The Continental Risque

by James Nelson

  The Charlemagnes in the waist were shouting, cursing and swearing at the awesome sight. Few there had seen a frigate fire a full broadside, and none had seen that spectacle at night. Memories of the night that the Rose had smashed the Icarus to splinters under his feet came rushing back. He pressed his lips together, hard. The darkness that was swept away and then in the next instant engulfed them again made it seem that much more horrible.

  The Cabot was not dead. She was returning fire, pouring her six-pound shot into the frigate, but to what effect Biddlecomb could not tell. If the fight had been just the Cabot against the frigate, then the American would be done for. But it was not. It was the frigate against an American fleet; two ships and three heavy brigs.

  ‘Did you see that, sir?’ Rumstick asked. He had just stepped aft from his position in the waist.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You recognize that son of a whore?’

  ‘I did.’ It had been too much to hope for. Indeed, he did not trust himself to believe it, but here was Rumstick confirming what he, in that brief instant of illumination, had thought he had seen. It was the Glasgow.

  He smiled and looked at Rumstick, and Rumstick smiled as well.

  Biddlecomb felt his hand move to the hilt of his sword. ‘We’re in our own home waters, Ezra, and this time it is they who are outgunned. We’re not running any longer.’

  CHAPTER 31

  HMS Glasgow

  If there was one thing that Amos Hackett could recognize, with unparalleled insight, it was an opportunity to create havoc. And looking at the wide eyes around him now, the lips muttering shocked curses and the hands clasping and unclasping, he knew he was witnessing just such an opportunity.

  ‘There you go—’ he began, then the Glasgow fired another broadside, as perfectly timed as the first, a solid wall of sound and flame. The Cabot sheered off from the frigate’s side, a battered fighter stumbling away from an opponent. Parts of her rig, quite unidentifiable now, hung from her spars, and her own fire, pathetic from the first broadside, grew more sporadic.

  ‘There! That frigate’ll do for us like she done for Cabot!’ Hackett said in a loud whisper, conveying a panic that he did not actually feel.

  ‘Shut your gob, Hackett,’ someone else whispered. It sounded like Ferguson. ‘Alfred’s coming up, she’ll do for them British.’

  ‘Oh, Alfred, is it? Rotten old merchantman. And anyway, that Biddlecomb’ll want to throw us right at them. Ain’t he the one craving glory now?’

  ‘I said stow it,’ the voice came back, a growl like an angry dog’s and this time Hackett obeyed. But the words had had an effect, he could see that in the men’s faces. They were watching Cabot as she tried to get away from the murderous broadsides, but in their limited imaginations they were seeing the Charlemagne, a drifting and bloody wreck.

  Hackett glanced back at the quarterdeck. There was Biddlecomb, standing there like the admiral of the ocean blue, staring forward at the fight.

  He was a clever one, that Biddlecomb. He understood completely what he, Hackett, had done, the part he had played in the riot in New Providence, the general discontent. Once they landed, it would be just like Wilmington: the chains, the dark hold, the jail cell.

  But this time there would be no navy to join. And even if Biddlecomb did not arrest him, there was always Woodberry. The son of a whore would stick a knife in him once he got the chance, and Woodberry would make certain that he got the chance.

  There was only one way out, and it had to be done now. Biddlecomb had to be disgraced. He had to be cast down to where no accusation from him would ever carry any weight, where Tottenhill would be put in command. And Woodberry had to be killed. But that could be done in the confusion.

  ‘Hey, Allen,’ Hackett whispered, loud enough for five gun crews to hear. ‘This is it, mate, we’re done for. God speed.’

  ‘Shut it, Hackett,’ someone else whispered. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We’re done for. Look at Biddlecomb there. He’s gonna throw us right under the frigate’s guns, get us all killed for the greater glory of himself. Well, I hate to die for that, but so be it.’

  ‘You shut your gob!’ Ferguson hissed back, but it was too late. The murmuring had started, the sweet murmuring, the music of fear and discontent. Hackett hear it fore and aft, saw the men in heated discussion, the seminal act of a riot. He stared out of the gunport at the distant fight. His face was grave, in a deep frown, as he struggled to suppress a smile.

