The Continental Risque (25 page)

‘Oh,' the governor said, and then turning visibly angry, his heavy face flushing, his jaw working, continued, ‘See here, Brown, you always have some damned thing to say, don't you? It was your idea to not alert the militia, and we came damn close to having those rebels crawling right up our backsides!'

‘My duty, Your Honor, is to advise as best I can. I said simply that we can have the militia turn out in a matter of minutes and' – Brown gestured to the assembled men below – ‘they did, as you trained them. As to the powder, if you believe Captain Chambers can elude the rebel fleet, the entire rebel fleet, then I certainly support your plan to send the powder off.'

‘Fine, very well. We'll make a stand, fight these bastards off. Show them back home we can do without their damned army. Protect the island ourselves. Babbidge, pick thirty or so steady men and go reinforce Fort Montegu, in case those rascals are thinking of sneaking in from the east, which I reckon they are. I'll join you as soon as I go make myself a little decent and see that my poor wife and aunt ain't too upset. Brown, you take charge here. Men!' he said in a loud voice, addressing the militia who stood looking up at him.

Brown could see the governor was working himself up into a patriotic oratory fervor, and he braced himself for what would follow.

‘Now is the time to stand fast in defense of your homes, your wives and daughters,' Governor Browne said in his deep, speech-giving voice. ‘Now is the time that you must fight for your king and stand like the solid walls of Fort Nassau, this mighty fortress, against the treasonous onslaught!'

The militiamen gave the speech a cheer of sorts, and Babbidge began to tell off men to march with him to the eastern end of the island. ‘Very good, Brown, I'm off,' said the governor. He turned to leave, paused, and then turned back again. ‘What the devil is that cannon doing down there?'

It was a fairly dejected band of American rebels that met in the great cabin of the flagship
Alfred
three hours later. Once the fleet had come about, once they realized that they had been discovered, Hopkins led them to the north and then east, skirting around the far shore of Hog Island and working their way through the tricky reefs.

As Fort Nassau disappeared from sight, Biddlecomb allowed the marines up on deck. They poured out of the hold, sweating, coughing, some looking a most unhealthy color, and for the rest of the trip they milled about the waist, talking loud and impeding the work of the sailors.

Hanover Sound, to which they were bound, was, from the level of the deck, indistinguishable from the open sea. It was only from high aloft, looking down, that one could see that the Sound was in fact a deep indentation in the reef, something like a harbor in a submerged island. In that sheltered area, amid the long, low-lying islands to the northeast of New Providence, the American fleet anchored.

Biddlecomb had just luffed his sloop and was waiting for the first sign of sternway before ordering the man forward to let the anchor go when Rumstick reported, ‘Signal from the flag.'

‘I can well imagine,' Biddlecomb said, then shouted, ‘Let go!' to the sailor in the bow.

‘All captains to repair on board.'

The sloop's boat, which, for lack of space on deck, had been towed astern, was brought around and manned, and Biddlecomb took his place in the stern sheets for the short trip to the flagship.

‘Hold a minute, Ferguson,' he said to the seaman at the tiller. ‘Take us by
Charlemagne
first; we'll see how things are going there.'

‘Aye, sir.' Ferguson pushed the tiller over, and a moment later the boat was gliding under the
Charlemagne
's counter and alongside her starboard quarter.

‘Ahoy,
Charlemagne
!' Biddlecomb called out, and Tottenhill's head appeared over the quarterdeck rail, and then, oddly, Hackett's as well.

‘No surprise that bastard's made his way aft,' Ferguson muttered, and before Biddlecomb could ask him what he meant by that, Tottenhill called out, ‘Oh, sir!' and then turning forward shouted, ‘Side party! Smartly now!'

No, belay that, Mr Tottenhill,' Biddlecomb called. ‘I'm going aboard the flagship. I just wanted to see that everything was all right.'

‘Fine, sir. Couldn't be better.'

‘Have you enough hands?'

‘Quite, sir. Plenty.'

And hardly a Yankee among them, Biddlecomb thought. Probably the happiest you've been in months, you miserable bastard.

Stop that, he thought, that kind of thinking will not help at all. He ran his eyes over the
Charlemagne
. She looked good, but not excellent.

