The Continental Risque (21 page)

‘Mr Tottenhill! I'm going below for a moment! You have the deck!' There seemed to be no immediate danger, and Biddlecomb wanted desperately to change his clothing, get some dry stuff on and his oilskins on over that. He had not been below for six hours, standing all that time on the quarterdeck in soaked clothes.

‘Aye!' Tottenhill nodded and Biddlecomb fought his way forward, then down below to the great cabin.

He flopped down on the settee aft and peeled the coat off his back. Overhead the skylight was open, just a few inches, and water poured in with each leeward roll of the brig.

He pulled himself to his feet and was reaching up to close it when he heard from the quarterdeck above Tottenhill's voice, high-pitched with excitement, shouting ‘Fall off! Fall off!' Then Ferguson replied – it sounded like an argument – but Biddlecomb did not hear the words for he was already through the great cabin door and rushing for the scuttle.

He burst through the scuttle onto the weather deck, into what seemed to be utter bedlam. The thunder rolled overhead, louder than any sound of wind or sea. A bolt of lightning struck the water, and in the light of the long, jagged shaft he saw the schooner
Fly
to windward, not fifty feet away, looming over their starboard side and racing down on them as if she meant to crash into their bow.

Biddlecomb turned and ran up to the quarterdeck. Tottenhill and Ferguson were face-to-face. ‘Fall off, God damn your eyes! You insolent whore's son!' Tottenhill screamed.

‘What the hell is this!' Biddlecomb screamed over the wind. ‘Ferguson—'

‘
Hornet
's there, sir, right there! I seen her just when Mr Tottenhill seen the
Fly
!' Ferguson screamed, pointing into the darkness over the leeward side, water streaming down his face and off his beard. ‘If I falls off, we'll be right aboard her!'

Biddlecomb looked around. He could no longer see
Fly
, but he did not have to. She would slam into them in seconds, and the two ships would hang up, smash themselves to pieces in the steep seas. They had to fall off, as Tottenhill had ordered. But what if Ferguson was right?

‘Mr Tottenhill, back the main topsail! Back it now!' Biddlecomb shouted.

‘In this wind? Are you mad? We must fall off!'

‘Back it, do it now! The rig will hold! Now go!'

Tottenhill hesitated, just for a pause, then ran forward.

This was a bad situation, and Biddlecomb knew it. He had just countermanded an officer's orders on the word of a foremast jack. A Yankee foremast jack. Nothing could be worse for discipline, and nothing could do more to stoke up Tottenhill's distrust. But Ferguson was a good hand, and they were talking about the life of the ship.

‘If you're wrong, Ferguson, I'll make you wish you were a dead man!' Biddlecomb shouted, but the threat was lost even to his own ears as the thunder exploded again, and in the concomitant lightning Biddlecomb saw that Ferguson was not wrong; the
Hornet
was right to larboard, charging down on their larboard bow as
Fly
was converging on their starboard. In that black and wild night the three ships had come together as if the maneuver had been carefully planned. In a second all three would be a tangled and shattered mess.

Another bolt of lightning, and a big sea rolled under them and
Fly
was lifted high so that Biddlecomb had to look up at her, with her low sides and deep-reefed sails. Then
Fly
went down and
Charlemagne
up, and Biddlecomb could see, in another flash of lightning, the panic on the
Fly
's deck, and on the
Hornet
's as well.

And then it was black again. Biddlecomb braced himself for the collision. He could hear Ferguson shouting an Our Father while the man beside him, taking an alternative route, cursed like a madman.

Biddlecomb felt the
Charlemagne
jerk under him, felt the motion of the brig change, and he knew that the main topsail was aback. Through the dull roar of the wind he could hear the groaning of the mainstays. The main shrouds and backstays, windward as well as leeward, were slack. They bowed to the wind and flogged with the
Charlemagne
's roll as the main topsail took the full force of the wind on her forward side.

It was not how the sail was meant to be set, it was not what the rig was designed to endure, and Tottenhill was not wrong to think this a bad idea. Biddlecomb worked his way forward to the break of the quarterdeck and stared overhead. He could just make out the topsail, pressed hard against the mast, the stays and braces quivering with the load. ‘Hold on, you son of a bitch,' Biddlecomb muttered to himself. Tottenhill was in the waist, staring aloft as well, and Rumstick was beside him.

