The Continental Risque (9 page)

Stupid, stupid! High aloft in the rigging was the only safe place on shipboard to tell a secret. He knew it and he ignored it. But who would have thought that the captain would have been awake at that hour? Of course it was his own fault that Barry could not sleep. But who would have thought? The old man's skylight was open, the skylight just behind and below where they stood, and it communicated from the quarterdeck right into the great cabin. Barry heard every word.

But Hackett didn't realize his mistake for some time. Barry was smarter than he had thought, the whore's son. Barry brought Elphinstone into the cabin the next day, along with both mates, and made him talk. And when they had forced from him everything he knew, they extracted from him, on pain of great punishment, a promise to report to them anything more that Hackett said.

And Hackett said a great deal. He found in Elphinstone an eager follower, one who devoured his tales. It made him wild now to think of how he had regaled Elphinstone with stories of his clever manipulations. He had even confessed to things he had not done! And all of it going straight aft to the great cabin.

Three days after his confesion on the quarterdeck Hacket was in chains.

‘Reckon you'll get your trial next week,' the sheriff said as he prepared to shut the heavy iron door of the cell. ‘Mutiny, it'll be.'

‘Mutiny, that's a lie. You gonna arrest Captain Barry for chaining me up like a dog?'

‘No, Hackett, of course I'm not, you stupid whore's son. That ain't even worthy of you.' The sheriff seemed about to leave, then paused. ‘Barry says he has a witness, fellow that'll tell everything you done.' He was being particularly talkative. Hackett wondered if he was lonely. He hoped so.

‘He got someone willing to lie about what I said. I didn't do nothing. It'll be that bastard's word against mine.'

At this the sheriff burst into laughter, and Hackett felt the rare urge to physically, personally, beat someone.

‘Oh, well, you'll hang for certain, if that's the case!' the sheriff said. He stepped out of the cell and closed the door and three minutes later Hackett could still hear him laughing at the far end of the hall.

Nothing was more horrible to Amos Hackett than to be left alone with his thoughts. He was terrified of death, in fact, because he had some vague notion that death would be like his time in the merchantman's hold: aware, thinking, feeling his rage increase, yet unable to talk to anyone, unable to release it.

The prison cell was little better. He could move, at least, and he could see. He had the sheriff or guard to speak with three times a day when his meals came. But each day that passed brought him closer to a hopeless trial and then the gallows and then the black nothingness of the hold.

He heard keys jangling in the door. He looked up quickly. Breakfast was not an hour past, there was no call for his door to be open. He felt a sudden dread, like a cold draft. Whatever this was, he had no doubt it was bad.

‘Hackett, this gentleman here is Jedadiah Huck. He wants to have a word with you,' the sheriff said. Behind him was a middle-aged man, pudgy, red-faced, in some sort of uniform. On his head was a wig that might have been better discarded some years before.

‘Amos Hackett?'

Hackett glared at him for a long moment before saying, ‘I reckon you know who I am.'

‘I understand that you're an able-bodied seaman? Can hand, reef, and steer?'

‘Aye.'

‘Well, Hackett, pray allow me to explain the situation to you. You are to be brought up on some quite serious charges, I'm told. Hang you, I've no doubt. However, there might be a way to spare your life.'

After another long silence, Hacket said, ‘Go on.'

‘These colonies are on the verge of a great struggle with England over certain rights. The Continental Congress is putting together a navy of the United Colonies. They need able-bodied men such as yourself to join them. If you are willing to volunteer for the navy, we could see that you are pardoned of your crimes.'

Silence again, and this time it lasted for some while. This could not be right. It was far too good to be true. Let him go simply for volunteering for some navy? Did this Jedadiah Huck know what crime he was accused of? No captain would want him on board a ship if he knew. But the offer had been made.

‘That's it? Join this navy and I'm pardoned?'

‘If you are indeed an able-bodied seaman, yes. That's it.'

This navy might possibly be a right hell. He had heard stories of the British navy: floggings, hangings, lousy food. This Continental navy could be worse.

But still it would not be worse than the darkness. As long as he was alive, there was hope, and as long as he was on shipboard, among a ship's crew, there was a chance for even better.

