The Continental Risque (22 page)

‘Babbidge.' The governor turned to his assistant, who was seated beside him. ‘Run down to Fort Nassau and have them fire off three guns to alert the militia. Not the great guns, probably knock down the ramparts if we shot them, just that signal gun by the gate. We'll have the people assemble there, and the free blacks as well, and we'll issue arms.

‘Brown' – he turned to the president of the Council – ‘go round up the Council and have them meet at the fort. Tell them to bring their arms. We'll be ready to give these rebel bastards a proper greeting.'

‘Certainly, sir,' Brown said, slowly getting his feet. ‘It's just … well, it's nothing.'

‘No, go ahead and say whatever you're thinking, man.'

‘Well, sir, it has occurred to me that we are a colony as much as America is a colony. Are you quite certain of where the citizens' loyalty lies? And the free blacks? I certainly hope that the people, the people you propose to arm, are more loyal to the King than they are sympathetic with the Americans.'

‘Hmmm …' The governor looked down at the table as he considered this line of reasoning.

Brown, taking a more introspective tack, considered his motivations for doing what he had just done. Was he manipulating the governor, making him change his mind, simply because he could? Simply because it amused him? It would not be the first time he had done so. But this time they were not talking about an allocation of funds or enforcement of some ordinance. The situation unfolding now could genuinely result in the sacking of Nassau.

But of course the sacking of Nassau was only one consideration. Another, more important one was how this could work to the benefit of himself, President of His Majesty's Council Brown. There was no way of knowing how long it would be before the Americans descended on Nassau, and it would be of benefit to no one in the government to have the citizens – especially the free blacks – walking around armed for any length of time. People got ideas when they had guns in their hands. No, he was making the right decision, changing the governor's mind for him.

‘That's a good point, Brown, a damn good point.' The Governor turned and hurried over to the edge of the veranda, his thin legs bearing his ponderous weight with surprising speed. ‘Babbidge!' he shouted down to the street below. ‘Babbidge, come on back here! … No, never mind that, just come on back.'

The governor walked back to the breakfast table. ‘We can assemble the militia in ten minutes, have 'em armed and ready to fight. No reason to get them all warmed up now. Captain Dorsett, I must ask you to keep this a secret, this rebel fleet. Tell no one.'

Dorsett looked more confused than anything about what had just transpired. ‘Yes, Governor.'

‘Very good. Now, Captain, can I interest you in some proper breakfast?'

Hole-in-the-Rock was no more than an indention in the southwest end of Great Abaco Island, but it had the status of a sheltered harbor by virtue of a spit of coral, a cable and a half long, that jutted out from the land and offered some protection to vessels anchored within. Biddlecomb had been to Hole-in-the-Rock on various occasions: wooding and watering or riding out some freak storm that had blown out of the west. There was little other reason to call there.

He stood on the quarterdeck of the flagship
Alfred
and surveyed the American fleet at anchor. He had never seen Hole-in-the-Rock so busy, and it reminded him of Barbados, or Boston in the old days.

A swarm of boats pulled between the shore and the ships at anchor. On the
Columbus
the crew was preparing to set up their lower shrouds for a full due, and on the
Andrew Doria
they were swaying aloft a new main topsail yard to replace the old one, sprung during the storm. The weather was beautiful, a perfect winter day in the Caribbean where it was just a bit too warm to be entirely comfortable in a coat. It was only the ominous absence of the
Fly
and the
Hornet
that cast a pall on the scene.

‘Look at those lubbers aboard
Andrew Doria
,' said Lt Thomas Weaver, second officer aboard
Cabot
, who, for reasons unknown to Biddlecomb, was standing beside him on the flagship's quarterdeck. ‘They've got the yardarm caught under the mainstay.'

Biddlecomb looked back at the
Andrew Doria
. Sure enough, the new spar was hung up on the mainstay, and the crew was running around, pointing and waving their arms. He could not help but smile. Behind his back he could hear Lieutenant Jones supervising, in his thick Scots burr, the preparations of the
Alfred
's great guns. He sounded quite knowledgeable, though Biddlecomb was fairly certain that Jones had no more experience with naval matters than he himself did.