From out in the night, carried on the wind, came the sound of shouting, screaming, and the rending of wood.
Fly
and
Hornet
had struck. With a backed main topsail the
Charlemagne
had effectively stopped short and the two other vessels had run past her and struck each other. A lightning flash, and Biddlecomb was able to see them, lying side to side, grinding together as the seas worked the two vessels against one another. Their rigs were entangled and they were spinning off to leeward, quite out of control.

He twisted his hands together. He could do nothing to help; trying to keep station on them would put them all in greater danger, it would be safer for everyone if he kept his distance. Still, that knowledge did not lessen the anguish of seeing his fellows in such danger. But if he had not done what he did, there would be three vessels in that mess, rather than two.

‘Mr Tottenhill!' he screamed, and the first officer looked over at him. ‘We'll brace the main topsail around again!' he shouted, gesturing with his hand, and as Tottenhill and Rumstick pushed men into position to carry out that order, Biddlecomb made his way aft. He was bitterly cold; his coat and oilskins were below, and the clothes he was wearing were soaked clean through.

‘Here she comes, Ferguson, meet her!' Biddlecomb shouted to the helmsman. Ferguson nodded and followed Biddlecomb's gaze aloft, where the rig slatted and banged. In the frequent flashes of lightning it looked like some great tangle of cordage.

The deep-reefed topsail began to swing around. Biddlecomb could see in the waist an inordinate number of men heaving away on the brace, trying to haul the sail against the wind. The leech of the sail turned into the wind and the sail began to flog, and then it came around fast and filled with a bang, and the
Charlemangne
began to plunge forward again.

Biddlecomb met Tottenhill stepping up to the quarterdeck as he himself was making his way below. ‘Mr Tottenhill, I'm stepping below! I'll be back on deck in—'

‘Ferguson disobeyed my order!' Tottenhill shouted.

Biddlecomb stared at him for a moment, blinking away the spray and rain that ran in his eyes. He obviously had not heard the lieutenant correctly. ‘What?' he shouted.

‘Ferguson willfully disobeyed my order!'

Biddlecomb shook his head. This was quite beyond comprehension. ‘Are you mad? We'd have been aboard the
Hornet
if he'd obeyed you!'

‘That is beside the point! The men cannot go second-guessing orders! He disobeyed me!'

Biddlecomb stared at Tottenhill and realized, to his amazement, that Tottenhill was right. Strictly speaking, Tottenhill was right. But being right and being smart were not always the same thing.

‘Are you going to have him arrested, Captain?' Tottenhill shouted over the wind.

‘No, sir. And neither are you. This is just something that happened, you've been going to sea long enough to understand that. It's not your fault, your order was a good one, as far as you knew, but if Ferguson had obeyed it, we'd most likely be dead. Just let it drop, Lieutenant, for the sake of the ship's morale.' He turned away from Tottenhill and made his way below, out of the still-building storm.

Some twenty hours after the collision of the
Hornet
and the
Fly
, the wind and seas had settled enough for Amos Hackett to move with some ease around the sick berth. His back burned and tingled from the wounds inflicted by the cat, but in general he was as hale as before his punishment, and only histrionics and a genuine desire to avoid work kept him on the sick and injured list. That and the knowledge that once back on the lower deck, where even the little privacy afforded to the sick was gone, Lieutenant Tottenhill would no longer come to visit him, no longer provide him with rum and the tantalizing stories of treachery among those in command of the brig.

He rolled off his hanging cot and placed his feet on the cold deck planking, swinging with the still considerable roll of the brig. He looked around, getting his bearings, then as the brig rolled to larboard, he stood up and made his way aft. He stopped at the aftermost cot, starboard side, and knelt beside it, rocking back and forth as the cot swung.

‘Hey, Billy Allen, you awake?' he whispered.

‘Yeah.' Allen's face, pale, splotched with the smallpox, was just visible in the shadows of the cot.

‘How're you doing, mate?'

‘Better, Amos, better. Fever's broke. I think the worst of it's passed.'