‘Perhaps you could get a boat in the water and square up the yards a bit, Mr Tottenhill. And I think a fresh pull on the backstays would not be amiss.'

‘Aye, sir,' Tottenhill said, but his tone was different now. He seemed to bristle at the suggestion.

Don't get too used to being in command, Biddlecomb thought. ‘Very good. Carry on. I don't know when I'll be back aboard.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

Biddlecomb glanced around the deck, that part of it that he could see from the boat. ‘Where's Weatherspoon?'

‘Masthead, sir.'

‘Why?'

‘I caught him in the cable tier, sleeping, when he said he was working on his trigonometry.'

‘I see.' Biddlecomb had to smile. As an apprentice he had spent a good deal of time asleep in the cable tier when he was supposed to be at more productive pursuits.

Tottenhill gave a crisp salute, which Biddlecomb returned, and the boat was under way again, pulling forward along the brig's length to duck under her bow.

‘Kinda odd, sir, ain't it, Hackett being up on the quarterdeck?' Ferguson said casually, too casually to be genuine.

‘What do you mean?'

‘I just mean … well, nothing. Just, Hacket didn't seem to be doing nothing. No work back there, I mean. I reckon he and Tottenhill are friends from back home.'

‘I don't know about that,' Biddlecomb said, then after a pause added, ‘Ferguson, what are you trying to say?'

‘Nothing, sir.'

And that, Biddlecomb was certain, was not true. What was Ferguson implying? That Hackett was exerting some influence on Tottenhill? That was not possible. Even Tottenhill, Biddlecomb had to imagine, could see what a weasel and a sea lawyer Hackett was. He wished that Ferguson would just say what he was thinking.

But he would not. Biddlecomb knew that that cryptic warning was the closest that a sailor like Ferguson would come to informing on a fellow foremast jack, despised though he might be. Without further comment Ferguson pulled the boat alongside the
Alfred
's boarding steps and Biddlecomb climbed aboard. He was led by a midshipman to the great cabin, which was, once again, filled to capacity with officers of the navy and marine corps.

This gathering, however, had none of the jovial, festive atmosphere of the meeting at Cape Henlopen, or Hackett's court-martial. The American Navy had just failed in its first ever attempted action, and the faces in the great cabin reflected that.

‘Biddlecomb, good, you're here,' Hopkins said as Biddlecomb stepped into the great cabin and saluted. ‘Sorry about that whole thing getting buggered up like that. Damn wind set us further east than we thought, of all the stupid, blackballing mistakes. Sun comes up and we're right on the buggering bar. Take any casualties?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Well, thank God for that, anyway. Steward, a rum punch for Captain Biddlecomb. Step up here, Captain, we're trying to figure out what in hell we'll do now.' The other captains, as well as Lieutenant Weaver, late of the second captured sloop, and Lieutenant Jones, who always seemed to make himself present at these occasions, were gathered around the great cabin table, across which was spread a chart of New Providence Island and the surrounding waters.

Biddlecomb took the rum punch, which was the last thing he wanted at ten o'clock in the morning, from the steward and made a halfhearted attempt to push his way to the table. Lieutenant Jones was making an animated point about a landing sight and gesturing to the chart, but Biddlecomb was still thinking about the
Charlemagne
. He felt as if his ship were breaking up under him, and he did not know what to do to prevent it. In any event, it was clearly not helping things, allowing Tottenhill to run amuck. As much as he hated to do it, he would have to send Rumstick back aboard. It was the only way to assure that discipline would be maintained.

‘Perhaps Captain Biddlecomb has something to add? Captain Biddlecomb?'

Biddlecomb looked up at Abraham Whipple, who had just spoken his name, the second time in a tone calculated to snap him from his reverie. ‘Yes, I'm sorry, what?'

‘Lieutenant Jones is proposing that he lead a landing party here' – Whipple placed a finger like the trunk of a young sapling on a point on the chart – ‘just south of Fort Montegu.'

‘No, that's no good,' Biddlecomb said without thinking, distracted as he was with other concerns.

‘And why not, sir?' asked Jones, a hint of confrontation in his voice. ‘The batteries from the ships could keep the fort well occupied until the marines were landed, I've no doubt.'