‘Ah, Biddlecomb, sorry to keep you waiting.' Commodore Hopkins stepped aft, pushing his shirt into his breeches. ‘It's that goddamned salt pork. I ain't been off the head beyond fifteen minutes all morning. So you were telling me that
Fly
and
Hornet
hit after you backed your topsail?'

‘Aye, sir. We were pretty much stopped and they went past and struck. Their rigs were tangled, but I couldn't see any damage beyond that. Of course I lost sight of them within half a minute.'

‘Ah, they'll be fine, depend on it. They'll come limping in here in a day or two, if they ain't heading for some whorehouse in Baltimore. Now here's what I really want to talk to you about. In case you haven't guessed it, we ain't going to the Chesapeake. I have it on good authority that there's quite a lot of powder, guns, and shot in Nassau and no regular troops to guard it. Just militia, and we know what they're worth. We're going to cram all the marines in the fleet on board the
Providence
and those two sloops and sail right into Nassau harbor, sweet as you please.'

The two sloops to which he alluded were of the Bahamian variety, each about one hundred tons with shallow drafts and wide beams and long booms and gaffs thrust out over their sterns. They had had the bad fortune to be at anchor in Hole-in-the-Rock when the American fleet had sailed in, and Hopkins had immediately dispatched boarding parties to take possession. Now they swung at their anchors with a forlorn look, like prisoners of war held captive in the midst of their enemy's camp.

‘We'll keep the fleet below the horizon while the sloops and
Providence
land the marines at the base of the fort and take it, lock, stock, and barrel. Then the whole fleet will sail in and anchor. I don't reckon we'll have much of a fight.'

Biddlecomb considered the plan and saw that it was good. The sloops were the most innocuous vessels one could find in these waters. Their sailing into Nassau harbor should raise not the least suspicion. And then another thought occurred to him.

‘Sir, what is my role to be in all this?'

‘Biddlecomb, I've known you for some years now, and I know more of your reputation. I think this thing's right up your alley. It needs someone who can think on his feet, as it were, bluff his way through if need be. Hate to take you away from your command, but I need you for this.

‘I want you to take command of the bigger sloop. Weaver here … have you met Weaver? Lt Thomas Weaver, second on my son's brig, this here's Capt. Isaac Biddlecomb. Biddlecomb, this here's Weaver. Weaver knows these waters inside and out. He'll take the smaller sloop. Hazard has the
Providence
, of course. Captain Nicholas is in command of the marines. You're in charge when you're under way, Nicholas is in charge once you're ashore. Is that agreeable?'

Biddlecomb's mind ran through the plan again, searching for some objection, but he could find none. ‘Perfectly agreeable, sir.'

‘All right then, it's all settled. You'll get under way with the sloops just before sunset, and the fleet will follow an hour later. Only fifty miles or so to Nassau, as you know, so you might have to back and fill some to get there just at dawn. In any event, you two have a world to do. I won't keep you here. Report back aboard the flag at, say, beginning of the first dogwatch, and we'll go over this in some more detail.'

‘Aye, sir,' the two officers said together, and then one more thought occurred to Biddlecomb. If he was going to take command of the sloop, then Tottenhill would be in command of the
Charlemagne
. That should not bother him, but it did.

‘Sir,' he began, stopping Hopkins as the commodore was walking away. ‘Sir, one more thing. I was wondering … uh … do you, in your capacity as commodore, hypothetically speaking, have the authority to, say, move a second lieutenant up to first and a first down to second?'

‘Oh, for the love of God, Biddlecomb. Look here, the Naval Committee, in their infinite wisdom, have seen fit to make all the appointments for first and second lieutenants, and I ain't got the authority to change that. So if Tottenhill is giving you some problem, I suggest you deal with it yourself and don't prance around like some schoolgirl asking where babies come from!'