‘That's good news, Billy, good news. And by the way, I was right.' He paused, waiting for Allen to ask.

‘What was you right about?'

‘About that Yankee bastard Biddlecomb and his coddling his damned Yankees, is what. Lieutenant Tottenhill told me. That lubber Ferguson was on the helm, damn near run us aboard the
Hornet
in this storm on account of he wouldn't take orders from Tottenhill. Called him a “rascal Southerner” and refused to take orders, and Biddlecomb just said, “Let him be.” And me, I gets my back scratched on account of an accident, and Mr Tottenhill wanting to let me off and forget it.'

‘That bastard,' Allen echoed.

‘Yeah, well, like I said, those of us from North Carolina that was stupid enough to volunteer, like you and me, we don't have a fart's chance in a gale of making it through this cruise. Them Yankees'll do for us—'

‘You shut your fucking gob, there, Hackett,' came a voice from the larboard side.

Hackett turned and peered into the dark. ‘Who's that? Woodberry?'

‘Never you mind, you blackballing liar. Don't you go spreading lies about Captain Biddlecomb.'

‘Yeah, Woodberry. Sure, you got no call to complain. You're one of his Rhode Islanders, one of them coddled ones. I reckon you'll go and tell Biddlecomb or that Rumstick what I said, and I'll get flogged again for telling my mates the truth.'

‘I don't go telling tales, you son of a whore, and you best do the same.'

‘Is there something you figure you're gonna do to stop me?' Hackett growled.

‘I got a broken hand, Hackett, got broke striking the topgallant yard. That's while you was down here pretending you was still hurt. But once I'm on the mend, we'll see about this, you and me.'

‘Oh, that's fine, just fine. I'm ready whenever you are, you coward.' Hackett fell silent and listened to the working of the ship and the groans of the sick men. He was, in fact, terrified of Woodberry. If it came to a fight, Woodberry could tear him apart, even with his hand broken. Hackett had no delusions on that score.

But it would not come to that. Hackett, who reckoned himself a man with vision, could see great things happening on this cruise. He had Tottenhill convinced that he was a solid friend to him. And the foremast jacks, those from his home colony and those from Philadelphia sprung from jail and resentful of any authority, were lapping up his tales as a cat laps milk. He did not imagine that Biddlecomb would be in command of the
Charlemagne
much longer.

President of His Majesty's Council John Brown took a sip of his now cold tea, placed the Wedgwood cup with its intricate white and blue pattern on the equally intricate saucer, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Seated across from him on the veranda of Government House was Capt. George Dorsett, a merchant captain and frequent guest there. He had arrived fifteen minutes before, clearly agitated and with something of great import to relate. Still, Governor Browne had insisted on leading him out to the veranda, pouring him tea and introducing him to Brown and Babbidge, who already knew him at least as well as the governor did.

Nor was the governor blind to Dorsett's anxiety; Brown was certain that the governor was performing these absurd rituals to demonstrate his own unflappable nature. Brown had found it amusing at first, but now it was starting to annoy.

‘And now tell me, my dear Dorsett, what brings you by here in such a rush?' the governor asked at last.

‘Well, since you see fit to ask,' Dorsett said with irony thickly applied, ‘I happened to see the rebel fleet, the American rebel fleet, yesterday around noontime.'

The governor sat silent with the look of one quite unsure of what to think. Dorsett was going to make him ask for more information, no doubt as punishment for the governor's behavior.

‘Where did you see them? What were they about?' the governor asked.

‘They were on the southwestern side of Abaco, and I reckoned they were making for Hole-in-the-Rock. I can only imagine that their objective is Nassau.'

‘Well, I don't know if I agree. I mean, they could be intending anything. What makes you think they had Nassau in mind?'

Brown spoke for the first time since greeting Dorsett. ‘Well, Governor, I hardly think Hole-in-the-Rock is their objective. There's nothing but coral and lizards in Hole-in-the-Rock. And you'll recall that captain … that army captain warned us back in January that they might move on Nassau.'

‘That's right, Captain Law, that strange fellow, he did say as much. Damn them and their impudence, we shall see about this.' Governor Browne stood up abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over as he did. ‘Captain Dorsett, I wish I could breakfast with you, but I must act on your information at once.