The Continental Risque (30 page)

‘A moment, sir. Weatherspoon' – he turned to the midshipman, who had just appeared on the rampart – ‘get five of our men together, pistols and cutlasses, and fetch a lantern along. Captain Nicholas, I am going to see what that is out there in the surf. You, sir' – he turned to Brown – ‘will accompany me.'

Four minutes later Isaac stepped from the ladder onto the hard ground surrounding the fort. He led his little troop toward the water, Weatherspoon on his right side, Brown on his left. The hard-packed dirt yielded to soft sand as they made their way toward the edge of the harbor. The water lapped gently at the beach, surging over the sand and retreating again, and into this water he walked, the better part of a lifetime at sea making him quite immune to the discomfort of wet shoes and stockings.

‘Bring that lantern up here,' he said, never taking his eyes from the flotsam, and a sailor stepped up to his side, holding the lantern over his head.

It was lumber. A great quantity of lumber floating in the harbor and pushing up against the sand of the beach. Long pieces of fresh-cut wood, shining in the lantern light the color of bleached bone.

‘Fetch one of those boards out,' he ordered. ‘There, the long one.' Two sailors splashed out into the warm Caribbean water, lifted the fresh-cut piece of wood, and brought it ashore.

‘Okay, now break it in two. Put it across that rock there.' The men placed it like a seesaw over a rock. Three stood on one end and three climbed up on the other, and with a great rending crack – a sound that invariably set Biddlecomb's teeth on edge as it so often signaled disaster on shipboard – it broke.

He stepped up to the jagged, broken edge, motioning for the lantern to be brought closer. The men crowded around, peering over his shoulder, though to the best of his knowledge they had not a clue as to what he was looking for.

‘It's dry inside.' Biddlecomb turned to President Brown. ‘It's not been floating long. What do you make of this?'

Brown shrugged and shook his head, clearly hoping to look innocent and failing. ‘I do not know.'

Biddlecomb looked down at the broken plank and then out at the dozens and dozens of others floating in the water. Such perfectly good lumber, drifting away. It put him in mind of those few times he had been forced to jettison valuable stores to lighten his vessel to aid in escape.

He stood up quickly. Jettisoned cargo. It had to be jettisoned cargo, what else could it be? What else would explain so much lumber floating in the harbor? A board or two might be dropped in the water by accident, but not this many, and these were only the ones that he could see.

They were floating down harbor, bound for sea, so they came no doubt from a vessel anchored within. Why would a ship at anchor in a safe harbor jettison a valuable cargo?

‘Oh, damn me to hell,' Biddlecomb whispered as a possible answer came to him. ‘Weatherspoon' – he turned to the midshipman—' and you men, take the jolly boat and get out to the flagship. If Hopkins is asleep, wake him, and … no, belay that. There's no time.' The commodore might well ask for more proof before getting under way, and in the interim lose the stores. But he could order the
Charlemagne
under way with no questions asked.

‘Go straight for the
Charlemagne
. Tell Tottenhill I suspect that the island's military stores are being loaded onto a ship with the intention of taking them off the island.' The only reason that he could think of for a ship at anchor to jettison a cargo was to quickly make room for another.

He turned and looked at the wood drifting out of the harbor. The tide was ebbing and the breeze was easterly, as usual. ‘They'll make for the western end of the harbor.' He considered going himself, taking command of the
Charlemagne
, but his place was here, where Hopkins had ordered him. As it was, he was taking great liberties sending the
Charlemagne
off without the commodore's permission.

‘Tell Tottenhill to just slip the cable and go, try to cut them off. Then tell Hopkins what I suspect. Tell him we must seal off the harbor, stop them from taking the military stores off the island. That is,' he added, turning to Brown, ‘what you are intending to do, is it not?'

‘Believe me, sir, I am as betrayed by this as you. I tried to warn you about the governor. He is a treacherous man. Had you arrested him today, you would not have this problem now.'

‘Well, sir, for your sake, and the sake of this island, let us hope that my men are able to intercept those stores before they leave the harbor.' Biddlecomb's hand reached automatically for the hilt of his sword, and he alternately clenched and unclenched the brass-bound handle. He was at once furious and consumed with anxiety. Their entire
raison d'être
was to fetch military stores, and now those stores were being whisked away.

