The Continental Risque (6 page)

‘Aye, aye, Captain,' Virginia said with a smile, and a playful tone that made Biddlecomb even more angry.

‘Hands to braces!' he called forward, turning to matters of more immediate concern.

The
Glasgow
was coming up, coming much faster than he had realized, and he wondered if he had hung on to the sea-anchor a bit too long. If he had, there was nothing for it now. The frigate's bow chaser roared out again, but Biddlecomb knew from hard experience that the closer the frigate came, the less likely it was that her bow chasers would bear, aimed, as they were, at an angle away from the frigate's centerline.

The
Charlemagne
flew past the gaping entrance of Flushing Bay to the south, past the Two Brothers to the north. Buchannan's Island was broad on the starboard bow, on the larboard was the wooded area known as the Pinfolds, and beyond the bowsprit, less than half a mile away, was the entrance to Hell Gate. From where he stood it did not even look like a channel, appearing more like a narrow inlet, but that was only because the far end of the passage was hidden by the dogleg. It was time to issue orders.

Biddlecomb stepped up to the break of the quarterdeck. ‘Listen up, you men!' he shouted, and all heads turned aft. ‘Sail trimmers, stand by sheets and halyards. On my order I want you to let 'em fly, just cast them off, you hear? Gun crews man the starboard battery, get ready to fire on my command. Mr Sprout, please lay aft. Carry on.'

A buzz of speculation ran fore and aft, but the men moved to their stations and Biddlecomb was satisfied that they understood and would carry out their duties. With a quick word to the bosun he explained what he wanted and sent him forward to attend to it. Biddlecomb then stepped over and said, ‘I'll take the conn now, William.' He could not help smiling, a smile that was equal parts conspiratorial and filial.

‘Aye,' Stanton said, smiling as well, then in a loud voice announced, ‘Captain has the conn!'

‘Now … Virginia, will you get the hell below?' Biddlecomb shouted, noticing that she had moved to the break of the quarterdeck and stopped. ‘William, will you see her below?'

‘Aye,' Stanton said with a look of resignation on his face, ‘I'll try.'

Biddlecomb stood by the helmsmen, feet at shoulder width, hands clasped behind his back, and watched the mouth of the Harlem River opening up to starboard and the entrance to Hell Gate gaping before them. Even from there he could see the confused, swirling chop of that treacherous spot of water near the tip of Hallet's Point known as the Pott.

He looked aft. The
Glasgow
was no more than one hundred yards astern, charging down like an enraged bull, overwhelming, great guns thrust from her side. Maltby, if it was Maltby still in command, intended no doubt to hang on the
Charlemagne
's heels through Hell Gate and then beat them to flotsam in the wider part of the East River beyond, destroy them under the eyes of the citizens of New York. And that was fine; he could intend whatever he pleased.

Biddlecomb swiveled around. The shoreline was close by, to north and south, and under his keel all of the water of Long Island Sound was funneling through the narrow hose of the East River and screaming into the nozzle of Hell Gate. This was the moment.

‘Helm hard a-port! Put your helm hard a-port!' he shouted at the helmsmen, though they were less than five feet away. The two men at the tiller could not have been more surprised by the command, but they were experienced seamen, and though their eyes went wide, they pushed the long tiller over.

The
Charlemagne
heeled hard as she slewed round, turning broadside to the wind, broadside to the frigate tearing down on them. ‘Sail trimmers, let fly! Let it all go! Larboard battery, fire as you bear!'

Overhead, topgallants and topsails came flogging down, the perfect symmetry and power of the sails collapsing in a loud, banging confusion. The
Charlemagne
continued to turn, and now the frigate was right on their beam, fifty yards away. The American brig swung up into the wind until her bow was facing the bow of the oncoming frigate.

‘Midships!' Biddlecomb shouted, and the helmsmen pulled the tiller in and the
Charlemagne
came to stop, her bowsprit pointing upriver, the
Glasgow
's jibboom just overlapping her own as the frigate passed down their side. ‘Mr Sprout, let go!' Biddlecomb shouted and the bosun let fly the ring stopper and the anchor plunged into the East River. The heavy cable paid out through the hawse pipe as the brig gathered sternway.

