The Continental Risque (16 page)

‘Sir,' Tottenhill said, tagging behind him, ‘shall I send word to the flagship? The commodore will no doubt wish to know about this.'

‘Good God, no, Mr Tottenhill. Not a word.' The last thing Biddlecomb needed was for Hopkins to hear how a third of his crew had deserted. He climbed down to the ice and turned his back on the
Charlemagne
, marching carefully over the slick surface to the dark shape of Reedy Island in the distance. Behind him he heard the clamber of thirty armed men following his lead.

It was a wickedly cold night, and the wind howling through the fleet's frozen rigging sounded like lost souls on Judgment Day. And Judgment Day it shall be, Biddlecomb thought, if those sons of bitches are stupid enough to stop long enough for me to catch them.

It was not hard to follow the deserters' trail. The frozen river was covered with a thin layer of snow, which the fugitive band had beaten into a visible path, heading stright for the island. Biddlecomb quickened his pace, and behind him he heard the others, whose steps had fallen into a steady rhythmic march, do the same. Rumstick came huffing up to walk on his left side and Faircloth on his right. Both men had sense enough not to speak.

At last they came to the edge of the island, where the white frozen water melded with the shore, gently sloping up from the flat sheet of ice that was the Delaware River. Biddlecomb stopped and heard Sergeant Dawes give a grunt of an order, and the men stopped as well.

‘Rumstick, what is that, do you suppose?' Biddlecomb pointed to a dark shape looming up from the white snow. It was some distance away, but in the dark it was hard to tell how far.

‘I think that's an old barn or some such. I've seen it from the ship. Some old building.'

‘Right.' Biddlecomb remembered now. He too had seen it often enough. A barn or some sort of long-abandoned structure. He knew that if the deserters had even a little sense, they would not have stopped for a minute, but as he did not credit them with any sense at all, he was hopeful that they might have sought shelter there.

‘Come on,' he said, and led his troops up the low-sloped shore, slipping on patches of ice concealed beneath the snow.

The barn was looming in front of them, twenty feet away. Biddlecomb could see a light of some kind burning inside. Was it possible the deserters had been so stupid as to stop?

‘Hold up!' a voice called from the black monolith in their path. It was a familiar voice. Israel Bennett. Waister. A recruit from North Carolina. An idiot. ‘Who's that?'

‘You know full well who it is, Bennett. That is you, is it not? This is Captain Biddlecomb. Now come out of there this instant.'

‘Not likely. We've got Mr Weatherspoon here, Captain, and I swear to God we'll blow his head off if you try and stop us!'

‘Oh, damn it all to hell,' Biddlecomb muttered. ‘Now they have a hostage. Mr Faircloth, surround the building with your men. Make sure none of these bastards are lurking in back there. Mr Rumstick, keep your men here with me.'

‘Here!' Bennett called. ‘What're you about? I told you I'll do for the midshipman if you try to stop us!'

‘Yes, and I shall grieve for his death, Bennett, and then there will be nothing to stop me and my men from killing every one of you sons of bitches, so for the moment let me suggest that Mr Weatherspoon is worth much more to you alive.' Biddlecomb could feel his fury building. Of all the stupid situations to find himself in, standing in the bitter wind, arguing, threatening his own men just to get them to return to duty.

He waited for Bennett to say something. It was no surprise that Bennett was taking the lead, he was the brightest of the lot who had deserted, though that was not saying much, not much at all. At the moment he seemed to be wrestling with the conundrum that Biddlecomb had presented.

‘I said leave us be,' Bennett shouted at last.

Biddlecomb clamped his mouth shut until the desire to make a scathing reply passed, then shouted, ‘Listen to me, all of you, there's nowhere you can escape to. If you kill Weatherspoon, I'll have the marines shoot you where you stand. But if you give up and come back to the ship, then I shall be willing to let this go with a minor punishment. No tot for a week. That's a small price to pay for a hanging offense.'

It was quiet again, and over the sound of the wind he could hear muffled talk from within. The tones were urgent; sharp words spoken softly, disagreement. He felt the wind creeping in under his boat cloak and began to shiver.