‘No, no, it's not a question of the fort. The whole shoreline there is steep-to coral and a lee shore. The boats would be smashed to pieces if they tried to land there, and even if they weren't, the poor bastards would never be able to get ashore.' Biddlecomb turned to Lieutenant Weaver, who was maintaining a respectful silence. ‘Isn't that right, Lieutenant?'

‘Yes, quite, sir. There's no landing anywhere along that northeastern shore.'

‘Well, then, what's your plan, Biddlecomb?' Hopkins asked.

‘My plan?' Biddlecomb had simply answered a question, he had no plan. He looked around at the dozen faces looking back at him and decided that he would not admit as much to this crowd.

‘I think Lieutenant Jones had the right idea,' he began, hoping to assuage the lieutenant, who was clearly upset, ‘with a landing, but not at that point. Right here at East Point' – he leaned over and put his finger on the chart – ‘is the place to land the marines. Right around here the shore becomes less steep, and here, while it's still rocky, you do have some shallows of sorts to land men. Would you agree, Weaver?'

‘Yes, sir. There's no sand beach at all to speak of around there, but you can definitely get boats ashore just above East Point.'

‘Well, good, then,' Hopkins thankfully interrupted. ‘We land there, just north of East Point. We've lost our chance at surprise, and we ain't going to get it back, but the marines are already on the sloops. No reason to wait. Biddlecomb, you got the local knowledge, so we'll just keep things the way they are. You're in charge of the landing, Captain Nicholas will lead the attack against Fort Montegu, and we'll see how things go from there. Gentlemen, shall we return to our ships?'

As the meeting broke up, Biddlecomb stared out of the salt-stained windows of the great cabin at the two captured sloops riding easily at their anchors. He was, once more, responsible for landing marines on a hostile coast. He would put them ashore, under enemy fire if the enemy had any sense, and would then participate in the attack on a strongly held and alerted fortification. How in the hell did it happen that he was in charge?

Lt Roger Tottenhill stood at the leeward rail of the
Charlemagne
's quarterdeck, the captain's sacred spot, aloof and alone. It felt good to be there. It felt good to be in command, and to be free of Faircloth and his arrogant ways. It felt even better to know that Rumstick was gone as well, and not second-guessing him, telling Biddlecomb lies about his abilities. He was relishing the moment, trying not to think of the future when the Yankee cabal would be back.

‘Sir, beg pardon.' Hackett appeared once more on the quarterdeck and saluted. ‘It ain't my place, sir, but I had a thought, and, well … please, never mind.'

‘No, go on, Hackett, what is it?'

‘Well, sir, the men have been working awful hard, sir, and they were disappointed something cruel about being turned away from Nassau harbor, on account of them Yankees making such a hash of things, sir.'

‘Yes, I understand,' Tottenhill said. Behind his back he could hear Woodberry shift uncomfortably. The seaman was seated cross-legged on the deck, long-splicing a chafed section of the main topsail outer buntline.

‘Disappointed something cruel,' Hackett said again.

In fact Tottenhill had been thinking just that thing about the men's hard work and their disappointment, but he was not certain he cared for any of the men's actually saying as much, not even Hackett, his friend and chief advocate on the tween decks. Woodberry made another noise, calculated to get Tottenhill's attention. The lieutenant found that irritating in the extreme.

‘So, I was thinking,' Hackett continued, ‘perhaps a splice of the old main brace, sir? It would do a great deal, to lift the men's spirits.'

‘Splice the main brace, eh?' The suggestion made Tottenhill uncomfortable. Issuing an extra ration of rum, which was what Hackett was suggesting, might well lift the men's spirits, but did they need lifting that much? They might think him weak if he did it.

But again, here he was chaffing under Biddlecomb's lack of consideration, yet ready to deny this little thing to the men. And they had been working awfully hard, as Hackett said. Biddlecomb, inconsiderate whore's son that he was, would never do the men this little favor.

‘Sir? Beg pardon, sir.' It was Woodberry. Tottenhill knew that the Yankee, Biddlecomb's pet, would not resist giving his entirely unwanted opinion. ‘Beg pardon, sir?'

‘Yes, Wooodberry, what is it?'

‘Well, sir, I couldn't help but overhear what Hackett here said. Now I like my rum as much as the next man, but I don't know as up-spirits is the best idea now, sir. And the men'll all think Hackett talked you into it, sir.'