  Biddlecomb was frowning as well, but his frown was entirely genuine. He was hardly aware of the existence of the Charlemagne, so focused was he on the fight with the Glasgow, which was taking place two hundred yards away. And that fight did not seem to be going well at all, at least not from the American perspective.

  Cabot was gravely hurt. She had tacked away, trying to get out from under the pounding of the frigate’s broadside. Unfortunately she turned right into the Andrew Doria, forcing the other brig to tack to avoid a collision, and now the two of them were downwind and out of any sort of line of battle, all but knocked out of the fight.

  The Alfred was alongside the Glasgow, and the two big ships were pounding away at each other, illuminating the night with their nearly constant gunfire. The great clouds of smoke that hung between them in the light air were shot through with red and orange muzzle flashes. The clouds swirled and danced with the concussion of the guns and grew more dense with each broadside. The pungent and familiar smell rolled down on the Charlemagne as she ghosted toward the battle.

  The Columbus, the second most powerful ship in the fleet, was directly abeam of them and directly downwind. She had turned toward the fight and stopped, wallowing in the gentle rollers. Biddlecomb could see her sails hanging limp, lifeless, not a breath of wind stirring them. The ships and the firefight to windward had robbed her of whatever breeze might have propelled her broad and heavy-laden hull into the melee. He could well imagine Whipple stamping the quarterdeck in all but unbearable frustration.

  The Cabot was knocked out. The Andrew Doria and the Columbus were downwind and would have trouble working their way up to the fight. The sloop Providence might join in, but she could do little. It was up to them.

  Biddlecomb felt a surge of elation, the berserker waking from his slumber. They were no more than one hundred yards from the Alfred. It was time to fight back. It was time to take on a British frigate and pound them to splinters, just as he had been dreaming of for a year and more. It was time to join the fight against the Glasgow.

  ‘Mr Rumstick, Mr Tottenhill, we shall cross the bows of the two ships and engage the frigate on her starboard side,’ Biddlecomb said. ‘Helmsman, make your head northeast by north.’ That would allow the Charlemagne to keep clear of the other ships in the American fleet, which semed to be falling over one another, and get at the enemy’s vulnerable bow.

  ‘Listen up, you men!’ he shouted down into the waist. ‘It’s our fight now! We’ll heave to under their bow where we can blow them to hell! Gunners to the larboard battery!’

  ‘You’ll have us under her broadside! She’ll kill us all!’ a voice shouted back from the dark. There was a rustling, a murmur from the waist.

  Biddlecomb’s mind had already moved on to the next problem when those words brought him up all standing. Had someone objected to his orders? This was their chance to capture a British frigate, it was right in their hands. He must have heard incorrectly.

  ‘Gunners to the larboard battery! Run out!’ he shouted again. Something was thrown to the deck; it sounded like a rammer.

  ‘Look! She’s doing for Alfred! We haven’t got a chance!’ another voice, a different voice, shouted out. Biddlecomb spared a glance over the bow. Alfred had turned away from the Glasgow, and the frigate was pouring shot into her exposed stern, creating God knew what kind of carnage aboard the flagship. The frigate must have shot the flag’s helm away; it was the only explanation for her suicidal turn. She was taking a terrible beating and she could n
ot strike back.

  ‘Load and run out! Sail trimmers to stations!’ he shouted. It was not possible that his orders could be ignored, yet as far as he could see, with his vision impaired by the flashes of the guns, no one was moving to obey. He could hear voices shouting out protests, and others shouting them down, arguments brewing, and it all mixed with the sound of the cannonade to make a nightmarish cacophony.

  ‘We won’t do it!’ a voice called out, clear above the others. ‘We won’t die so’s you can be a hero!’

  Hackett. That was Hackett. Biddlecomb could never mistake that voice, and in that instant he understood exactly what was going on in the waist. Hackett was working the men’s fear, undoing all the good that taking the Bolton had done. Biddlecomb had been an idiot to think he could wait until landfall to deal with Hackett. Well, he would wait no longer.

  ‘Mr Faircloth, please place Hackett under arrest. I want him chained up below until this is done.’

