The Continental Risque (14 page)

As Biddlecomb stood at the end of the line of marines, he was not surprised to see Tottenhill slide up next to him, a look of grave injustice on his face. ‘Sir, Mr Rumstick has set this whole thing up without consulting me. The side party is my responsibility, not his, and I resent the intrusion.'

‘Mr Tottenhill, did you think to organize a side party at all?' Biddlecomb was becoming tired of this. ‘Did you have the gloves for the sideboys and alert the bosun and his mates and the marines? … No, I thought not. Please be so gracious as to thank God, at least, for Rumstick's foresight, if you cannot bring yourself to thank Rumstick himself.'

Tottenhill stepped back, his pride wounded deeper still. Biddlecomb knew it and did not want the wound to fester, so he said, ‘Still, Mr Tottenhill, I will see that Rumstick clears these things through you in the future.' He felt like the headmaster of a boarding school.

‘Biddlecomb, Biddlecomb, God damn my soul to hell, right to hell,' Commodore Hopkins said, stepping up the brow and shaking Biddlecomb's hand over the noise of the side party. Shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper hair fell out from under his cocked hat and was tied loosely behind, and his craggy and lined face with its protruding hawk nose was softened somewhat by his smile. He ran his eyes over the
Charlemagne
's rig and along her deck. ‘Lovely, lovely. Stanton always built the best, none of your false economy you see too much of in America, too much by half. It's good to lay eyes on you again.'

Biddlecomb had known Hopkins for ten years at least, just as he had known Whipple, commanding the
Columbus
, and Hopkins's son, John Hopkins, commanding
Cabot
, and, for that matter, Dudley Saltonstall, flag captain aboard the
Alfred
. New England ship captains all, and all, save for Saltonstall, from Rhode Island. ‘It's good to see you as well, sir, and joy on your promotion.'

‘Joy, my arse, we'll see how much joy I get out of it. You ready for sea?'

‘Ready in all respects, sir.'

‘Good, good.
Alfred
's still got a few hands ashore, run or just waking up in some whorehouse.
Cabot
's waiting on a midshipman and four marines, and
Columbus
is short a few as well, I believe. We'll wait until eight bells in the forenoon watch and not a minute more, then we go. I'll fire a gun from
Alfred
and we'll all raise our ensigns. I sent an ensign over; does your signal midshipman have it ready to go?'

‘I'm certain he does, sir,' said Biddlecomb, certain of no such thing, but certain at least that Weatherspoon would be made to find an ensign if he had misplaced the one Hopkins had provided. With a thought toward future subterfuge Biddlecomb had brought aboard the ensigns of a dozen different nations, and he hoped that his own country's flag was among them.

‘Good then. Wait for my gun, then raise the ensign, and we'll start to cast off, get under way in grand style. Won't need to warp out, this blessed breeze will lift us right off the dock.
Alfred
'll go first, then
Columbus
, then
Cabot
, then you and
Andrew Doria
, right up the line.'

They waited for the gun, waited through eight bells in the forenoon watch, then one bell in the afternoon watch, then two bells and three bells, with midshipmen from the flagship racing down the quay every twenty minutes or so to explain the latest delay.

Stanton came aboard, and Virginia, to bid their farewell. Biddlecomb pumped Stanton's hand and thanked him for his blessings, and he kissed Virginia on the cheek. Her eyes said more and said it better than any words he had ever spoken to her. He hoped desperately that he was able to convey to her in that all too public farewell all that he wanted to say: his love and his commitment – grown stronger in the light of day, but he could not rid himself of the image of her lying on the big bed, and it distracted him.

At last the Stantons went ashore and joined the crowd lining the quay and Water Street three deep. Ten minutes later the
Alfred
's gun went off. On the flagship's quarterdeck Isaac could see the first lieutenant, a young Scotsman with red hair whose name he could not recall, hauling away on the flag halyard.

The ensign rose up the staff, a flag of red, white, and blue stripes, the union jack in the canton. The Grand Union Flag. From the ships and the crowd on the shore came a shout like rolling thunder, wave after wave of cheering as the ensigns went up on the other men-of-war.

