The Continental Risque

by James Nelson

  ‘So what can we do?’ one of the mess asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hackett. ‘Not one damned thing. As long as Biddlecomb looks like the admiral of the fucking ocean blue, there’s nothing we can do. Except hope that some time between now and when we anchor he does something stupid again and the commodore wants to get rid of him once and for all. It’s him or us, boys.’

  It seemed a desperate situation indeed, but Hackett, in his own way an eternal optimist, could still see some possibilities.

  The prize had demanded a prize crew. He had hoped initially that Rumstick would be sent away in command, but that job had been given instead to Sprout, the bosun. But the rest of the men sent to the Bolton, almost without exception, were Yankees. Most of the North Carolina men, and the former prisoners from Philadelphia, most of the men who would do Hackett’s bidding with a few chosen words, were still aboard the Charlemagne.

  They were in New England waters. They would be anchored soon. But they were not anchored yet.

  Hackett felt a glimmer of hope break through his black mood. As long as they were at sea, there was still an opportunity for mischief. He could still bring Biddlecomb down.

  And now with Biddlecomb’s threats of discharge or worse hanging over his head, and Woodberry’s threats of violence, destroying Biddlecomb was no longer something he might do for amusement. It was something he had to do to survive.

  CHAPTER 30

  Block Island

  The sun was approaching the horizon, the evening was warm with no more than six knots of breeze, and Block Island, five miles to the west, seemed to glow with the orange light of the sun illuminating it from behind. Isaac Biddlecomb could not recall a time when he had been more content.

  On the quarterdeck and down in the waist the ship’s company was infused with a similar feeling of goodwill, of accomplishment, of resurrection. He noticed more than one man pause in his work to look over the leeward bulwark and gaze at the Bolton two hundred yards away. They were proud of what they had done, as well they should be, he thought. It had been a hard fight, and they had won.

  ‘Tell me, Captain,’ Tottenhill asked, ‘would you consider this weather to be unseasonably warm for these waters?’ Not even Tottenhill was immune to the mood on board.

  ‘I should say yes, though to qualify that I would add that the weather here at this time of year is the most changeable I’ve witnessed anywhere.’

  ‘I reckon we should carry this weather for the next day or so,’ Rumstick said, adding his meteorological opinion, ‘with wind building in the northeast and backing. Course with any luck we’ll be swinging at anchor by the time it gets worse.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Biddlecomb. And so he hoped. But Hopkins, as seemed to be his way, had not indicated where or when he intended to land, and that did nothing to assuage Biddlecomb’s still-gnawing anxiety.

  A frightening number of his men were sick, and a good portion of those who were not down were off in the prize. As much as he reveled in the good spirits that once again pervaded his ship, he was quite aware of how fragile they were. It would not take much to make this crowd turn rabid and mutinous again. It was time to head for port.

  ‘Very well, Mr Tottenhill,’ Biddlecomb said. ‘I shall leave you and attend to my reports. And perhaps you and Mr Rumstick would join me for supper later? I should think Mr Weatherspoon could take your watch for an hour or so.’

  Tottenhill’s face ran through various shades of expressions before it settled on satisfaction. ‘Thank you, sir. I should be delighted.’

  Biddlecomb made his way below, past the marine sentry and into his great cabin. The evening sun washed the white paint and varnished wood in a soft light, making even that battered, spartan space seem inviting, like a library in an ancestral home.

  He looked at the white duck curtains (they looked pink in that light), the deep scars in the ceiling from round shot coming through the windows, the solid, rustic furniture made for him by the ship’s carpenters. He loved it all, he had to admit, but it was time for a change. Perhaps Virginia would give him some help in decorating the cabin. If ever a place could use a woman’s touch, it was here.

  And then he remembered. He had promised to marry Virginia. He stopped in midstride. He felt his stomach tighten and the soles of his feet start to tingle, as if he were preparing to board an enemy vessel. What had he said? Had he really committed? Yes, he had. He recalled now. In all of the excitement and anxiety of the past month, he had quite forgotten, but, yes, he had given his word.

  He grinned and shook his head. Was this really such a bad thing, deserving of this much consternation? Had he not been turning the thought of marrying her over in his head for … what? Two years? Perhaps after two years it was time for him to make the bold move.