  ‘You three,’ Faircloth shouted at his marines, ‘place Hackett under arrest.’

  This exchange was met with a howl of protest from half the men on deck, who took a belligerent step aft. All attention was focused on this drama, the Glasgow nearly forgotten.

  ‘Hackett, God damn your eyes!’ This was Tottenhill now, leaning over the quarterdeck rail and shouting. ‘Get back to your duty! What are you about? We have a battle to fight! You are a North Carolina man, I will not have you disgrace your home this way!’

  ‘Mr Tottenhill!’ Hackett shouted, his tone a pathetic appeal. ‘Don’t let them Yankees arrest me! You’ve always been on my side of things, don’t let that whore’s son do this!’

  ‘What in hell does that mean?’ Rumstick asked Tottenhill. There was more accusation than query in his voice, but Tottenhill ignored him.

  ‘Damn you, we are fighting a common enemy here!’ Tottenhill shouted back at Hackett. ‘Get …’

  Faircloth’s marines were down on the waist pushing men aside to get at Hackett and were in turn being shoved back. The shouting was general now, men screaming at each other, faces pressed close. Woodberry took hold of Allen’s queue and yanked him aside, kicking him to the deck, then grabbed Hackett around the neck. ‘Ignore the captain’s orders, will you?’ he shouted, and then three of Hackett’s men were on him, pulling him off, pounding him with fists and belaying pins.

  ‘Come on then!’ Ferguson shouted from across the deck, and he flung himself at the writhing men, half a dozen Yankees at his back.

  The riot was fully joined. It swept like a gust of wind along the deck as every man threw himself into the fight, pounding and flailing at his shipmates, American against American.

  Biddlecomb was dumbfounded. He stared down at the waist and was, for the first time in his memory, incapable of speech. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, was all the thought that he could muster. They had the Glasgow in the palm of their hand, and his men were fighting each other, beating each other senseless.

  He turned to his officers, looking for some help, for some salvation from that quarter. Faircloth was screaming orders at his marines, directing them into the fight.

  Rumstick threw off the main topsail clewline and pulled the empty belaying pin from the rail. He stepped up to the break of the quarterdeck and grabbed Tottenhill by the arm, twisting him around until they were face-to-face. He held the belaying pin under the lieutenant’s chin.

  ‘This here’s your fault,’ Rumstick growled. ‘Just like before, you done this, because you didn’t slap Hackett down when you should have, just let him run on. Too busy telling me to be a gentleman.’

  And then he was gone, down the quarterdeck ladder and forward, pulling men apart, bellowing, trying to restore order. Sergeant Dawes was there as well, his face smeared with blood, and Weatherspoon, his mouth moving though his voice could not be heard over the din. Only Tottenhill remained, seemingly fixed to the quarterdeck.

  Biddlecomb pulled his sword and turned to the first lieutenant. He was going to order Tottenhill to follow as he flung himself into the fight, a last-ditch attempt to restore order, but the sight of Tottenhill brought him up short.

  The lieutenant was staring down at the waist, his mouth open in an expression of pure agony. Tears were streaming from his eyes, unchecked, and dripping off his jaw; they seemed to shine in the flashes of light from the Glasgow’s guns.

  ‘Rumstick’s right, God damn his eyes. This is my fault, God save me, this is my fault!’ he shouted, though the words did not seem to be directed to anyone.

  ‘Come, Mr Tottenhill, pull yourself together,’ Biddlecomb said, as kindly as the circumstances would allow. ‘Let’s see if we can—’

  ‘No, sir, this is mine to fix,’ Tottenhill said, looking at Biddlecomb for the first time, the tears still running down his cheeks. ‘God help me, I never thought it would come to this.’

  Tottenhill pulled his sword from his scabbard and took a deep breath, his face fixed in a scowl, and then with a shriek – a horrible sound, like that of a soul damned to hell – he flung himself off the quarterdeck and down to the waist below.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ Biddlecomb shouted, racing down the steps after him. The lieutenant was cutting his way toward the place where Hackett, surrounded by a knot of his allies, was holding off Faircloth’s marines. There were casualties now, men lying wounded on the deck, and dark patches of blood. Biddlecomb felt his heel go out from under him, slipping in the wetness, and he fell just as a cutlass swiped the air over his head.