The commodore turned and walked away. Biddlecomb felt his face flush red. He had as much as admitted to his superior that he could not handle his officers, had crawled to Hopkins for help in solving his own shipboard problems. He had opened his mouth without thinking, something that he generally did not do, and he was experiencing the consequences that generally followed those times when he did. He cursed his stupidity under his breath and stomped off toward the gangway and the
Charlemagne
's gig waiting below.

The
Charlemagne
had the same powderkeg quality that the
Icarus
had had, right before he had led the men in mutiny. Biddlecomb knew that, had known it since the second time they had been frozen in the Delaware River, but stepping back aboard after the flagship's almost jovial atmosphere made his own company's discontent seem that much more acute.

But on board the
Icarus
the cause was so evident: a sadistic bosun and an inexperienced captain too weak to rein the men in, a captain who had completely lost control.

But the cause of the Charlemagnes' grievances he could not guess. Was it so far from the quarterdeck to the lower deck that he could not tell what was thus affecting the men? He had a sudden and terrible fear that to the men on the tween deck the problem was as clear as it had been to him aboard the
Icarus
, but like the captain of the
Icarus
he was blind to it. Biddlecomb's had always been happy ships; he had no experience in dealing with this situation.

A minute after stepping aboard he had his officers assembled on the quarterdeck. ‘As you may have guessed, we are not going to the Chesapeake,' he said. ‘Rather, we are going to Nassau.'

For the next ten minutes Biddlecomb related to the officers what he knew of Hopkins's plan and the part they would each play in it. ‘Mr Tottenhill, you will, of course, have command of the
Charlemagne
in my absence. As I think the chief of the work will be aboard the sloop, I would like to take Mr Rumstick with me, if you have no objection.'

‘None, sir,' said Tottenhill, and from his tone it was clear that he sincerely would not mind having Rumstick gone from the
Charlemagne
.

‘Mr Rumstick, is that all right?'

‘Fine, sir,' said Rumstick, equally sincere about his willingness to forgo serving under Tottenhill's command.

‘Excellent. Then I'll let you go to make your preparations,' Biddlecomb said.

The sun was half an hour from setting, a great red ball in the western sky, streaking the low clouds along the horizon with bands of red and orange, when the
Providence
and the two sloops began to win their anchors. Capt. Isaac Biddlecomb stood on the quarterdeck rail, holding on to the aftermost backstay for support and staring out at the
Charlemagne
two cables away. She was a beautiful sight, her lofty spars and oiled sides tinted red by the setting sun. From a distance she appeared to be as serene a vessel as one might find.

‘Short peak!' Ezra Rumstick called out from the sloop's bow, and Biddlecomb reminded himself that everyone would be better served if he were concentrating on the vessel he was supposed to be commanding. Particularly as the Bahamian sloop, with its shallow draft, huge gaff-headed mainsail, and diminutive jib, was unlike any vessel he had ever sailed before.

He turned his eyes inboard. The deck was jammed with men, sitting, standing, and milling about. The two hundred and twenty marines in the fleet, reinforced with fifty sailors gleaned from the various ships, were spread among the two sloops and the
Providence
, none of which were of any great size. Looking around the deck, Biddlecomb was reminded of the days on Narragansett Bay when he and Whipple had loaded their vessels with cattle and ferried them away to deprive the
Rose
of fresh meat.

The sloops had the universal quality of working boats, from the thick paint built up on their sides and the sloppy long splices in the running gear to the odd mixture of smells: sweat and fish and fried food and a nameless substance sloshing in the bilge.

As inconvenient as it was to the ship handlers, who had to elbow their way through the crowds of marines to get to halyards and sheets, human decency dictated that Biddlecomb allow the men to remain on deck until the last possible moment. But when they approached Nassau, he would have to order all of the marines down into the low hold, where the smells were considerably worse and would no doubt be augmented by the smells of the marines themselves, made sick by the odor and motion of the vessel.

‘There's the signal from the flag, sir,' said Ferguson, who was standing below and behind Biddlecomb at the sloop's big tiller. Biddlecomb looked over at the
Alfred
. The ensign was hauled halfway down the staff, fluttering in the light breeze, then hauled up again: the signal for the expeditionary force to get under way.