The Continental Risque

by James Nelson

  ‘Woodberry, how are you doing? Careful you don’t miss any dirt, now.’ Hackett stood in front of two other men, just beyond the edge of the light from the lantern. The two men behind him carried belaying pins, which they were making a halfhearted effort to hide.

  ‘Come to bear a hand, Hackett? Be the first work you’ve done since you come aboard.’

  ‘Aren’t you a funny one. No, I come to have a talk with you.’

  Woodberry remained silent. One of the men at Hackett’s back was Gray. The other, deeper in the shadows, appeared to be Allen, but he was not certain. If they wanted to mix it up, he could take the two of them down, belaying pins or not. He did not think Hackett would participate in anything that could get him hurt.

  At least he could take them down on deck. The thought of fighting in that narrow space, with the serpentine cables at his back, made the panic rise up again. He could taste it in his throat. He pressed his lips together. He remembered that his hand was broken as well. If they made him do this, he would make them pay.

  ‘You think you’re cock of the tween decks, don’t you, Woodberry? Well, I just want you to understand who runs things now.’

  Woodberry’s hand moved automatically for the handle of his sheath knife and rested there. ‘Captain Biddlecomb runs things on this ship. Not you and not me.’

  ‘Ain’t that nice, you and your little Biddlecomb.’

  Woodberry heard more steps behind him, coming from the forward ladder, the soft, barely audible sound of hard, bare feet on planking. He took a step back and looked in the direction of the sound. Jenkins and another man. Four against one on the cable tier was pushing the odds. If he could get up on deck, even the berthing deck, he would be all right. If he could get Ferguson down here, they could do for these sons of whores. But Ferguson was off on the sloop.

  ‘I brought some witness with me, Woodberry, you bastard, so they can hear you say all proper that I’m first man on the tween decks,’ Hackett said.

  ‘Sod off.’

  ‘Sod off, is it?’ Hackett took a step closer, as did the other four, moving in on Woodberry, further confining him. The sweat on his forehead felt cold.

  ‘Sod off, is it?’ Hackett asked again. ‘You better say it, if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘Even if I said it, it don’t make it true,’ Woodberry said, though he knew that he was wrong about that. If he was forced to admit in front of others, even Hackett’s men, that Hackett was first man on the tween decks, then that would virtually guarantee that he was. It was like a gun crew, he thought. If the gun captain gets knocked down, the next man steps in. And on the lower deck he was captain and Hackett was the next man.

  ‘You got something to say, Woodberry, you buggering coward?’

  Coward. Woodberry was consumed with fear, a sensation that he was not accustomed to, because of the damned confines of the cable tier. His eyes darted around; he felt his palm slick on the handle of his knife. The fear, the thought of being afraid, made him sick.

  ‘Come on then. Coward,’ Hackett said. He took another step. He was smiling and Woodberry knew that he could see the fear, and he knew that Hackett would think he was afraid of the threats, not the space, and he could not stand that.

  ‘Son of a whore!’ Woodberry roared, and lunged at Hackett, grabbing handfuls of his shirt and jerking him closer and bringing his knee up into Hackett’s groin as he did. He could see the pain and fear in Hackett’s eyes, smell the panic on his breath in that instant before Gray brought the belaying pin down on the knuckles of his broken hand.

  He let go of Hackett’s shirt, gasped in pain, and reached with his other hand for his knife. He felt Jenkins’s hand on his arm, felt the sheath knife jerked from the sheath the instant before his hand reached it. He heard the sound of the knife hitting the ceiling as Jenkins flung it away.

  He wheeled around and with his good hand hit Jenkins full in the face. The pain of the blow seemed to explode in his hand and shot up his arm. He knew he had broken at least one finger. But the effect on Jenkins was much worse than that. He flew back as if struck by round shot, and he and the man behind him, unable to step aside in the narrow space between cables and ceiling, fell into the darkness beyond the lantern’s reach.

  There was an ache in Woodberry’s head and in his shoulders and he realized, dumbly, that he was being struck from behind, oddly ineffectual blows. He turned back and caught Gray’s belaying pin in mid-swing and wrenched it from his hand. Hackett had stumbled away, doubled over against the cables.