  He sat down at his desk, which, in the light breeze, was uncharacteristically level, and positioned in front of him his pen, ink, blotter, and the half-finished report of his action with the Bolton. In this brave new world of fleets and commodores and instructions to captains, this was yet another thing to which he was having to adjust: writing descriptions of his actions in words bland enough that they could not be mistaken for hubris.

  ‘About one hour after dawn, sighted strange sail bearing south southeast about three miles distant. Finding myself to be the closest vessel in the fleet …’ This was not strictly true, of course, and Biddlecomb found himself writing faster, eager to be done with the distasteful writing of words that were something less than the facts.

  ‘The strange sail proceeded to display various false colors, and we did the same. Signaled the flag to the effect of strange sail sighted, and about an hour later came up with vessel, which proved to be the bomb brig Bolton, of the British fleet in Newport. Exchanged a brisk fire with them for a quarter of an hour.’

  How lifeless those words were, how inadequate. Where on that page was the sensation of a broadside roaring out, the shudder and crunch of round shot wounding the ship, the men’s fear, their anger and excitement? But those men who had engaged in combat, ship to ship, would read that in those dry words, and those who had not never would, regardless of how flowery his prose.

  ‘After an exchange of several broadsides we ran the Charlemagne aboard the brig, by the bow, and boarded her …’ And so, briefly, the description of their fight on the deck, hand to hand, the horror of wounds made by pistol and cutlass rendered dull in his official style. ‘Of special note were the actions of Lt Ezra Rumstick and Elisha Faircloth, Lieutenant of Marines, in leading the boarding party and of Lt Roger Tottenhill, who acquitted himself most bravely during the entire fight.’ This was cheap, this willingness to forgive, even to praise Tottenhill now that the crisis was past, but Biddlecomb did not allow himself to dwell on that. He did not mention the flag.

  The great cabin door opened and the marine sentry announced, ‘Lt Tottenhill, Lt Faircloth, and Lt Rumstick, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Gentlemen, come in, please. Is it suppertime already?’

  The meal passed enjoyably. It was, in fact, the most pleasant meal that Biddlecomb could recall with that group. The sense of redemption, of restoring their otherwise shattered reputation, had infected the officers even more than the men, more concerned as they were with reputation, and having more to suffer by its loss. Faircloth was as loquacious as ever, and he kept the great cabin quite amused with tales of his exploits, romantic and otherwise.

  ‘And this ship you mentioned,’ Biddlecomb asked Faircloth at the end of one such tale, ‘she was a naval vessel?’

  ‘No, sir, a privateer. I suspect the goings-on aboard a privateer are infinitely more amusing than aboard a navy vessel.’

  ‘Well, Mr Tottenhill,’ Biddlecomb said, ‘you’re a former privateersman, what say you?’

  ‘I must concur with Lieutenant Faircloth.’ Tottenhill smiled, a halfhearted effort. ‘But I imagine you’ve heard quite enough of my privateer stories by now,’ he said, and no more. He seemed content to remain for the most part quiet, not sull
enly quiet, but attentively quiet, and Biddlecomb wondered what might have been said, perhaps in those moments before the riot, that had so changed Tottenhill’s perception of himself.

  From the deck above, the bell rang out eight times, the start of the first dogwatch, and with that cue Tottenhill and Rumstick both stood.

  ‘Change of watch, sir,’ Rumstick said, ‘if you’ll excuse us.’

  ‘Excellent meal, sir, thank you,’ said Tottenhill.

  ‘Very well, gentlemen, I thank you for your company,’ said Biddlecomb, and he meant it. A moment later he and Faircloth were alone. ‘Tell me, Elisha,’ he said, pouring more Madeira into Faircloth’s glass, ‘what kind of friction has there been in the gunroom? Rumstick and Tottenhill have not been the best of friends, I perceive.’

  ‘I shouldn’t say that, sir. Like peas in a pod, you know. Which, as it happens, is about the size of the gunroom.’

  Why did he bother? Biddlecomb felt a twinge of guilt at trying to extract such information from Faircloth; he was putting the marine in an awkward situation and to no end. But Faircloth was a man of the world, with knowledge that Biddlecomb might find most useful.

