat silent, waiting for further instructions from Hackett. And Hackett, like a chess master, ran over in his mind his next move, and his move after that and his move after that. There was so much more to do. Oh, my, yes, there was so very much more yet to do.

  CHAPTER 19

  East Point

 
The light of the single lantern allowed Woodberry only the dimmest view of the cable tier, even after his eyes had adjusted to the dark. The cables themselves, great heaps of cordage like monstrous coiled snakes, occupied the majority of the space.

  The tier itself was none too big, and moving around in that confined place was awkward. That, coupled with the low overhead, made Woodberry uneasy; he was used to the vast spaces on deck or aloft. Being thus confined induced a slightly panicked feeling.

  On the deck under his feet he could feel the dried filth that had been carried aboard with the cables, the muck from the bottoms of rivers and harbors where the Charlemagne had anchored. He slashed at it with his broom, feeling the pain from his partially healed hand shooting up through his arm. It felt good, a perfect complement to his mood.

  The dim light prevented him from really seeing what he was doing, but he did not care. It was sweltering in that lowest part of the ship. He felt the sweat drip from his face. His hands were slick on the handle of the broom.

  His anger, already great and still building, was not at his being given this miserable job, nor was it at his being denied an extra tot.

  He was not even angry at Hackett for playing his little games.

  Woodberry had been in enough ships to see Hackett’s kind rise and fall. And he knew that generally, eventually, they fell, and when they did, they fell hard, with a healthy push from their shipmates. He was angry because Hackett seemed to be winning his game, tearing the crew apart along sectional lines, North and South. And Tottenhill, his infernal tool, too thick to see it, was helping him along.

  He kicked at a rat that he could barely see and swept the dried dirt into a pile. He heard footsteps, bare feet, on the berthing deck overhead. He paused in midsweep and listened. The steps were coming down the ladder, aft.

  He stepped out of the circle of light and peered in that direction. Whoever was coming, he doubted that they were his friends. Most of his friends were off with Biddlecomb on the sloop, as he would have been, had it not been for his broken hand.