The forwardmost gun on the larboard side banged out as the
Glasgow
hurtled down on them, passing less than twenty yards away on their larboard side. The calm of the frigate's quarterdeck was gone; now men, officers and seamen, were rushing around in pandemonium. The captain alone seemed undisturbed, standing by the starboard rail of the quarterdeck, a covey of midshipmen off to one side. He did not look like Maltby, but a man taller and thinner.

The
Charlemagne
fired, again and again down the line, and the gun crews flung themselves to reloading, hoping to get off a second shot in the few seconds that the two ships would be broadside to broadside.

And then the
Glasgow
fired, one gun after another as she passed the now anchored
Charlemagne
, the whistling, screeching shot from her long nine-pounders tearing up the shrouds and ripping chunks from the masts and bulwarks. They were firing chain shot, chain over round shot, and it was ripping standing and running rigging alike. At least one of the Charlemagnes lay dead, his blood pooling on the deck. But the brig's anchor was holding fast, and the current had the frigate and was sweeping her past, sweeping her into Hell Gate, and they could do nothing to stop it.

Gun for gun the
Charlemagne
and the
Glasgow
pounded away at each other as the British man-of-war flew past. Biddlecomb could see chunks of wood flying through the smoke, and he knew that the Charlemagnes were having some effect. But it was the current that would save them, if they were to be saved. He could see a gang of men on the frigate's bow struggling with the best bower, and he smiled to himself. It was too late. They would not get that anchor down in time to stop themselves.

He heard a pistol shot close by, then another and another. William Stanton and Virginia and John Adams were at the quarterdeck rail, searching out targets through the smoke. An officer hung dead in the
Glasgow
's shrouds, his arm and leg tangled in the ratlines. ‘Virginia, goddamn it, get below!' Biddlecomb screamed, wondering if Virginia had killed the man. Her face was as expressionless as her father's as she spit a ball down the barrel, cocked the lock, searched out a target, aimed, and fired again. Only Adams still wore his idiotic grin.

‘Virginia, son of a—' Biddlecomb shouted, but she was ignoring him and he did not have time to dedicate to this problem.

And then the
Glasgow
was past, her quarter galley sweeping by at Biddlecomb's eye level, swinging away from him. She was turning, coming up into the wind, her captain trying to check her forward motion before she was pulled into the grip of Hell Gate. Biddlecomb could not believe his luck, or the poor judgment of the
Glasgow
's captain. It was the most foolish thing that he could do.

The
Glasgow
heeled hard over, turning up into the wind, just as the
Charlemagne
had. She was careening sideways into the narrow part of the river, her sails coming full aback, studdingsails collapsing and flogging in a tangled and unholy mess. The frigate swept sideways into Hell Gate with greater and greater force as the current and the backed sails increased her sternway. She was completely beyond human control, completely at the mercy of wind and tide.

Thirty seconds later she went aground on Hallet's Point. She stopped, not the sudden, jarring stop of a ship hitting a rock, but a more gentle cessation of movement as she sank, rudder first, in the mud. The tall rig shuddered and swayed as the frigate came to rest, pinned against the bank by the tons of water that flooded through the Gate. It would likely be days before she would float again.

The
Charlemagne
was quiet, unnaturally quiet, though Biddlecomb realized that a part of that at least was the result of the broadsides impairing his hearing.

And then the entire brig exploded in cheers. Men leapt up and down and waved their hats over their heads and clapped each other on the back. Biddlecomb felt strong arms around him, Stanton pounding his shoulders, Adams clasping his hand and shaking it.

‘Marvelous, Biddlecomb, marvelous! Bravo, I say!' Adams was saying, and to Biddlecomb's dulled hearing his voice seemed a normal volume. ‘Now I should think we can get a landing party together and attack the frigate over land, maybe one thrust by land, do you see, and one from a boat. Shall we tell off the men? I'll be happy to take command of the shore party.'

