The Continental Risque (27 page)

‘Humph,' was all Rumstick said, frowning and looking across the water at the brig. If he was trying to hide his disappointment, he was doing a poor job. Biddlecomb knew full well what he was thinking. Not only did he not want to be stuck on the
Charlemagne
, under Tottenhill's command, he did not want to miss the action that was about to take place, the first offensive move by the American Navy and marine corps.

‘He ain't going to want me aboard, Isaac. He'll take it to mean you don't trust him.'

‘Then that'll be the first damn thing he's got right in a while. Whatever he thinks, I'm still the captain of that bucket, he still does what I order him to do.' Biddlecomb turned and followed Rumstick's gaze over toward the brig. ‘I would be delighted if he would disobey a direct order, then I could rid myself of him, but he's too clever by half for that.'

‘Why not take him with you aboard the sloop, here, and put me in command of
Charlemagne
?'

‘A good try, Lieutenant, but I think not. It's never done, a captain and a first officer out of the ship at a time of action.'

‘And you don't want to be around the son of a whore any more than I do.'

‘And as captain that is my prerogative. I'm sorry, Ezra. And pray send Weatherspoon back with the boat. He can serve as my aide.'

Then, much to Biddlecomb's relief, Rumstick shook his head and grinned. ‘Good God, what I do sacrifice for my country. Good luck, sir.' He saluted smartly and then hopped down the ladder into the waiting boat.

Ten minutes later the three sloops and the schooner
Wasp
were under way, once again leaving the anchored fleet in their wake. With their shallow draft they eschewed the deep water to the north, moving boldly over the reefs where the larger vessels of the fleet could not follow.

They made their way nearly due south, sailing a beam reach in the warm, ten-knot breeze. They skirted past the eastern end of Athol Island, and there, spread out before them, with East Point straight ahead and the east entrance to the harbor off the starboard beam, was the island of New Providence.

Biddlecomb, standing at the leeward rail, put his telescope to his eye and stared at Fort Montegu three miles away. A plume of smoke was rising from the square, gray fort, but he could see no sign of activity beyond that. Not that it mattered much to him; his vessels would never be within range of the fort, and when it did come time to attack that stronghold, he would gladly abdicate leadership to Captain Nicholas, now aboard the
Providence
.

The deck of the sloop was crowded with marines. There was no need for secrecy now, and with the day growing warmer Biddlecomb did not have the heart to force them below, as inconvenient and irritating as it was to have them lolling about as if it were a county fair. He had at least declared that the after edge of the main hatch was the official start of the quarterdeck, and no one, save officers, came aft of that without his permission, thus keeping a portion of the deck clear for himself.

Lieutenant Faircloth, leaning on the rail next to Biddlecomb, breathed a deep lungful of the Caribbean air. ‘Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous! Is it always this fine in the Caribbean?'

‘Well, it's a good deal hotter in the summer, and the hurricane season can be a bit of a problem, but, yes, in general I'd say it's always pretty nice. Have you never been here?'

‘Hardly been out of Philadelphia, save for a little time in London and New York. I think this adventuring life suits me well.'

Biddlecomb could not help but smile. ‘Pray, wait till we've had some real adventure before you decide how much you like it.'

They continued south, through the translucent, light blue water, a color that could hardly be believed, past the dark patches where kelp covered reefs rose up to just below the surface. Biddlecomb guessed, from the reaction of the marines who lined the rails, peering and pointing down into the water and out at the lush island, that Faircloth was not the only man aboard who had seen little in his life beyond Philadelphia.

‘And two and a half, and two and a half,' the leadsman chanted. Two and a half fathoms; plenty of water still for the sloops. East Point was straight ahead, and half a mile off. They stood on for another five minutes, and then Biddlecomb hailed Weaver and Capt. John Hazard of the
Providence
and Hallock of the
Wasp
, ordering them to anchor in his lee. Together the four vessels rounded up and dropped their anchors and their sails together and came to rest on the placid water.

‘The die is cast,' Biddlecomb said to Faircloth.