This impasse could go on all night, and then the sun would rise and Hopkins and all of the other captains would see him here, like a fool, trying to urge a third of his men to come back to his ship. Those stupid bastards. He would happily let them all go if that did not leave him seriously undermanned with no hope of finding replacements. And he would look like an incompetent fool in the eyes of his brother captains.

‘You and your bloody marines move back to the edge of the ice,' Bennett called out, ‘and we'll all talk about it.'

Something about his voice was not quite right, some chink in the armor of his determination. Biddlecomb imagined that not all of the deserters were so bold in the face of thirty muskets. He could picture the uncertainty, the disagreement. It was time to make a move, a bold move, and he was angry enough, fed up enough, that he was willing to do anything, radical as it might be.

He pulled the pistols from his shoulder belt, one in each hand. ‘I'm coming in, Bennett. I want to talk to you, face-to-face.'

‘Keep back, Captain, or by God I'll shoot Weatherspoon!' Bennett's voice was higher pitched, his words coming out faster than before. He was frightened, but he was smart enough to know that shooting Weatherspoon meant certain death for himself. At least Biddlecomb hoped he was smart enough to know that.

He marched up to the door and pushed it open with his foot. A lantern was sitting on the frozen dirt floor, partially shaded, and standing in a semicircle around the lantern were the deserters, twenty or so uncertain-looking men. Biddlecomb saw the odd belaying pin and even a pistol or two clutched in nervous fingers. These desperate fugitives looked to him more like children caught in some poorly conceived illicit activity.

Except for Bennett. He stood in the center of the ring, and in front of him was David Weatherspoon. Bennett's left hand was holding tight to the midshipman's arm, and his right held a pistol behind the young man's ear. ‘Drop them pistols, Captain.'

‘Are you all right, Mr Weatherspoon?'

‘Yes, sir. Don't let these bastards go to save me, Captain.' In the light of the lantern Weatherspoon's skin looked pale and his eyes were wide, but his mouth was set and Biddlecomb could tell that his teeth were clenched to keep his fear at bay.

Biddlecomb knew of few people, himself included, who had as much physical courage as the midshipman. If only he had the wits to match. But he was still young, and there was always the hope that maturity would help, though as it stood, old age did not seem as likely for Weatherspoon as it had even an hour before.

‘That's enough!' Bennett roared. He was angry and frightened and frustrated, all at once. The others shifted nervously, looking from Bennett to Biddlecomb and back again. ‘I said drop them guns or by God I'll blow this little bastard's head off!'

And that, for Biddlecomb, was the end. He felt his anger overcoming his senses, overcoming his reason, moving him to action as if it had charge of his body, which indeed it did. In two steps he was across the floor, his left arm outstretched, the pistol in his hand pressed against Bennett's head. ‘You drop
your
pistol, you mutinous, black-balling son of a whore! Drop it now or I'll blow
your
head off!'

‘I mean it, Captain,' Bennett said, his voice softer this time, speaking with an audible quaver. ‘I mean it—'

He was cut short by the sound of Biddlecomb cocking his pistol, the satisfying metallic click of the lock snapping in place filling the barn, the loudest and most authoritative of sounds.

And then there was silence again. They all stood there, absolutely still, Bennett's gun to Weatherspoon's head, Biddlecomb's gun to Bennett's head, and the rest watching on, waiting for someone, something, to break the deadlock.

A movement to Biddlecomb's right. He caught just a glimpse of it on the edge of his vision and one of the deserters screamed, ‘You Yankee son of a bitch!' and flung himself across the hard-packed floor.

Biddlecomb half-turned, his right arm coming up, the thumb of his right hand drawing back the lock as the man was on him. He saw his pistol press against the assailant's shoulder as the man reached out at him, reaching for his hand, reaching for his neck.

He pulled the trigger just as he felt the man's hand on the gun at Bennett's head. The recoil jolted his arm back and spun the assailant around, tripping him, tossing him to the hard floor. Biddlecomb turned back to bring the gun to Bennett's head again, but now Bennett and Weatherspoon were struggling for the pistol, pointed at the ceiling, all four of their hands locked on the weapon.

Then suddenly Weatherspoon released his hold on the gun, and Bennett, with nothing pulling against him, reeled back and Weatherspoon drove his fist into the man's face. Bennett fired in surprise, the flash illuminating the far corners of the building, and then the deserters flung themselves at Biddlecomb and Weatherspoon, belaying pins raised like clubs.