‘Very well, then. I'll join.'

‘I figured you might, Hackett,' said the sheriff. ‘I'll miss seeing you hang, but at least we're free of you. But if you come back, I promise we'll hang you when you do.'

‘Hold a moment,' Hackett said. The suspicion was back again. ‘Tell me again why you want me?'

Huck cleared his throat. ‘Our colonies are locked in a battle for our freedom. We need every man we can get to defend our God-given liberties.'

‘Oh, my arse,' said Hackett. ‘Give it straight.'

The pudgy man shrugged, deciding, apparently, that the truth would do no harm at that juncture. ‘Some gentleman … Lt Roger Tottenhill … gives me a dollar a head for each able-bodied man I recruit. I don't give one damn what you done, as long as I get my head money. Once you report on board the ship, you're his problem.'

Someone was giving orders concerning the repairs on the
Charlemagne
's bow, someone that Biddlecomb did not recognize. He, this stranger, was standing by the cutwater and waving his arms, apparently pointing out to the shipwrights how far back to strip the planking, and Biddlecomb was not pleased.

The
Charlemagne
did not, at that moment, look like the third most powerful vessel in the navy of the United Colonies, though such she was. Rather she looked like a forlorn wreck, rolled over on her larboard side twenty yards from where he and Virginia stood.

Three days before, they had pulled up to the yard of Wharton and Humphreys on a thankfully slack tide, standing on and off under topsails while another brig – Biddlecomb later learned it was the merchant brig
Sally
undergoing conversion into the United Colonies brig-of-war
Cabot
– was warped quickly out of the way.

With her pumps working nonstop to keep up with the flow of water coming in around the fothered sail, an army of sailors and dockworkers had stripped the
Charlemagne
of guns, stores, and top-hamper. That done, she had been hove down, rolled over on her larboard side, bringing the leaking starboard bow out of the water.

The
Charlemagne
seemed to breathe a great sigh of relief, pleased to be free of the damaged top-hamper, grateful to be pulled from the water, like a man stripping off coat and shirt on an unbearably hot day. It made Biddlecomb happy to see his beloved brig in the graving dock, finally getting the proper attention.

And now some interloper was giving instructions concerning the work on her bow, saying to the lead shipwright, ‘No, you cannot simply put a dutchman in there, you must rip the planking back to the first cant frame, and three strakes above that and below to see there's no more rot. You don't know what's going on under there, the whole damned bow could fall clean off.' Standing in a half circle around him and peering down from the hull above were the gang of shipwrights who had been working on the brig.

It did not matter to Biddlecomb that the man was right, or that ten minutes later he would have issued the same instructions himself, the fact remained that someone he did not know was giving orders concerning his ship.

‘Could that be Mr Wharton?' Virginia asked, tightening her grip on his arm.

It was part of their routine now to stroll over to the shipyard after breakfasting with William Stanton in the Stone House, where they had their lodging. The mornings were lovely, brittle and cold, but even abominable weather could not have quashed the general excitement with which Philadelphia was infused in those latter days of 1775.

‘No, I met Wharton yesterday, that's not him. Here's Mr Humphreys now.' Biddlecomb nodded toward the young man walking in their direction, clad in Quaker black, a bundle of draughts held awkwardly under his arm. ‘Mr Humphreys, sir, a word, if you please! Who, pray, is that gentleman giving directions to your lead shipwright? The one there pointing toward the cutwater, in the blue coat. Is he one of your people?'

Humphreys squinted through spotted glasses toward the
Charlemagne
and shook his head. ‘No … good morning to you, Miss Stanton … that's Mr Tottenhill, your first officer. Came by this morning, first thing. I'm surprised you didn't recognize him.'

‘Indeed,' said Biddlecomb, quite taken aback by this information, and, after bidding Humphreys good day, added, ‘This is passing strange.' Tottenhill was now poking at the exposed frames with a long scrap of wood. ‘Let's see what's acting here.'