  Woodberry’s terror of the confinement was gone, swept away by his rage. The tight space was his ally now, preventing his attackers from massing on him. He punched Gray, remembering in the last instant his shattered hand and holding back as his fist made contact. The blow was weak, and it hurt Woodberry much more than it hurt Gray.

  ‘Ahhh, son of a bitch!’ Woodberry roared, grabbing his left hand loosely with his right. He felt a blow to his kidneys; Jenkins was up and hitting him from behind. He had half-turned when the man behind Gray, having clambered up on the narrow space on top of the cables, struck him on the side of the head with his belaying pin.

  The blow swung him around, facing Jenkins. He had just the briefest glimpse of Jenkins’s bloody face before he was struck again. He felt himself going down, and he grabbed ahold of Jenkins with both hands, determined to take the man down with him.

  He felt Jenkins’s arm around his neck as he pounded the man’s stomach with both fists, screaming in pain each time he drove his shattered hands into the man’s ribs. He felt Jenkins’s grip loosen, felt repeated blows on his head and back.

  ‘Bosun! Bosun’s coming!’ Woodberry heard someone – it might have been Hackett – whisper. Jenkins released his grip and Woodberry half fell to the deck. He felt feet stepping over him as his assailants fled forward.

  ‘You son of a bitch!’ Woodberry grabbed at Gray as he rushed past, but Gray squirmed out of his grip and was gone.

  ‘What in the hell is acting here?’ He heard Sprout’s voice on the deck above. ‘Hey, there! What …’

  Sprout’s feet stepped onto the ladder. He was coming down to the cable tier. Sprout knew what was going on, and he would certainly have recognized the sounds of a fight. You didn’t spend a lifetime at sea without recognizing those sounds. He would demand an explanation, and Woodberry would have to refuse or make up some obvious lie. The problems of the lower deck stayed on the lower deck. Bringing a problem like this aft would do more damage even than admitting that Hackett was first man of the tween decks.

  Woodberry pulled himself to his feet and hurried forward. He made his way awkwardly up the ladder, unable even to touch the rungs with his battered hands, just as Sprout descended into the cable tier.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Biddlecomb muttered to himself as he stared at the Charlemagne from the stern sheets of the boat as Ferguson steered for the Bahamian sloop. He did not have time to worry about what was going on there, he had an invasion to lead. He would send Rumstick over, let him worry about it, though that was just as likely to make things worse as better.

  The boat pulled up alongside the sloop, and Biddlecomb stepped quickly up the two steps of the pilot ladder hung over the side. ‘Mr Rumstick,’ he called, and the second officer stepped over and saluted.

  ‘Look here, Ezra,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I’ve just been aboard Charlemagne and things aren’t looking too good there. I don’t know what’s acting, but the mood is … brittle. You know what I mean? Like things are ready to break. Like they were on the Icarus, just before …’

  ‘The mutiny?’

  ‘Just so.’ Biddlecomb sighed, steeling himself to say what he had to say. ‘Ezra, I need you to go back aboard Charlemagne. Tell Tottenhill it’s my orders. I’d make you acting first officer if I could, but I can’t. Still, it’ll do the man good just having you there.’

  ‘Humph,’ was all Rumstick said, frowning and looking across the water at the brig. If he was trying to hide his
disappointment, he was doing a poor job. Biddlecomb knew full well what he was thinking. Not only did he not want to be stuck on the Charlemagne, under Tottenhill’s command, he did not want to miss the action that was about to take place, the first offensive move by the American Navy and marine corps.

  ‘He ain’t going to want me aboard, Isaac. He’ll take it to mean you don’t trust him.’

  ‘Then that’ll be the first damn thing he’s got right in a while. Whatever he thinks, I’m still the captain of that bucket, he still does what I order him to do.’ Biddlecomb turned and followed Rumstick’s gaze over toward the brig. ‘I would be delighted if he would disobey a direct order, then I could rid myself of him, but he’s too clever by half for that.’

