The Continental Risque (42 page)

‘Beg your pardon, sir.' Weatherspoon appeared on the quarterdeck. In his arms was a bundle of clothes: shirt, stockings, waistcoat, and hat; under one arm were Biddlecomb's shoes and under the other his sword. ‘Beg pardon, I took the liberty …'

Biddlecomb had all but forgotten he was only partially dressed, which would never do for going into a fight. ‘Bless you, Mr Weatherspoon, whatever would I do without you?' he said as he pulled his coat off and pulled his shirt from Weatherspoon's arms, dressing quickly.

Last came the sword. He wrapped the belt around his waist and buckled it and adjusted the weapon with that familiar motion. He still found great pleasure in that act, a sense of strength and legitimacy. He was a naval commander, and all the humiliation he had suffered would not change that, nor would it erase those acomplishments of which he was justly proud.

‘What ship is that?' a voice came across the water, faint but clear. Had there been even two more knots of wind, it would not have been audible aboard the
Charlemagne
.

‘What ship is that?' the voice asked again. Biddlecomb had thought it was an officer from the
Cabot
, hailing the stranger, but he realized then that it was in fact the stranger, the frigate, hailing the American. And the American was making no reply.

It was quiet again as the big ship and the brig continued to close with each other. John Hopkins, in command of the
Cabot
, must have a good notion of what ship that was, Biddlecomb thought. From three hundred yards away he himself could see it fairly well now: the lofty masts, the steeply steeved bowsprit, the mainsail hauled up. Every bit of her suggested a man-of-war.

The
Cabot
and the unknown vessel were almost on top of each other, with the
Cabot
passing down the other's larboard side. Biddlecomb frowned as he watched the situation develop.
Cabot
was under the man-of-war's broadside now, an uncomfortable place to be.

‘What ships are in company with you?' the same voice called, and this time was answered from the
Cabot
.

‘The
Columbus
and the
Alfred
, a two-and-twenty-gun frigate!' and from the stranger's waist came a flash and an explosion, loud and brilliant, illuminating like a lightning flash the frigate's barely filled sails, the buff masts, and row of guns.

‘Good Lord!' Biddlecomb said out loud, quite taken by surprise. Someone from the
Cabot
's maintop must have thrown a hand grenadoe onto the frigate's deck.

‘Mr Weatherspoon,' he began, never taking his eyes from the combatants, then the frigate fired.

It was not a rippling broadside, not a ‘fire as you bear,' but every gun at once, every gun in the exact same instant. The
Cabot
, thirty yards from the frigate, was nearly blown away. She rolled with the impact, sails and rigging torn up and streaming in the concussion of the great guns, lit from behind by the wall of flames that shot from the frigate's long side and then died away, leaving in their wake darkness and the distant shouting, the screams of the wounded and a ringing in their ears.

The Charlemagnes in the waist were shouting, cursing and swearing at the awesome sight. Few there had seen a frigate fire a full broadside, and none had seen that spectacle at night. Memories of the night that the
Rose
had smashed the
Icarus
to splinters under his feet came rushing back. He pressed his lips together, hard. The darkness that was swept away and then in the next instant engulfed them again made it seem that much more horrible.

The
Cabot
was not dead. She was returning fire, pouring her six-pound shot into the frigate, but to what effect Biddlecomb could not tell. If the fight had been just the
Cabot
against the frigate, then the American would be done for. But it was not. It was the frigate against an American fleet; two ships and three heavy brigs.

‘Did you see that, sir?' Rumstick asked. He had just stepped aft from his position in the waist.

‘I did.'

‘You recognize that son of a whore?'

‘I did.' It had been too much to hope for. Indeed, he did not trust himself to believe it, but here was Rumstick confirming what he, in that brief instant of illumination, had thought he had seen. It was the
Glasgow
.

He smiled and looked at Rumstick, and Rumstick smiled as well.

Biddlecomb felt his hand move to the hilt of his sword. ‘We're in our own home waters, Ezra, and this time it is they who are outgunned. We're not running any longer.'