‘A fine idea, Mr Adams,' Biddlecomb said, ‘but in the interest of republicanism I think we shall go to Philadelphia first, and there you can take up your plan with the full committee.' And before Adams could reply, he called for hands away aloft to set the sails to rights, and for Mr Sprout to rig the capstan.

Stephen Hopkins made his way toward the Philadelphia waterfront, leaning into the bitter autumn wind, assaulted by the leaves and the sand that swirled around the sidewalk bordering Chestnut Street. Windows set into the tall blocks of homes that lined the street cast their light on the walkway, revealing the patchwork of bricks amid the shadows.

The wind seemed to grow more tenacious with each block, coming off the river and tumbling down the street. Hopkins kept one gloved hand on the top of his wide-brimmed, black hat to prevent it from lifting off and flying away. The other he kept thrust deep into the pocket of his coat. It was November 5, and though it was not yet seven o'clock in the evening, the city was as dark as it would be at midnight.

He paused at a corner of Third and waited while a coach and four rattled past, a beautiful vehicle with two servants dressed in superb livery on the back and a driver hunched forward over the reins. It rolled past and the sound of the iron wheels was soon lost in the wind and Hopkins continued down toward the waterfront. He could smell it now: brine and fish and tar carried on the cold air. He turned on Water Street, that familiar corner, and paused for a moment, staring at the tavern across the street.

Through the small, distorted panes of glass he could see a crowd of men in the room downstairs, many of whom he recognized by now, though he did not associate with them. They were ship's captains and small-time merchants and shop owners who came to the tavern nightly to drink their rum and beer and forget the troubles that went with being ship's captains and small-time merchants. Like them, Hopkins came nightly to the tavern, but for reasons quite different.

His eyes moved up to the second floor, to the single window that looked out over Commerce Street. The window was open to defend against an overly zealous fireplace and the clay pipes on which even now the six men inside would be pulling away. Hopkins could hear a voice, John Adams's voice, over the muted din coming from the tavern downstairs.

Hopkins could not make out what the Boston lawyer was saying, he could only catch the odd word, but that was all that he needed to hear to know what Adams was talking about. He heard the words ‘Hell Gate' and the expression ‘—so I made it clear to—' and the rest was carried away by a gust of wind. Hopkins smiled to himself. He was happy to arrive late and miss hearing once again of Adams's adventures aboard the
Charlemagne
and how he, Adams, had been instrumental in their escape.

Hopkins continued to stare at the window, indulging himself in his private thoughts. For the past week, since its creation on the thirtieth of October, the Naval Committee had met there and plotted how they would, over all objections, create a navy for the United Colonies.

They were intelligent men, and dedicated: John Adams, Silas Deane, and John Langdon, the original committee of three who had drafted the plan to intercept the ordnance brigs. Christopher Gadsden of South Carolina, who many years before had served as an officer in the British navy and who was dedicated to the idea of sea power. Richard Henry Lee of Virginia, who always joined with the New Englanders in calling for the most radical action, and Joseph Hewes of North Carolina, who had broken with the Society of Friends, to which he and his family belonged, rather than endorse their denunciation of Congress.

The committee meetings had so far proven to be exciting and stimulating, the most enjoyable duty Hopkins had performed since coming to Philadelphia.

Dramatic things were happening concerning American naval power. A Committee to Headquarters, consisting of Benjamin Franklin, Benjamin Harrison, and Thomas Lynch had returned from a meeting with General Washington filled with enthusiasm for what the general was doing regarding the organization of the fleet.

A less charitable man than Hopkins might have said that the committee was unduly influenced by Washington's naming three of his ships the
Franklin
, the
Harrison
, and the
Lynch
, but still their enthusiasm for men-of-war infected the Congress as a whole. On the fifth of October it had taken Herculean effort to convince Congress just to arm two ships to go after the north country brigs. By the thirtieth of October they had happily authorized one hundred thousand dollars to form a fleet and had created the Naval Committee.

We few, Hopkins thought, we happy few, we band of brothers. He did not feel like a brother to those men. He was more than twenty years older than the next oldest man on the committee. He felt more like a father. He glanced down the dark street, then stepped over a dubious puddle at the curb and made for the tavern's front door.