The Continental Risque

by James Nelson

  In the wake of Biddlecomb’s genuine anger, President Brown chose to remain silent.

  CHAPTER 21

  Lieutenants of the Charlemagne

  Stupid bastard, Rumstick thought. He leaned against the larboard rail of the quarterdeck and glared at Tottenhill’s back as the first officer stared out into the night. It had been like that all day, a sort of informal standoff, since he had first reported back aboard.

  He had come on deck just as Biddlecomb’s sloop had won its anchor, heading off for the invasion, and he found men sitting, actually sitting, and doing nothing constructive that he could see.

  Tottenhill had said merely that there was nothing for them to do, an absurd contention, for there was always something to do. But for every suggestion that Rumstick made, as deferentially as he was able, Tottenhill had some reason that it could not be done. They at last settled on chipping rust from round shot, the least useful thing that Rumstick could think of, and so the men sat and banged away at six-pound cannonballs.

  Tottenhill had never been a bad officer, never backward in his duty that Rumstick had seen, merely an intolerable bore. This stubbornness and coddling of the men was something new, inexplicable, and in Rumstick’s opinion, dangerous. The first officer seemed to resist any suggestion that Rumstick made, merely because he had made it.

  ‘Hackett,’ Ezra called down to the waist. On that warm night nearly all of the hands were topside, but Hackett’s watch was officially on deck, and Hackett seemed to be making himself comfortable, too comfortable by half. ‘Hackett, nip aloft and bust the bunt of that fore t’gan’sl up on the yard and snug up the gasket. It’s hanging there like a dead man.’

  Hackett stood and looked aloft and then looked aft at Rumstick. ‘That’s boy’s work. Able-bodied seamen don’t work above the topsail yard.’

  Rumstick was silent for a long second, taken utterly aback by this statement. He felt his eyes go wide and his fists clench up. ‘Able-bodied seamen work wherever in hell I tell them to work, you son of a whore! Get over here, I’m going to rip your fucking lungs out!’ he said, his voice starting at a conversational level and building to a roar as he took one step toward Hackett, then another and another.

  He was at the quarterdeck ladder, starting to move fast, when Hackett, seeing the probability of serious bodily injury, flung himself into the rig and raced aloft. Rumstick heard snickers from various quarters of the deck, and muttering from others.

  ‘You are a lieutenant, Rumstick, need I remind you?’ Tottenhill spoke for the first time in an hour.

  ‘I am aware of my rank, Mr Tottenhill,’ Rumstick replied, watching Hackett clamber over the futtock shrouds and on to the foretop.

  ‘Then pray act like it, and not like you were still a bosun or some other rogue. It is not your position to threaten the men with a beating. If you cannot get them to obey your orders through the force of your authority, then you have no business being an officer. The quarterdeck is a place for gentlemen.’

  ‘Is that a fact? Well, I don’t know much in the gentleman line, so pray, enlighten me. You reckon I should just let Hackett get away with whatever he might please? Or should I have him flogged like you done?’

  ‘Your manner of speaking, sir, is inappropriate, both to your inferiors and your superiors.’

  ‘Don’t you come it the superior with me. You might have got some patron in the Congress to appoint you first officer on this bucket, but we’re in the same gunroom here.’

  ‘Why did you pick on Hackett just now?’ Tottenhill asked, stepping across the quarterdeck to face Rumstick.

  ‘Because Hackett’s a lazy, mouthy son of a bitch of a sea lawyer, and I can see he’s poisoning the crew.’

  ‘And not because he’s from North Carolina?’

  ‘North Carolina? What in hell does that have to do with it?’

  ‘I have observed how you and Biddlecomb give preference to the Yankees in the crew, how you slight those of us from the South. I am perfectly aware of how you undermine my authority, how you pick on the men that I brought with me, and I am quite tired of it. Yes, I am aware of your little Yankee cabal. I have no doubt that this conversation shall be related to Biddlecomb as soon as he is back aboard.’