  Cutlass. Someone had broken open the arms chest, and now the fisticuffs had become something more deadly. He heard a gun go off, a pistol by the sound of it, and then another, but he was concentrating on the crazed man standing over him, cutlass raised like an ax.

  Did he understand that it was his captain he was trying to cut down? Biddlecomb recognized the man: Johnson from the larboard watch, waister, North Carolina man. Biddlecomb had given him a new shift of clothing in Philadelphia, had personally set his broken hand after that first storm. Was he so crazed now as to be beyond reason? What did he hope to do here?

  ‘Johnson, you stupid bastard, drop that cutlass!’ Biddlecomb shouted as Johnson hacked down at him. He twisted aside, felt the jar of the cutlass striking the deck inches from his head.

  This was his man, a member of his own crew, trying to kill him. The thought flashed through Biddlecomb’s mind, and with a desperate unhappiness, a sense of total failure, he twisted back and like a machine drove his sword through Johnson’s chest. He saw the man’s eyes bulge, the blood erupt, as he pulled the blade out, and his only thought was, ‘Such a waste of time, setting that man’s hand,’ as he pulled himself to his feet and plunged into the fight.

  Huddled by the capstan, one of Hackett’s messmates was spitting a ball down the barrel of a pistol. Biddlecomb slammed down hard on the man’s hands with the flat of his sword. The man dropped the pistol, shouted, looked up, and Biddlecomb smashed the hilt of his sword into the startled face.

  He could not shake the unreality of it, the nightmare of what was happening. Here was a desperate struggle, hand-to-hand, as horrible as the half dozen or so he had seen before. But this time it was his own men. It was a riot, a mutiny, and even in his desperation he could not help but see the irony in that, as if the ghosts of those against whom he had led a mutiny were visiting this horror on him. His breath was coming fast and shallow, and it was not from exertion.

  The marines were loyal to a man, and with bayonets now fixed they were plunging into the fight. Faircloth, hat gone, hair matted with blood that screamed down the side of his face, was leading them on. The fight surged back and forth, pistols and cutlasses now much in evidence, and beneath the shouting, like a bass line, was the constant rumble of the great guns in the distant fight. The flashes of light in the dark only served to make the scene that much more unreal.

  Hackett was standing on top of number five gun, well out of harm’s way, urging his men on. Hackett. Now every concern was
gone from Biddlecomb’s mind, save for his desire to kill Hackett. But a mass of men stood between himself and that son of a bitch; it would be next to impossible to fight his way through.

  He let his sword dangle from its lanyard and stepped up on number eleven gun and then up onto the bulwark, making his way forward, past the fight. He could think of nothing save running his sword through Hackett’s chest.

  He made his way past the main shrouds and stepped with careful balance, one foot on the bulwark, one on the pinrail, thankful for the calm seas, while beneath him the fight spilled over the deck. Weatherspoon lay in a heap against the main hatch. Biddlecomb paused, horrified, but to his relief the midshipman was still moving.

  He looked forward to where Hackett stood on the gun, fifteen feet away, waving a cutlass. The man had not noticed his approach. He took another step along the rail. When he reached Hackett, he would get the bastard’s attention and then run him through. He wanted to see the look in Hackett’s eyes when he knew death was imminent, he wanted Hackett to know in that final instant who had killed him.

  At Hackett’s feet was a knot of men engaged in the wildest fighting on deck, a pile of men thrashing, struggling, cursing, and it took Biddlecomb a moment to realize that they were all fighting one man, the whole gang trying to suppress one man, and that man was Tottenhill.

  At least Biddlecomb thought that it was Tottenhill. The lieutenant’s once fine clothes were in rags, his coat shredded, his breeches torn half off, one shoe gone. But it was his face that was most horrible, most inhuman. His hair was jutting out in all directions, his eyes were battered, his lips swollen and bleeding, and his expression, what expression could be distinguished through the damage, was more animal than man.