  ‘Let me ask you this, then,’ he said as he lit the lantern over the table, the sun having set half an hour before. ‘I’d like your advice, if I may. There is this woman to whom I am … betrothed, I suppose I could say …’

  An hour later, after a lively and informed discourse on the perils and benefits of marriage, Biddlecomb and Faircloth stepped up to the quarterdeck for a breath of air.

  And a breath was all there was to be had. With the passing of the sun, the wind had dropped to less than five knots and the sea was calm. The Charlemagne ghosted along near the end of the fleet. Spread out before her were the stern lanterns of the other ships, their sails, all set to topgallants, just visible in the moonlight, deep, deep gray against the sparse stars. A lovely night.

  ‘All’s well, Mr Rumstick?’

  ‘Very well, sir. Nothing to report.’

  Biddlecomb glanced at the compass. The helmsman was following the flagship, and the flagship was still sailing northeast by north, a quarter north. Rhode Island and Buzzard’s Bay both lay more or less under their bows. And that meant they could be on the anchor by afternoon the next day.

  The situation, which just the day before had seemed so bleak, was suddenly so hopeful: a load of military stores, prizes, a successful action against an enemy of equal force, home. Biddlecomb stared out at the fleet, and in his mind he ran over this list of graces he had received.

  It filled him with a profound and nameless anxiety.

  And so he was not overly surprised when, several hours later, he woke to Mr Midshipman Weatherspoon shaking him violently and practically shouting, ‘Sir, sir!’ in his ear. It was not the tone he might use to inform the captain of, say, a change in course or something equally mundane.

  ‘What is it?’ Biddlecomb was fully awake.

  ‘Signal from Andrew Doria to the flag, sir. Two strange sail in sight.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll be up directly.’ Biddlecomb tumbled out of his cot and pulled on his breeches and his coat over his bare chest and stumbled up the companionway and onto the deck. It was cooler now, but not uncomfortably so, and the night was as calm as when he had turned in. Tottenhill was standing at the weather side of the quarterdeck and upon seeing Biddlecomb headed to the leeward.

  ‘That’s all right, Lieutenant, please stay here. What do you have to report?’

  ‘The Doria’s signaling two strange sail. They’re out there, sir.’ Tottenhill pointed forward and to starboard. ‘See, just beyond the Doria.’

  The American fleet was arranged in two lines, windward and leeward, or nearly so. At the head of the windward line was the brig Cabot, and following close behind, no more than one hundred yards, was the flagship Alfred. The Charlemagne was last in that line.

  Downwind of those three, perhaps three hundred yards away, were the Andrew Doria, the Columbus, and the sloop Providence. Trailing astern of the fleet were the prizes and the merchantman chartered in Nassau to carry what booty the others could not.

  Biddlecomb followed Tottenhill’s finger out into the dark. He could see the great bulk of Columbus and the smaller Doria. The brig was showing a light from her ensign staff and two false fires: the signal for sighting two strange vessels. The lights did nothing to improve his vision.

  He looked past the brig’s ghostly headsails, using his hand to shield his eyes from the Doria’s lights. The Charlemagne was the farthest of the American ships from this strange sail, but he could still make it out. It seemed no more than the suggestion of a ship, out there in the night, perhaps a mile away.

  ‘Yes, I see it …’ His voice trailed off as he scrutinized the specter. The ship was crossing in front of the fleet, moving left to right. He was looking at a broadside view of her, which made her easier to see.

  And then the shape altered, grew more narrow. ‘She’s coming about, she’s tacking toward us,’ Biddlecomb said. This was not a small vessel. What was more, if he, at the far end of the American fleet, could see them, then they in turn could see the entire American fleet. And still they tacked and closed. Whoever they were, they were not afraid. Biddlecomb felt his own excitement mount.

  ‘Mr Tottenhill,’ he said, and only through great effort did he make his voice sound noncommittal, almost bored, ‘please clear for action. But quietly, no shouting. I don’t care if it takes a few moments longer.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said Tottenhill, smiling as he headed off to deliver his orders in a whisper, rather than the customary shout from on high. Tottenhill, Biddlecomb realized, might be many things, most of them distasteful, but he was no coward.