‘Right, well, let's get across this damned Rubicon and get on with it.' The marine lieutenant was smiling, very much enjoying himself. ‘Sergeant Dawes, let's get these men formed up and ready to get in the boats!'

The two boats being towed astern were hauled alongside, and awkwardly the heavy-laden marines clambered over the bulwark and took their places on the thwarts. The same scene was repeated on each of the other three vessels, and soon eight boats full of sailors and marines were pulling for the rocky beach just north of East Point.

Biddlecomb sat in the stern sheets of the first boat, his knees forced up close to his body by the crowding, and scanned the shoreline through his telescope.

He had always thought it a lovely island, but the happy feeling that had attended past landfalls here had deserted him now. This time he was not just going ashore, he was leading an invasion.

The
Providence
's boat reached the shore first. The crew tossed oars and the forefoot made a horrible crunching sound as it ran up on the rocky shallows that constituted the beach. The men at the bow jumped out, the water coming up to their knees, and hauled the boat farther ashore. Captain Nicholas stood and pushed his way through the marines and hopped down into six inches of ocean.

Biddlecomb's boat was next. ‘Toss oars,' Ferguson called, and the two banks of oars went up and their boat hit the shore, making a sound at least as bad as that of the first boat. The sailors tumbled out, followed by the marines and then Weatherspoon and then the captain.

He adjusted his sword until it hung at the proper angle, then marched farther up the beach. All of the boats were ashore now, eight in all, and the ninety or so men they had carried, one-third of the invading force, were swarming over the shoreline. Muskets were stacked and cartridge boxes and powder horns checked, and men assembled into divisions, waiting for their comrades, waiting to march against Fort Montegu. The American invasion of New Providence was under way.

At the inland edge of the beach a narrow dirt road skirted the shore, leading in one direction southeast to East Point and in the other northwest to Fort Montegu. The fine dust that covered the surface of the road had a light brown color, bordering on white, almost exactly the color of a well-scrubbed deck. Small rocks were scattered about, and a few tenacious plants sprouted in those spots not grooved deep by cart wheels.

On the far side of the road, the inland side, the great green wave of forest crested, threatening to break and spill over the roadway. From that mysterious world came the occasional scream of birds and the constant buzz of insects and Biddlecomb could only imagine what else. Here and there amid the green vegetation, tall, flowering plants burst with color, like shells frozen in midexplosion. It was past noon and already hot, though the heat was tempered by the cool trades that blew over the island.

Biddlecomb looked down the road in one direction, then the other. There was no one to be seen; they might have been invading a desert island, for all he could tell.

He caught a movement in the corner of his eye and looked down. At his feet a patch of rock thrust up from the sand, and on the rock, standing motionless like a delicate china figurine, was a lizard. Then, slowly, aware it was being watched, the creature raised its four-inch body up on spindly legs. It bobbed its head up and down, slowly at first, then faster, and thrust a pink dewlap, like a strawberry, out from under its chin.

Biddlecomb smiled at the sheer audacity of the tiny creature. ‘I know right well how you feel,' he said.

Fort Montegu was perhaps the most secure place on the island of New Providence. Built of huge blocks of native stone, the fort was nearly one hundred feet square and twenty feet high, with the walls, five feet thick at their narrowest, sloping gently inward from the base to the top of the ramparts. There was only one way in: a heavily secured door opening onto a tunnel with a rounded ceiling running right under the ramparts to the front door of the barracks.

Atop each of the four walls sat a battery of guns, an impressive arsenal of twelve-and eighteen-pounder cannon that commanded a 360-degree field of fire, from the eastern entrance of Nassau harbor to the north, to the single overland approach to the south. The strength of the fort was further augmented by another, smaller battery at the fort's northwest corner. It was little wonder that a former governor of New Providence had declared that, properly defended, Fort Montegu would make the island ‘the strongest possession on British America.'

And to Lt James Babbidge, standing on the southern wall and waiting for the messenger who a moment before had come charging in from the direction of Nassau, that knowledge did nothing to ease his fear. His short and inglorious career in the army had consisted mainly of parades and garrison duty, along with a brief stint in India. He had never actually been in combat, and he had certainly never been in command of a fortress under attack by an invading army.