The big door to the barn burst open and Rumstick and his sailors came charging in, the marines right on their heels.

‘Stop it! Hold up! Shoot the next bastard that moves! Shoot anyone that hits the captain!' Biddlecomb heard Rumstick's voice roar out, heard a pistol shot that once again lit up the barn with its flash. They all froze, the deserters and Biddlecomb and Weatherspoon, as the armed men spread out across the floor.

‘Take care to fire by rank!' Faircloth shouted, and with amazing precision, for they had learned their drill well, the marines fell into two ranks, one kneeling, one standing, all twenty muskets pointed at the deserters, who were now backing away.

‘Front rank, make ready!' Ten locks clicked into the firing position.

Biddlecomb saw one of the deserters, then another, raise their pistols at the marines, ready to give off the one last defiant shot. They would kill perhaps three of the shore party before they were gunned down like driven and fenced-in deer. If one of them fired, it would mean suicide for all of the North Carolinians.

‘Hold up! Hold up!' Biddlecomb shouted, stepping in front of the line of marines with their perfect muskets in perfect rows and the sailors with their sea-service weapons pointed haphazardly. ‘Listen here, you men, I made an offer outside and I shall honor it, if I can trust you to honor your word. No tot for a week for any of you, and no court-martial, if you return to your duty and do not try anything like this again. That is more than generous. What say you?'

He stood running his eyes over the men as they wrestled with their decision. What there was to consider Biddlecomb could not imagine; they had little choice in the light of the muskets pointing at them.

God, how he hated to coddle those whore's gits! But he needed them if he hoped to sail and fight the
Charlemagne
. He could not let them desert if he hoped to keep his dignity intact, his reputation among the other captains. If he wished to remain Captain Biddlecomb,
the
Captain Biddlecomb.

And needing them did not mean just having them aboard. He needed them to be part of the crew: active, willing, not sullen and grudging. They would not be active and willing if he had them flogged, and certainly not if he had them hung. He had stood up to them, had shot one of their own. Now was the time for mercy.

One of the men looked over at Bennett, then at the others, and then tossed his pistol aside. ‘I reckon that's fair, Captain. I accept.' That raised a great murmur from the men, a nodding of heads as one by one they tossed aside their weapons and looked sheepishly at the floor.

‘You stupid bastards!' Bennett shouted. ‘You think he's telling the truth? You think—'

‘Bennett!' Biddlecomb shouted, and the force of his voice was enough to shut the man up. Bennett would have to be flogged if he came back. Flogged or hung. There was no choice. Not after putting a gun to Weatherspoon's head. But after his flogging he would be back among the men, sullen, angry, spreading his poison. That would never do. And hanging him meant a court-martial, and admitting to the other captains that his ship's company was falling apart and he was not able to stop it.

‘Bennett, get out of here,' Biddlecomb said.

‘What?'

‘Get out of here. Go.'

‘Where?'

‘I don't know. Wherever it was you intended to go when you ran. Just get out of here and never let me see you around the fleet again or I will personally run you up on a halter.'

Bennett looked around, thoroughly confused. ‘No,' he said at last. ‘No, I ain't going to leave.'

‘By God, you are one stupid idiot,' Biddlecomb said, stepping over to him and once more pressing the pistol to his head. ‘Either you leave or I kill you here.' He wanted to kill him for his sheer irrational stupidity alone.

Then, as if to emphasize the likelihood of Biddlecomb's pulling the trigger, the man whom Biddlecomb had shot let out a groan, a deep, guttural, agonizing sound. That was enough for Bennett. He jerked his head away from Biddlecomb's gun and ran for the barn door, pushing it open without breaking stride and disappearing into the dark. For half a minute they could hear his footsteps crunching in the snow, and then he was gone.

Biddlecomb turned to the deserters, who had now rejoined the company of the
Charlemagne
. ‘Very well, you. Get back to the ship. A couple of you, help that one.' He gestured toward the figure who was now thrashing around on the floor. Two men lifted the wounded sailor up and along with the others shuffled out of the barn in a ragged line, flanked on either side by the marines and followed by Rumstick's sailors.