Biddlecomb and Virginia stepped over the frozen mud of the shipyard, making their way to the
Charlemagne
around piles of snow-covered timber. The big men-of-war, big at least by the standards of the Colonial Navy, were tied to the dock, receiving the last of their new top-hamper. Biddlecomb had known the flagship,
Alfred
, in her earlier life as the merchantman
Black Prince
. The second ship, which, like the
Andrew Doria
, had formerly been named
Sally
, was reborn as the
Columbus
and was commanded, to Biddlecomb's delight, by his former superior officer in the Rhode Island navy, Capt. Abraham Whipple. Both ships mounted twenty-four nine-pounder guns, the biggest men-of-war the colonies could assemble.

‘You, sir,' Biddlecomb called out as he approached Tottenhill. ‘Who are you? What are you about?'

Tottenhill turned and regarded his captain with a face full of annoyance. ‘I'm Lt Roger Tottenhill, sir, first officer of the brig-of-war
Charlemagne
, if it is any business of yours.'

‘I should say it's some business of mine. I'm Isaac Biddlecomb, Capt. Isaac Biddlecomb, commander of this brig that you fancy yourself to be first officer of.'

Tottenhill's face changed as if a cloud had been whisked away from the sun. He smiled broadly. ‘God, I beg your pardon, sir! We've not met, I thought you were one of these infernal rascals from the dockyard, set on doing as little work as they can.' The lieutenant extended his hand. ‘Lt Roger Tottenhill, sir, from the proud colony of North Carolina, at your service.'

Biddlecomb shook the proffered hand and remained silent as Tottenhill introduced himself to Virginia, bowing and, much to Isaac's annoyance, kissing her hand. When at last the scraping was done, Biddlecomb said, ‘I am still confused by this first-officer business. I have a first officer, Ezra Rumstick, who has been with me this past year. Who told you that you were to be first officer?'

‘It's politics, sir, and I apologize. I know Mr Rumstick by reputation, and I'm not all that pleased to try and fill his shoes, but the Naval Committee decided that his commission, issued by Washington, do you see, who didn't really have the authority, ain't valid. They reissued him a commission, but that makes him junior to me. They were going to post me aboard as second lieutenant, but I'm afraid the new commission made Rumstick the most junior officer in the service, so they had to make me first.' As he spoke, the lieutenant rummaged around in his blue coat, finally pulling from an inner pocket a packet of papers, which he handed over.

Biddlecomb took the papers without a word and unfolded them. ‘There is quite a bit of politics, I fear, in the Congress, and …' The lieutenant continued to speak though Biddlecomb, looking through the papers, did not continue to listen. There was a lieutenant's commission, months old, and instructions to assume the position of first lieutenant aboard the
Charlemagne
, signed in Stephen Hopkins's scratchy hand. ‘Hmm,' Isaac said, refolding the papers and handing them back to Tottenhill. ‘Does Rumstick know of this?'

‘I don't know, sir. Sir, if you please, I'm sorry about this, really, and about how I greeted you. I don't want us to get off on the wrong foot here. I know you and Mr Rumstick have been close, but it's not like he's left on the beach, he's to be second officer. And I'm an experienced officer, sir. I've been an officer in the merchant service for five years now. And in the last war I sailed aboard a privateer. I was just a boy, of course, an apprentice seaman, but I saw a scrape or two.'

‘Well …' Biddlecomb said, mustering his composure after the shock of having a new officer thrust upon him. This navy thing, he reminded himself, was not all fancy balls and sycophancy. It involved, among other things, considerably less autonomy than he was accustomed to as a merchant captain. But this was too much.

‘I suppose those are as good credentials as we're likely to find. Better than my own were a year ago. I'm sorry as well, sir, for doubting you. The organization of the navy has been so … informal up until now, I'm not accustomed to superior officers and Naval Committtees and such. Yes, very well …' Isaac did not want to start an argument, nor did he wish to offend Tottenhill, so he did not voice his thoughts, which were that Tottenhill would not remain in his post for long. Rumstick was Biddlecomb's first lieutenant. There would be no other.

He smiled at Virginia, then looked Tottenhill in the eye. ‘I—'

‘Sir, if I may be so bold, shall I tell you about the cant frames here?'