The cheering did not abate, indeed it grew louder, as
Alfred
's topsails fell and the yards were hoisted and her inner jib jerked up the fore topmast stay and was set aback. Her bow swung majestically away from the dock, the ship pivoting on the one stern line held fast. Then that too was slipped and the flagship moved out into the river, free of the shore at last, her round bows nudging the heavy chunks of ice aside.

The
Columbus
followed, portly Abraham Whipple standing like a stunted tree on her quarterdeck, his eyes everywhere, seemingly oblivious to the frenzied crowd on the shore. Then came the
Cabot
, momentarily delayed by a gasket left tied on her jib, but that was soon cast off and the brig followed the two larger ships downstream.

Biddlecomb smiled, quite involuntarily. His feet were tingling with excitement. This was what he loved above all else, the moment when the brig became an extension of himself, every action aboard the vessel a reaction to his spoken word. The sensation was only heightened by the hundreds of people watching and cheering. He was the focal point now of the great military show, and he loved it.

‘Get the main topsail on her, and topgallants as well, if you please,' Biddlecomb said to Tottenhill, and Tottenhill ran forward to see that done. ‘Mr Rumstick, I would like the best bower cockbilled, in case we must drop it quickly. In any event we don't have above two hours of daylight left, and I rather doubt Hopkins will choose to feel his way through this ice in the dark.'

Fifteen minutes later the anchor was hanging from the cathead, and the topgallants, which had just been set, were clewed up and stowed, the extra canvas having made the
Charlemagne
surge ahead and threaten to overtake the slow-moving ships sailing downriver under shortened sail. The lovely city of Philadelphia was off the starboard quarter and disappearing astern, and the crowd that had lined the waterfront was gone.

The fleet pushed through the broken ice, one mile, then two miles downriver. The sun moved quickly toward the western horizon, and the sky, the flawlessly clear winter sky, was orange and red in the west, then white, pale blue, dark blue, and black in a great variegated arc overhead. A low, marshy, frozen island appeared off the starboard bow, an island that Biddlecomb had known for years as Mud Island but which had apparently been caught up in the general sweep of patriotic fervor and renamed Liberty Island.

‘Signal from the flag, sir,' said Weatherspoon, and then in a less certain tone he added, ‘I think.'

Biddlecomb looked over at the
Alfred
as Weatherspoon rifled through the list of signals for the fleet. The flagship's main topsail was clewing up; an odd thing to do if it was not meant as a signal. The ensign, which was absent from the ensign staff, was hoisted again, tied in a long bundle like a hammock. ‘Main topsail clewed up, ensign hoisted with a weft,' he prompted the midshipman.

‘Oh, here it is, sir. “Fleet to anchor.” But it doesn't look like he's going to anchor, sir.'

‘No, indeed,' said Biddlecomb. The
Alfred
was making for one of the long piers that jutted out from the island, apparently intending to tie up there. It was not clear if the commodore wished them to do so as well, and he had given the signal closest in meaning, or if he genuinely wished for the fleet to anchor. As Biddlecomb speculated on this point, he saw the
Columbus
heading for the pier as well. ‘Mr Tottenhill,' he said. ‘We'll be warping alongside the northern pier, there. Please see things laid along.'

Hopkins had no choice, of course. There would be just enough daylight for the ships to safely tie up and not a minute more. And it was just as well. It had been a hectic day, and at least half of the crew, he was certain, were still suffering from the farewell celebrations of the night before, himself and Rumstick included.

From the head of the Delaware Bay one could walk overland to the head of the Chesapeake Bay in an afternoon, but it would take them five days at least to sail out into the Atlantic and beat south against wind and current, if that was indeed where they were bound. Now they could stand down to an anchor watch, and all hands would be well rested for getting under way and reaching blue water tomorrow night. Still, he had envisioned covering more than two miles on the first day of their expedition.

The five vessels heaved themselves against the stout wooden docks to the clacking of five capstans. An hour of hectic activity aboard the
Charlemagne
and then quiet, the pervasive quiet of winter, as the men were stood down to an easy anchor watch and most of them sought shelter below.