  ‘Why not take him with you aboard the sloop, here, and put me in command of Charlemagne?’

  ‘A good try, Lieutenant, but I think not. It’s never done, a captain and a first officer out of the ship at a time of action.’

  ‘And you don’t want to be around the son of a whore any more than I do.’

  ‘And as captain that is my prerogative. I’m sorry, Ezra. And pray send Weatherspoon back with the boat. He can serve as my aide.’

  Then, much to Biddlecomb’s relief, Rumstick shook his head and grinned. ‘Good God, what I do sacrifice for my country. Good luck, sir.’ He saluted smartly and then hopped down the ladder into the waiting boat.

  Ten minutes later the three sloops and the schooner Wasp were under way, once again leaving the anchored fleet in their wake. With their shallow draft they eschewed the deep water to the north, moving boldly over the reefs where the larger vessels of the fleet could not follow.

  They made their way nearly due south, sailing a beam reach in the warm, ten-knot breeze. They skirted past the eastern end of Athol Island, and there, spread out before them, with East Point straight ahead and the east entrance to the harbor off the starboard beam, was the island of New Providence.

  Biddlecomb, standing at the leeward rail, put his telescope to his eye and stared at Fort Montegu three miles away. A plume of smoke was rising from the square, gray fort, but he could see no sign of activity beyond that. Not that it mattered much to him; his vessels would never be within range of the fort, and when it did come time to attack that stronghold, he would gladly abdicate leadership to Captain Nicholas, now aboard the Providence.

  The deck of the sloop was crowded with marines. There was no need for secrecy now, and with the day growing warmer Biddlecomb did not have the heart to force them below, as inconvenient and irritating as it was to have them lolling about as if it were a county fair. He had at least declared that the after edge of the main hatch was the official start of the quarterdeck, and no one, save officers, came aft of that without his permission, thus keeping a portion of the deck clear for himself.

  Lieutenant Faircloth, leaning on the rail next to Biddlecomb, breathed a deep lungful of the Caribbean air. ‘Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous! Is it always this fine in the Caribbean?’

  ‘Well, it’s a good deal hotter in the summer, and the hurricane season can be a bit of a problem, but, yes, in general I’d say it’s always pretty nice. Have you never been here?’

  ‘Hardly been out of Philadelphia, save for a little time in London and New York. I think this adventuring life suits me well.’

  Biddlecomb could not help but smile. ‘Pray, wait till we’ve had some real adventure before you decide how much you like it.’

  They continued south, through the translucent, light blue water, a color that could hardly be believed, past the dark patches where kelp covered reefs rose up to just below the surface. Biddlecomb guessed, from the reaction of the marines who lined the rails, peering and pointing down into the water and out at the lush island, that Faircloth was not the only man aboard who had seen little in his life beyond Philadelphia.

  ‘And two and a half, and two and a half,’ the leadsman chanted. Two and a half fathoms; plenty of water still for the sloops. East Point was straight ahead, and half a mile off. They stood on for another five minutes, and then Biddlecomb hailed Weaver and Capt. John Hazard of the Providence and Hallock of the Wasp, ordering them to anchor in his lee. Together the four vessels rounded up and dropped their anchors and their sails together and came to rest on the placid water.

  ‘The die is cast,’ Biddlecomb said to Faircloth.

  ‘Right, well, let’s get across this damned Rubicon and get on with it.’ The marine lieutenant was smiling, very much enjoying himself. ‘Sergeant Dawes, let’s get these men formed up and ready to get in the boats!’

  The two boats being towed astern were hauled alongside, and awkwardly the heavy-laden marines clambered over the bulwark and took their places on the thwarts. The same scene was repeated on each of the other three vessels, and soon eight boats full of sailors and marines were pulling for the rocky beach just north of East Point.

  Biddlecomb sat in the stern sheets of the first boat, his knees forced up close to his body by the crowding, and scanned the shoreline through his telescope.

  He had always thought it a lovely island, but the happy feeling that had attended past landfalls here had deserted him now. This time he was not just going ashore, he was leading an invasion.