  ‘For one thing,’ said Rumstick, now equally confused and angry, ‘it’s Captain Biddlecomb. For another, what’s said in the gunroom stays in the gunroom, I don’t tell tales in the great cabin. And if you think any of this has to do with what state you are from … good God, you are as dense as the rudderpost! Don’t you see what’s happening here? God knows we’ve all tried to work with you, but you are the most intolerable, long-winded …’

  ‘Long-winded? Long-winded, is it? You’ve never tried to work with me, you or Biddlecomb, your Yankee cabal.’ Tottenhill was building momentum; Rumstick had the impression that he was venting some long-held frustration. ‘Biddlecomb passes me right by, the first officer. Never has me to the great cabin—’

  ‘He can’t endure having you around! Don’t you see that? Oh, it might be nice to think that Biddlecomb and me don’t like Southerners, isn’t that easy,’ Rumstick said, venting some frustrations of his own. ‘But it’s you we can’t stand, can’t you see that? You’re intolerable. And now you’re off on this mad idea about us picking on North Carolina men, and standing up for that son of a whore Hackett, who’s playing you like a goddamned flute. My God, sir, but you are a blockhead!’

  Tottenhill reared back, a look of horror on his face. ‘Blockhead? Did you call me a blockhead? A superior officer?’

  ‘Yes, I did, damn your eyes.’ Rumstick could feel himself going, loosing his grip on whatever it was that kept him from plunging into the abyss of uncontrolled fury. He hated it when this happened – it had nearly gotten him killed on several occasions – but beyond a certain point he could not stop himself.

  ‘You prance around here like some French dancing master,’ Rumstick continued, louder, his control slipping more and more, ‘finding plots and undermining the captain’s authority. I’ve had about all I can take, I tell you. I ain’t in the habit of taking orders from someone I got no respect for.’

  ‘Well, you had best get in the habit!’ Tottenhill hissed through clenched teeth. ‘And as of now you are relieved of your duty, sir. You may go below. In fact, I order you below.’

  ‘You order me below, do you?’ Rumstick growled, their entire conversation being carried out in low, menacing tones. ‘Well, listen here, Mr Gentleman Lieutenant, if you’re so worried about me being a gentleman, then why don’t you show me how it’s done? Why don’t you and me go over to that little island yonder and settle this whole thing like gentlemen?’

  Tottenhill glanced over at the island, a part of the little archipelago thrown out west of Rose Island, a dark hump on the dark sea, no more than a cable length away. He looked back at Rumstick, his face set in a scowl, and then back at the island.

  ‘Unless you’re afraid,’ Rumstick said, though he knew that Tottenhill was not. His anger and disgust with the man did not so blur his vision that he would unfairly assign cowardice to the lieutenant. He said the words to manipulate Tottenhill into a fight, and as he said them, he thought of himself as an unsubtle version of Isaac Biddlecomb.

  ‘I am not afraid, you bastard, but I have my duty. I am not to leave the ship.’ Tottenhill was clearly torn between what he wanted to do, which was stick a sword in Rumstick, and what he knew he must do, which was to stay with his command.

  Rumstick understood that conflict, for he felt it as well, and even as he pushed Tottenhill into satisfying honor, he wondered if it was such a good idea. But it was too late for such considerations. The blood was up now.

  ‘Come on, you son of a whore,’ Rumstick said, just above a whisper. ‘We can’t go on like this, we got to settle it some time. Might as well be now. And it ain’t like you’re doing anything but sitting on your arse.’

  ‘Very well. Mr Sprout,’ Tottenhill called forward, ‘please bring the jolly boat around.’
>
  Ten minutes later the small boat ground up on the sandy beach and the two men at the oars – Rumstick on the larboard and Tottenhill on starboard – laid the oars down on the thwarts and jumped into the shallow water. Without a word they pulled the boat up on the sand, then moved twenty feet up the beach, turned, and drew their swords.

  The sound of steel grating on steel as the weapons left their scabbards seemed loud to Rumstick on the quiet evening. There was enough of a moon for him to see his adversary quite distinctly. He removed his coat, as had Tottenhill, his white shirt like a ghost against the dark background. The silver blade of his sword stood out against the low, dense foliage of the island.

  Rumstick felt a tightening of his muscles, a general tensing. It was not fear, really, not as Rumstick understood fear, but more of a heightened awareness. He had no notion of how good a swordsman Tottenhill was, and it did occur to him that he might be killed in the next few moments, but the thought was more academic, an interesting concept to ponder when he had time.