Stewn around the upperworks of the fort were the thirty militiamen that had marched with him that morning, along with thirty more who had been sent to augment his force after the enemy's small vessels had been spotted making for East Point. Some were cleaning their weapons, some were sleeping, and others were engaged in card games or arguments. They all appeared relaxed, some even bored, though Babbidge was fairly certain that more than a few were just shamming calm, as he was doing.

He watched the messenger, a sergeant in the militia, come panting up the stairs. He would be carrying instructions, perhaps instructions to abandon Montegu and withdraw to Fort Nassau. That thought gave Babbidge a great sense of relief, followed by a flush of guilt for wishing such a cowardly thing.

‘Sergeant,' said Babbidge, returning the messenger's salute. As the day had progressed, he noticed, the militia seemed to grow increasingly formal, in the military line. ‘What brings you?'

‘Message from Governor Browne, sir, who's just got back to Fort Nassau. He request you send a force of men to reconnoiter and, if possible, prevent the rebels' landing, sir.'

After a period of silence, Babbidge said, ‘Is that it?'

‘Yes, sir. That's it, sir.'

‘Oh.' Babbidge glanced around. All sixty or so pairs of eyes were on him. The governor, his commanding officer, was ordering him to leave the good stout fort and reconnoiter the enemy, attack if possible. But, no, he had not ordered him, Babbidge, to do it, just to send some of his men.

‘Lieutenant Judkin,' he began, and even as the words left his mouth, he knew that, terrified as he was, he could not be so craven as to cower in the fort while Judkin marched toward the enemy. He was struck with self-loathing for what he had almost done. ‘Pick thirty men. You and I will lead them south to see about these rebels.'

It took another fifty minutes to pick the men and get them drawn up, with weapons and equipment, into two fairly regular columns on the parade ground outside the fort's gate. ‘It's like trying to herd cats, like bloody trying to herd cats,' Lieutenant Judkin said, several times, as his exasperation got the better of him.

Babbidge was only vaguely aware of the lack of organization or military efficiency that pervaded the militia. He was thinking rather about the upcoming encounter with the large, well-armed, and no doubt cutthroat band of attacking rebels. Should he attack them first? Did he have the men to do that, and if so, did he and his men have the courage for it?

It was useless, he concluded, to speculate until he knew what he was up against. He might find the Americans were a large and disciplined army, against whom it would be suicidal to move. And again he might find them all dead drunk on the beach. You could never tell with the rebellious type. He would have to wait and see.

‘Ready, sir,' Judkin reported.

‘Right, then.' Babbidge turned and looked at the twin lines of men. They did not look any happier than he to be sallying forth to meet the enemy. Some, in fact, looked angry and even frightened, and that gave Babbidge's courage a boost. ‘All right, you men,' he called. ‘Follow me!' And with that he headed off down the road, and behind him thirty pairs of less than enthusiastic feet followed in ragged order.

Over half of the American invasion force, one hundred and sixty men, were on the beach, with the boats pulling back for the rest, when Biddlecomb saw the militia. He had walked back down the beach, was standing, in fact, with his feet in the surf and looking northwest along the curved shoreline when he saw the marching soldiers over half a mile away. They seemed of no great force, not above fifty men certainly, but they were still enemy troops, marching toward his own.

‘Captain Nicholas, Captain Nicholas, sir, a word with you,' Biddlecomb called out, splashing toward the marine captain and leading him out of earshot of the others. ‘I perceive there are enemy troops on the road there, and making for us.'

‘You're right, Biddlecomb, by damn,' Nicholas said, sighting along Biddlecomb's pointed finger. Nicholas was a solid-built man in his midforties. Three months before, prior to beginning his career in the marine corps, he had owned a tavern in Philadelphia, a popular place whose clientele had provided the bulk of his troops come recruiting time. The qualities that made him a good tavern owner – brusque efficiency, frugality, and a willingness to suffer no nonsense – had thus far made him a good captain of marines as well. Of course he had never, until this moment, been faced with an armed enemy.