  The Providence’s boat reached the shore first. The crew tossed oars and the forefoot made a horrible crunching sound as it ran up on the rocky shallows that constituted the beach. The men at the bow jumped out, the water coming up to their knees, and hauled the boat farther ashore. Captain Nicholas stood and pushed his way through the marines and hopped down into six inches of ocean.

  Biddlecomb’s boat was next. ‘Toss oars,’ Ferguson called, and the two banks of oars went up and their boat hit the shore, making a sound at least as bad as that of the first boat. The sailors tumbled out, followed by the marines and then Weatherspoon and then the captain.

  He adjusted his sword until it hung at the proper angle, then marched farther up the beach. All of the boats were ashore now, eight in all, and the ninety or so men they had carried, one-third of the invading force, were swarming over the shoreline. Muskets were stacked and cartridge boxes and powder horns checked, and men assembled into divisions, waiting for their comrades, waiting to march against Fort Montegu. The American invasion of New Providence was under way.

  At the inland edge of the beach a narrow dirt road skirted the shore, leading in one direction southeast to East Point and in the other northwest to Fort Montegu. The fine dust that covered the surface of the road had a light brown color, bordering on white, almost exactly the color of a well-scrubbed deck. Small rocks were scattered about, and a few tenacious plants sprouted in those spots not grooved deep by cart wheels.

  On the far side of the road, the inland side, the great green wave of forest crested, threatening to break and spill over the roadway. From that mysterious world came the occasional scream of birds and the constant buzz of insects and Biddlecomb could only imagine what else. Here and there amid the green vegetation, tall, flowering plants burst with color, like shells frozen in midexplosion. It was past noon and already hot, though the heat was tempered by the cool trades that blew over the island.

  Biddlecomb looked down the road in one direction, then the other. There was no one to be seen; they might have been invading a desert island, for all he could tell.

  He caught a movement in the corner of his eye and looked down. At his feet a patch of rock thrust up from the sand, and on the rock, standing motionless like a delicate china figurine, was a lizard. Then, slowly, aware it was being watched, the creature raised its four-inch body up on spindly legs. It bobbed its head up and down, slowly at first, then faster, and thrust a pink dewlap, like a strawberry, out from under its chin.

  Biddlecomb smiled at the sheer audacity of the tiny creature. ‘I know right well how you feel,’ he said.

  Fort Montegu was perhaps the most secure place on the island of New Providence. Built of huge blocks of native stone, the fort was nearly one hundred feet square and tw
enty feet high, with the walls, five feet thick at their narrowest, sloping gently inward from the base to the top of the ramparts. There was only one way in: a heavily secured door opening onto a tunnel with a rounded ceiling running right under the ramparts to the front door of the barracks.

  Atop each of the four walls sat a battery of guns, an impressive arsenal of twelve-and eighteen-pounder cannon that commanded a 360-degree field of fire, from the eastern entrance of Nassau harbor to the north, to the single overland approach to the south. The strength of the fort was further augmented by another, smaller battery at the fort’s northwest corner. It was little wonder that a former governor of New Providence had declared that, properly defended, Fort Montegu would make the island ‘the strongest possession on British America.’

  And to Lt James Babbidge, standing on the southern wall and waiting for the messenger who a moment before had come charging in from the direction of Nassau, that knowledge did nothing to ease his fear. His short and inglorious career in the army had consisted mainly of parades and garrison duty, along with a brief stint in India. He had never actually been in combat, and he had certainly never been in command of a fortress under attack by an invading army.

  Stewn around the upperworks of the fort were the thirty militiamen that had marched with him that morning, along with thirty more who had been sent to augment his force after the enemy’s small vessels had been spotted making for East Point. Some were cleaning their weapons, some were sleeping, and others were engaged in card games or arguments. They all appeared relaxed, some even bored, though Babbidge was fairly certain that more than a few were just shamming calm, as he was doing.

  He watched the messenger, a sergeant in the militia, come panting up the stairs. He would be carrying instructions, perhaps instructions to abandon Montegu and withdraw to Fort Nassau. That thought gave Babbidge a great sense of relief, followed by a flush of guilt for wishing such a cowardly thing.