  ‘To first blood?’ Tottenhill said, breaking the silence. ‘I should not care to hang for killing the likes of you.’

  ‘First blood.’ Rumstick’s hot anger had cooled into something more visceral, more permanent. He was not thinking beyond this fight, as Tottenhill apparently was. He intended for first blood to come when he stuck his sword through Tottenhill’s heart.

  Tottenhill took a sideways step, the tip of his sword making little circles in the air, just visible to Rumstick. Rumstick circled away, moving in the opposite direction. He took an exploratory lunge and Tottenhill deflected the blade easily, lunged himself, and Rumstick, with more difficulty, knocked the sword aside.

  This was not at all Rumstick’s area of combat, he realized as he circled cautiously. His fighting had been hand-to-hand on crowded decks, riotous and disorganized, or the frenzied mob actions of the Sons of Liberty. It occurred to him as he leapt back from the jabbing point of Tottenhill’s sword that for all of the fighting he had done, he could not recall a fight like this, one against one, no one else about. A civilized duel.

  Tottenhill lunged again and again, coming on fast, his sword moving with a speed that was hard to follow in the dark, and Rumstick found himself being pushed back, his legs tiring as he tried to move with some agility in the soft sand, his sword just barely able to hold the lieutenant off. This won’t do, he thought, this won’t do.

  Tottenhill lunged, fully extended, and Rumstick managed to deflect the strike, and then with a shout he slashed out at Tottenhill, wild, undisciplined, fighting the way he was used to fighting, as if he were attacking an entire crew of a ship that he had boarded through the smoke.

  Now Tottenhill took a step back, and another and another, breathing hard, moving with as much difficulty as Rumstick on the beach. Three steps, four steps, and then he stopped, planting his feet at right angles, holding that spot of ground and making Rumstick stop as well.

  He’s good, he’s damned good, Rumstick thought. There was no sound now, save for heaving breath, his and Tottenhill’s, and the clash of steel on steel.

  But no, there was something else. Rumstick took a step back, disengaging, and he and Tottenhill stared at one another, hatred flashing like their steel in the moonlight, catching their breath. And over that sound he heard the creak of oars in tholes. A boat pulling toward them.

  He had half-turned his head to the sound when Tottenhill moved again, and Rumstick leapt back, clear of the attack. They fought on, but now a part of Rumstick’s mind was on the approaching boat, and he could do no more than bat Tottenhill’s sword away.

  ‘Sir? Lieutenant Tottenhill?’ Midshipman Weatherspoon’s voice called out from the water, startling Rumstick. His eyes darted toward the water, a fraction of a second, and he felt the hot, tearing sensation of Tottenhill’s blade across his right forearm, felt the warm, wet blood spread across his skin.

  ‘You son of a bitch!’ he shouted, drawing back and looking from his cut arm to the lieutenant, who stood back with sword held at his side.

  ‘First blood,’ Tottenhill said.

  ‘First blood, my fucking arse, I was—’

  ‘Sirs, sirs?’ Weatherspoon ran up the sand and stopped a few feet from the combatants. ‘Sirs … sweet Jesus, have you been dueling?’

  There was a pause, and then Tottenhill said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve a message for you, from the captain. Mr Sprout said you were here, didn’t say why. The captain thinks the people in Nassau are trying to send off the island’s military stores. He wants you to slip the cable and go after them and … what in hell were you two thinking, beg your pardon, dueling like this?’

  It seemed oddly appropriate to Rumstick that they should be thus chastised by the midshipman. Now as his anger subsided and the wound in his arm began to throb, Rumstick realized that they had no business leaving the ship to settle their own petty issues.

  ‘Never you mind,’ he said. ‘Come along, we best get back to the ship.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tottenhill. ‘Now that honor has been satisfied.’

  ‘Satisfied?’ The words made Rumstick’s anger flare again, ‘Honor has most certainly not been satisfied!’

  ‘Oh, do you say that we have not had a fair fight? What do you say?’

  ‘Sirs, God damn it all to hell!’ Weatherspoon shouted and it occurred to Rumstick that the midshipman’s voice was getting deeper. ‘They are getting away with the stores! Now please get in the god-damned boat!’