If there was one thing that Amos Hackett could recognize, with unparalleled insight, it was an opportunity to create havoc. And looking at the wide eyes around him now, the lips muttering shocked curses and the hands clasping and unclasping, he knew he was witnessing just such an opportunity.

‘There you go—' he began, then the
Glasgow
fired another broadside, as perfectly timed as the first, a solid wall of sound and flame. The
Cabot
sheered off from the frigate's side, a battered fighter stumbling away from an opponent. Parts of her rig, quite unidentifiable now, hung from her spars, and her own fire, pathetic from the first broadside, grew more sporadic.

‘There! That frigate'll do for us like she done for
Cabot
!' Hackett said in a loud whisper, conveying a panic that he did not actually feel.

‘Shut your gob, Hackett,' someone else whispered. It sounded like Ferguson. ‘
Alfred
's coming up, she'll do for them British.'

‘Oh,
Alfred
, is it? Rotten old merchantman. And anyway, that Biddlecomb'll want to throw us right at them. Ain't he the one craving glory now?'

‘I said stow it,' the voice came back, a growl like an angry dog's and this time Hackett obeyed. But the words had had an effect, he could see that in the men's faces. They were watching
Cabot
as she tried to get away from the murderous broadsides, but in their limited imaginations they were seeing the
Charlemagne
, a drifting and bloody wreck.

Hackett glanced back at the quarterdeck. There was Biddlecomb, standing there like the admiral of the ocean blue, staring forward at the fight.

He was a clever one, that Biddlecomb. He understood completely what he, Hackett, had done, the part he had played in the riot in New Providence, the general discontent. Once they landed, it would be just like Wilmington: the chains, the dark hold, the jail cell.

But this time there would be no navy to join. And even if Biddlecomb did not arrest him, there was always Woodberry. The son of a whore would stick a knife in him once he got the chance, and Woodberry would make certain that he got the chance.

There was only one way out, and it had to be done now. Biddlecomb had to be disgraced. He had to be cast down to where no accusation from him would ever carry any weight, where Tottenhill would be put in command. And Woodberry had to be killed. But that could be done in the confusion.

‘Hey, Allen,' Hackett whispered, loud enough for five gun crews to hear. ‘This is it, mate, we're done for. God speed.'

‘Shut it, Hackett,' someone else whispered. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘We're done for. Look at Biddlecomb there. He's gonna throw us right under the frigate's guns, get us all killed for the greater glory of himself. Well, I hate to die for that, but so be it.'

‘You shut your gob!' Ferguson hissed back, but it was too late. The murmuring had started, the sweet murmuring, the music of fear and discontent. Hackett hear it fore and aft, saw the men in heated discussion, the seminal act of a riot. He stared out of the gunport at the distant fight. His face was grave, in a deep frown, as he struggled to suppress a smile.

Biddlecomb was frowning as well, but his frown was entirely genuine. He was hardly aware of the existence of the
Charlemagne
, so focused was he on the fight with the
Glasgow
, which was taking place two hundred yards away. And that fight did not seem to be going well at all, at least not from the American perspective.

Cabot
was gravely hurt. She had tacked away, trying to get out from under the pounding of the frigate's broadside. Unfortunately she turned right into the
Andrew Doria
, forcing the other brig to tack to avoid a collision, and now the two of them were downwind and out of any sort of line of battle, all but knocked out of the fight.

The
Alfred
was alongside the
Glasgow
, and the two big ships were pounding away at each other, illuminating the night with their nearly constant gunfire. The great clouds of smoke that hung between them in the light air were shot through with red and orange muzzle flashes. The clouds swirled and danced with the concussion of the guns and grew more dense with each broadside. The pungent and familiar smell rolled down on the
Charlemagne
as she ghosted toward the battle.

The
Columbus
, the second most powerful ship in the fleet, was directly abeam of them and directly downwind. She had turned toward the fight and stopped, wallowing in the gentle rollers. Biddlecomb could see her sails hanging limp, lifeless, not a breath of wind stirring them. The ships and the firefight to windward had robbed her of whatever breeze might have propelled her broad and heavy-laden hull into the melee. He could well imagine Whipple stamping the quarterdeck in all but unbearable frustration.