In the wake of Biddlecomb's genuine anger, President Brown chose to remain silent.

Stupid bastard, Rumstick thought. He leaned against the larboard rail of the quarterdeck and glared at Tottenhill's back as the first officer stared out into the night. It had been like that all day, a sort of informal standoff, since he had first reported back aboard.

He had come on deck just as Biddlecomb's sloop had won its anchor, heading off for the invasion, and he found men sitting, actually sitting, and doing nothing constructive that he could see.

Tottenhill had said merely that there was nothing for them to do, an absurd contention, for there was always something to do. But for every suggestion that Rumstick made, as deferentially as he was able, Tottenhill had some reason that it could not be done. They at last settled on chipping rust from round shot, the least useful thing that Rumstick could think of, and so the men sat and banged away at six-pound cannonballs.

Tottenhill had never been a bad officer, never backward in his duty that Rumstick had seen, merely an intolerable bore. This stubbornness and coddling of the men was something new, inexplicable, and in Rumstick's opinion, dangerous. The first officer seemed to resist any suggestion that Rumstick made, merely because he had made it.

‘Hackett,' Ezra called down to the waist. On that warm night nearly all of the hands were topside, but Hackett's watch was officially on deck, and Hackett seemed to be making himself comfortable, too comfortable by half. ‘Hackett, nip aloft and bust the bunt of that fore t'gan'sl up on the yard and snug up the gasket. It's hanging there like a dead man.'

Hackett stood and looked aloft and then looked aft at Rumstick. ‘That's boy's work. Able-bodied seamen don't work above the topsail yard.'

Rumstick was silent for a long second, taken utterly aback by this statement. He felt his eyes go wide and his fists clench up. ‘Able-bodied seamen work wherever in hell I tell them to work, you son of a whore! Get over here, I'm going to rip your fucking lungs out!' he said, his voice starting at a conversational level and building to a roar as he took one step toward Hackett, then another and another.

He was at the quarterdeck ladder, starting to move fast, when Hackett, seeing the probability of serious bodily injury, flung himself into the rig and raced aloft. Rumstick heard snickers from various quarters of the deck, and muttering from others.

‘You are a lieutenant, Rumstick, need I remind you?' Tottenhill spoke for the first time in an hour.

‘I am aware of my rank, Mr Tottenhill,' Rumstick replied, watching Hackett clamber over the futtock shrouds and on to the foretop.

‘Then pray act like it, and not like you were still a bosun or some other rogue. It is not your position to threaten the men with a beating. If you cannot get them to obey your orders through the force of your authority, then you have no business being an officer. The quarterdeck is a place for gentlemen.'

‘Is that a fact? Well, I don't know much in the gentleman line, so pray, enlighten me. You reckon I should just let Hackett get away with whatever he might please? Or should I have him flogged like you done?'

‘Your manner of speaking, sir, is inappropriate, both to your inferiors and your superiors.'

‘Don't you come it the superior with me. You might have got some patron in the Congress to appoint you first officer on this bucket, but we're in the same gunroom here.'

‘Why did you pick on Hackett just now?' Tottenhill asked, stepping across the quarterdeck to face Rumstick.

‘Because Hackett's a lazy, mouthy son of a bitch of a sea lawyer, and I can see he's poisoning the crew.'

‘And not because he's from North Carolina?'

‘North Carolina? What in hell does that have to do with it?'

‘I have observed how you and Biddlecomb give preference to the Yankees in the crew, how you slight those of us from the South. I am perfectly aware of how you undermine my authority, how you pick on the men that I brought with me, and I am quite tired of it. Yes, I am aware of your little Yankee cabal. I have no doubt that this conversation shall be related to Biddlecomb as soon as he is back aboard.'