Biddlecomb slept well that night, as if he were still ashore, undisturbed by any violent motion of the brig, or any motion at all, and dreamed of the noble expedition to which they would sail on the morning tide. He woke before dawn, dressed and stepped out onto the quarterdeck just as the first hint of gray appeared in the east. And even in that thin light he could see that they would not be sailing on a noble expedition. They would not be sailing at all.

From the western shore of the Delaware River to the eastern, from Pennsylvania to New Jersey, the river was a flat expanse of ice, thick and impregnable, and in it the American fleet was frozen solid.

The good humor felt by the men of the navy and marines of the United Colonies, which started with the cheering crowd and had stayed with them the two miles they had made downriver, did not abate with the prospect of being indefinitely frozen in ice. The men laughed and shoved each other across the slick decks and flung snowballs at each other, starboard watch against larboard, as they tumbled out at first light.

Biddlecomb, standing on the quarterdeck, was at least happy to see that his own disappointment was not shared by the others.

‘I suppose,' he said an hour later to the
Charlemagne
's assembled officers, gathered around the table in the great cabin and hungrily consuming what they imagined would be the last fresh eggs they would see in some time, ‘that we might as well exercise with the great guns. The men seem to have a tolerable level of seamanship, but I imagine those that just joined us have little experience in gun drills.'

‘I don't know about seamanship, sir,' Tottenhill said. ‘Most of the hands, and I mean the older hands as well as the new men, seem far too slack. That isn't a problem with my North Carolina boys, but some of the others … this ain't a merchantman, we can't have merchantman ways.'

‘Many of these men have been with me for a long time, some back to my time as a merchantman,' Biddlecomb said. ‘Pray don't let their outward appearance fool you; it amuses them to make a show of being chuckleheads, but when it counts, they are the men I would rely on most.'

‘I understand, sir, and no doubt you're right, but, with all due respect, this is an actual navy now, not a collection of privateers, doing what they will.'

‘I'll take your words under consideration, sir, if you will remember that there are no “North Carolina boys.” These men are Charlemagnes first and Americans second. Another cup of coffee with you?' Biddlecomb said with more irritation in his voice than he had intended to reveal. It apparently did not occur to Tottenhill, and Biddlecomb was amazed to realize as much, that every time he criticized the manner in which the
Charlemagne
was run, he was criticizing her captain.

‘With your permission, sir, I shall drill my marines in the … don't tell me, the chief part of the deck there …' Faircloth began to touch the parts of his body, starting at his head and moving down, stimulating some aid to memory. ‘The waist,' he said at last. ‘So bloody confusing. You have the head of a ship, and the waist, but you don't come to the foot until you consider the parts of a sail.'

‘More confusing still when you consider that the head is where you put your bottom,' Rumstick said. ‘You are well into your
Seaman's Vade Mecum
, I perceive.'

‘Quite. Fascinating stuff. Did you know that on a topsil or a topgallant you have a clewline, but on a course sail the very same line is called a clew garnet?'

‘I believe I've heard that.'

‘Lieutenant Faircloth, please, drill your marines, with my blessing,' said Biddlecomb. ‘I've meant to ask you about their uniforms and arms. Surely they did not provide those themselves?'

‘No, not at all. I'm afraid that for the most part the men who signed up for the marines were not men who could afford such a rig. Except perhaps the officers; you have Mullan there, the proprietor of the Tun Tavern, he was made a captain, and Sam Nicholas, who's in command on this expedition, he was owner of the Conestoga Wagon, that well-loved public house. I reckon most of the officers owned taverns, and most of the privates were their customers.'

‘So you outfitted your men?' Rumstick asked.

‘Well, certainly. I mean, the damned Light Horse of Philadelphia, I went to school with most of those spoiled bastards, you know, prancing around in their finery. I wasn't about to get involved with them, riding those damned horses. They snub their noses at the army, and my seamanship isn't yet quite up to snuff for the navy, so it was the marines. But I couldn't let my lads look like some tag and rag militia.'

‘Those are nice muskets they have, and uniforms. They couldn't be cheap,' Rumstick observed.