  The two lieutenants stood glaring at one another for a moment more.

  ‘This ain’t done, Tottenhill, so don’t think you’re getting off that easy,’ Rumstick said, pointing at the first officer with the tip of his sword. Then he slid the weapon back into the scabbard, turned his back on the other two, and clambered into Weatherspoon’s boat.

  CHAPTER 22

  Fort Nassau

  President of His Majesty’s Council Brown stood at the gate of Fort Nassau, held open by one of the fort’s black volunteer defenders, and waited for a column of militia to pass through on their way out before he could enter. The volunteer, a poor freeman in tattered clothes, stood waiting as well, his new pistol, the bait that had lured him to the fort’s defense, thrust in his belt.

  The governor’s earlier recruiting efforts, his appeal to the islanders’ patriotism, and even more so his promise of a free pistol, had yielded good results; when John Brown had left for Fort Montegu, over two hundred men had been mustered to defend their island.

  It appeared, however, that their enthusiasm was not long-lived, and now a majority of those who had reported for duty were going home again.

  Brown spotted James Gould, Speaker of the Assembly, walking near the end of the line. ‘Gould, Gould, what the devil is going on?’

  ‘What is going on? We are leaving, sir. We’ll not stand by that fool a moment longer. Have you seen this?’ Gould held in his clenched fist a copy of the manifesto Hopkins had sent for dissemination.

  ‘If that’s the broadside from the rebel commodore, then, yes, we’ve seen it. Said he’d do no harm if we give him what he wants.’

  ‘That’s right. And the Lord knows what he’ll do now, now that that idiot of a governor sent away the chief of the powder. Loaded it aboard the Mississippi Packet and the schooner the St John, and away it went. And then expects us to stand and fight, after the powder’s all but gone? I think not.’ With that, Gould turned and hurried after the last of the retreating column.

  At last Brown was able to pass through the gate. He stepped quickly down to the parade ground, to the big fire around which the remaining defenders were clustered. The governor was standing on the far side of the flames, the dancing light flickering off the medals on his uniform coat and the hilt of his sword and the brass-bound butt of the pistol clipped to his belt.

  He was listening, close-mouthed and angry, to one of the men, who, judging from his gestures, was in possession of some strong opinions. Gathered in a circle around th
e fire, the men watched, black faces and white, and nodded or shook their heads in accordance with their own views.

  ‘Ah, here is President Brown,’ the governor said, as much to distract the man from his point, apparently, as to welcome Brown. ‘What do you learn from your reconnoiter?’

  ‘What in God’s name have you done?’ President Brown asked.

  ‘Done? Nothing, beyond the defense of the island …’

  ‘Defense? You have just doomed this entire island to the most outrageous depredations. The rebel captain, whom, I might say, is no fool, saw all of the Packet’s jettisoned cargo floating in the harbor. It was not hard for him to guess what was acting. He dispatched a man immediately to alert the rebel fleet. So now they not only have the powder but they are enraged that we should try and deprive them of it.’

  ‘Well, I am not such a fool,’ Governor Browne protested. ‘I did not send all of the powder away. There are still twenty-five or so barrels left. Plenty to defend ourselves and to appease the rebels if we should be taken. What is more, I have sent Babbidge for the troops up at Government House, and they should be arriving directly.’

  And then the rebels will have Government House, Brown thought, from which they will enfilade the fort. Enfilade it. He looked over the twenty remaining defenders of Fort Nassau, a dejected and nervous lot. ‘That not withstanding, I think perhaps we should consider capitulation,’ he suggested.

  ‘What?’ said the governor. ‘Nonsense! Not while we have one man left to fight. We have a sound fort, twenty-five barrels of powder, and men to work the great guns and small arms. Besides, they are only colonial rebels, while we are born Englishmen.’

  President Brown wondered if the black men there, at least half the men who remained, and freed slaves all, would agree with that assessment.

  He could see that he would accomplish nothing by arguing with the governor. If he protested any more, then he himself would be accused of cowardice or compliance with the enemy. Governor Browne was starting to see traitors in every corner. And he was well connected: his wife was a near relation to the Earl of Dartmouth, so it would not do to make him overly suspicious.