‘For one thing,' said Rumstick, now equally confused and angry, ‘it's
Captain
Biddlecomb. For another, what's said in the gunroom stays in the gunroom, I don't tell tales in the great cabin. And if you think any of this has to do with what state you are from … good God, you are as dense as the rudderpost! Don't you see what's happening here? God knows we've all tried to work with you, but you are the most intolerable, long-winded …'

‘Long-winded? Long-winded, is it? You've never tried to work with me, you or Biddlecomb, your Yankee cabal.' Tottenhill was building momentum; Rumstick had the impression that he was venting some long-held frustration. ‘Biddlecomb passes me right by, the first officer. Never has me to the great cabin—'

‘He can't endure having you around! Don't you see that? Oh, it might be nice to think that Biddlecomb and me don't like Southerners, isn't that easy,' Rumstick said, venting some frustrations of his own. ‘But it's you we can't stand, can't you see that? You're intolerable. And now you're off on this mad idea about us picking on North Carolina men, and standing up for that son of a whore Hackett, who's playing you like a goddamned flute. My God, sir, but you are a blockhead!'

Tottenhill reared back, a look of horror on his face. ‘Blockhead? Did you call me a blockhead? A superior officer?'

‘Yes, I did, damn your eyes.' Rumstick could feel himself going, loosing his grip on whatever it was that kept him from plunging into the abyss of uncontrolled fury. He hated it when this happened – it had nearly gotten him killed on several occasions – but beyond a certain point he could not stop himself.

‘You prance around here like some French dancing master,' Rumstick continued, louder, his control slipping more and more, ‘finding plots and undermining the captain's authority. I've had about all I can take, I tell you. I ain't in the habit of taking orders from someone I got no respect for.'

‘Well, you had best get in the habit!' Tottenhill hissed through clenched teeth. ‘And as of now you are relieved of your duty, sir. You may go below. In fact, I order you below.'

‘You order me below, do you?' Rumstick growled, their entire conversation being carried out in low, menacing tones. ‘Well, listen here, Mr Gentleman Lieutenant, if you're so worried about me being a gentleman, then why don't you show me how it's done? Why don't you and me go over to that little island yonder and settle this whole thing like gentlemen?'

Tottenhill glanced over at the island, a part of the little archipelago thrown out west of Rose Island, a dark hump on the dark sea, no more than a cable length away. He looked back at Rumstick, his face set in a scowl, and then back at the island.

‘Unless you're afraid,' Rumstick said, though he knew that Tottenhill was not. His anger and disgust with the man did not so blur his vision that he would unfairly assign cowardice to the lieutenant. He said the words to manipulate Tottenhill into a fight, and as he said them, he thought of himself as an unsubtle version of Isaac Biddlecomb.

‘I am not afraid, you bastard, but I have my duty. I am not to leave the ship.' Tottenhill was clearly torn between what he wanted to do, which was stick a sword in Rumstick, and what he knew he must do, which was to stay with his command.

Rumstick understood that conflict, for he felt it as well, and even as he pushed Tottenhill into satisfying honor, he wondered if it was such a good idea. But it was too late for such considerations. The blood was up now.

‘Come on, you son of a whore,' Rumstick said, just above a whisper. ‘We can't go on like this, we got to settle it some time. Might as well be now. And it ain't like you're doing anything but sitting on your arse.'

‘Very well. Mr Sprout,' Tottenhill called forward, ‘please bring the jolly boat around.'

Ten minutes later the small boat ground up on the sandy beach and the two men at the oars – Rumstick on the larboard and Tottenhill on starboard – laid the oars down on the thwarts and jumped into the shallow water. Without a word they pulled the boat up on the sand, then moved twenty feet up the beach, turned, and drew their swords.

The sound of steel grating on steel as the weapons left their scabbards seemed loud to Rumstick on the quiet evening. There was enough of a moon for him to see his adversary quite distinctly. He removed his coat, as had Tottenhill, his white shirt like a ghost against the dark background. The silver blade of his sword stood out against the low, dense foliage of the island.

Rumstick felt a tightening of his muscles, a general tensing. It was not fear, really, not as Rumstick understood fear, but more of a heightened awareness. He had no notion of how good a swordsman Tottenhill was, and it did occur to him that he might be killed in the next few moments, but the thought was more academic, an interesting concept to ponder when he had time.