  The Charlemagne’s decks came alive with men scurrying up from below and moving quickly through the familiar ritual, but Biddlecomb’s eyes never left this strange, distant ship. He watched it as it closed with the fleet, growing larger and more distinct with each cable length gained. It had crossed the Andrew Doria’s bow and seemed to be standing toward the Cabot.

  He could make out the second of the two strange vessels now. It was much smaller than the first and trailing astern. He felt a growing certainty, and a concomitant excitement and anticipation, a touch of fear and the savory anticipation of revenge, all at once. The soles of his feet and the palms of his hands tingled. He had little doubt that this was a frigate, a British frigate and her tender, standing right into an overwhelming American force.

  ‘Cleared for action, sir.’ Tottenhill stepped back onto the quarterdeck.

  Biddlecomb looked down at the waist. Gun crews were at their guns and sail trimmers at stations, but still the deck seemed like a great open space, thinly populated. When the men were at quarters, it usually seemed as crowded as if a public execution were taking place.

  Had Tottenhill not roused the watch below? Had he not tumbled the sleeping men out of their hammocks? Biddlecomb was about to ask the lieutenant if he had done so incomprehensible a thing when he realized that, yes, Tottenhill had turned out all hands. And that was it. With so many down with the yellow jack and so many more off in the prize, those unhappy few were all hands. It did not look like enough men to work the ship in battle, not even close.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir.’ Weatherspoon appeared on the quarterdeck. In his arms was a bundle of clothes: shirt, stockings, waistcoat, and hat; under one arm were Biddlecomb’s shoes and under the other his sword. ‘Beg pardon, I took the liberty …’

  Biddlecomb had all but forgotten he was only partially dressed, which would never do for going into a fight. ‘Bless you, Mr Weatherspoon, whatever would I do without you?’ he said as he pulled his coat off and pulled his shirt from Weatherspoon’s arms, dressing quickly.

  Last came the sword. He wrapped the belt around his waist and buckled it and adjusted the weapon with that familiar motion. He still found great pleasure in that act, a sense of strength and legitimacy. He was a naval commander, and all the humiliation he ha
d suffered would not change that, nor would it erase those acomplishments of which he was justly proud.

  ‘What ship is that?’ a voice came across the water, faint but clear. Had there been even two more knots of wind, it would not have been audible aboard the Charlemagne.

  ‘What ship is that?’ the voice asked again. Biddlecomb had thought it was an officer from the Cabot, hailing the stranger, but he realized then that it was in fact the stranger, the frigate, hailing the American. And the American was making no reply.

  It was quiet again as the big ship and the brig continued to close with each other. John Hopkins, in command of the Cabot, must have a good notion of what ship that was, Biddlecomb thought. From three hundred yards away he himself could see it fairly well now: the lofty masts, the steeply steeved bowsprit, the mainsail hauled up. Every bit of her suggested a man-of-war.

  The Cabot and the unknown vessel were almost on top of each other, with the Cabot passing down the other’s larboard side. Biddlecomb frowned as he watched the situation develop. Cabot was under the man-of-war’s broadside now, an uncomfortable place to be.

  ‘What ships are in company with you?’ the same voice called, and this time was answered from the Cabot.

  ‘The Columbus and the Alfred, a two-and-twenty-gun frigate!’ and from the stranger’s waist came a flash and an explosion, loud and brilliant, illuminating like a lightning flash the frigate’s barely filled sails, the buff masts, and row of guns.

  ‘Good Lord!’ Biddlecomb said out loud, quite taken by surprise. Someone from the Cabot’s maintop must have thrown a hand grenadoe onto the frigate’s deck.

  ‘Mr Weatherspoon,’ he began, never taking his eyes from the combatants, then the frigate fired.

  It was not a rippling broadside, not a ‘fire as you bear,’ but every gun at once, every gun in the exact same instant. The Cabot, thirty yards from the frigate, was nearly blown away. She rolled with the impact, sails and rigging torn up and streaming in the concussion of the great guns, lit from behind by the wall of flames that shot from the frigate’s long side and then died away, leaving in their wake darkness and the distant shouting, the screams of the wounded and a ringing in their ears.