The
Cabot
was knocked out. The
Andrew Doria
and the
Columbus
were downwind and would have trouble working their way up to the fight. The sloop
Providence
might join in, but she could do little. It was up to them.

Biddlecomb felt a surge of elation, the
berserker
waking from his slumber. They were no more than one hundred yards from the
Alfred
. It was time to fight back. It was time to take on a British frigate and pound them to splinters, just as he had been dreaming of for a year and more. It was time to join the fight against the
Glasgow
.

‘Mr Rumstick, Mr Tottenhill, we shall cross the bows of the two ships and engage the frigate on her starboard side,' Biddlecomb said. ‘Helmsman, make your head northeast by north.' That would allow the
Charlemagne
to keep clear of the other ships in the American fleet, which semed to be falling over one another, and get at the enemy's vulnerable bow.

‘Listen up, you men!' he shouted down into the waist. ‘It's our fight now! We'll heave to under their bow where we can blow them to hell! Gunners to the larboard battery!'

‘You'll have us under her broadside! She'll kill us all!' a voice shouted back from the dark. There was a rustling, a murmur from the waist.

Biddlecomb's mind had already moved on to the next problem when those words brought him up all standing. Had someone objected to his orders? This was their chance to capture a British frigate, it was right in their hands. He must have heard incorrectly.

‘Gunners to the larboard battery! Run out!' he shouted again. Something was thrown to the deck; it sounded like a rammer.

‘Look! She's doing for
Alfred
! We haven't got a chance!' another voice, a different voice, shouted out. Biddlecomb spared a glance over the bow.
Alfred
had turned away from the
Glasgow
, and the frigate was pouring shot into her exposed stern, creating God knew what kind of carnage aboard the flagship. The frigate must have shot the flag's helm away; it was the only explanation for her suicidal turn. She was taking a terrible beating and she could not strike back.

‘Load and run out! Sail trimmers to stations!' he shouted. It was not possible that his orders could be ignored, yet as far as he could see, with his vision impaired by the flashes of the guns, no one was moving to obey. He could hear voices shouting out protests, and others shouting them down, arguments brewing, and it all mixed with the sound of the cannonade to make a nightmarish cacophony.

‘We won't do it!' a voice called out, clear above the others. ‘We won't die so's you can be a hero!'

Hackett. That was Hackett. Biddlecomb could never mistake that voice, and in that instant he understood exactly what was going on in the waist. Hackett was working the men's fear, undoing all the good that taking the
Bolton
had done. Biddlecomb had been an idiot to think he could wait until landfall to deal with Hackett. Well, he would wait no longer.

‘Mr Faircloth, please place Hackett under arrest. I want him chained up below until this is done.'

‘You three,' Faircloth shouted at his marines, ‘place Hackett under arrest.'

This exchange was met with a howl of protest from half the men on deck, who took a belligerent step aft. All attention was focused on this drama, the
Glasgow
nearly forgotten.

‘Hackett, God damn your eyes!' This was Tottenhill now, leaning over the quarterdeck rail and shouting. ‘Get back to your duty! What are you about? We have a battle to fight! You are a North Carolina man, I will not have you disgrace your home this way!'

‘Mr Tottenhill!' Hackett shouted, his tone a pathetic appeal. ‘Don't let them Yankees arrest me! You've always been on my side of things, don't let that whore's son do this!'

‘What in hell does that mean?' Rumstick asked Tottenhill. There was more accusation than query in his voice, but Tottenhill ignored him.

‘Damn you, we are fighting a common enemy here!' Tottenhill shouted back at Hackett. ‘Get …'

Faircloth's marines were down on the waist pushing men aside to get at Hackett and were in turn being shoved back. The shouting was general now, men screaming at each other, faces pressed close. Woodberry took hold of Allen's queue and yanked him aside, kicking him to the deck, then grabbed Hackett around the neck. ‘Ignore the captain's orders, will you?' he shouted, and then three of Hackett's men were on him, pulling him off, pounding him with fists and belaying pins.