For the second time that night, Isaac Biddlecomb found himself hurrying down the length of the long wharf at the head of a band of armed men. For the second time, he was desperately anxious, and wanted nothing more than to break into a run. But once again he restrained himself, keeping his pace to something quick but dignified.
It is not possible, it is simply not possible, Biddlecomb thought as he hurried through the dark, his shoes and those of the marines and the men of Falmouth behind him loud on the half-frozen wood. Somers’s militia, unsurprisingly, had elected to stay behind and tend to the wounded and the prisoners.
There is no way that bastard slipped away from the fight. Or if he did, he could not have enough men with him to hold the ship. But even as he thought it, he knew it was not true. Barnett was a sneaky and clever son of a bitch; Biddlecomb had admitted as much to himself earlier. He might very well have pulled off something like that. And if he did, he would not need an awful lot of men to defend the ship. That was already well established.
One hundred yards away and Biddlecomb could see he had not been mistaken: there was indeed a lantern, and it was on the frigate’s quarterdeck. It was sitting on the rail now, casting its light over the ship’s side and down onto the mizzen channel. The rest of the ship was lost in darkness. If there was anyone onboard, Biddlecomb could not see them. But he was quite certain they had not left a lighted lantern behind, which meant someone had put it there since.
He slowed a bit as they came closer, and Rumstick to his left and Faircloth to his right did as well.
“See anything?” Biddlecomb asked the others.
“No one aboard that I can see, Captain,” Rumstick said.
Then the air was split with a long blast of flame, the concussion of a musket fired from the darkness at the after end of the quarterdeck. The flash illuminated the figure holding the weapon, but he appeared as nothing more than a dark shape behind the flash of light. Biddlecomb jumped in surprise, despite himself.
“Son of a bitch!” Rumstick said, loud and angry. He, too, had been startled, apparently, and he did not care for it.
“Captain Biddlecomb!” a voice called from the ship’s deck, an unmistakable voice, gravely and mocking. Barnett’s voice. “That would be close enough, sir.”
Biddlecomb stopped and the rest of the men stopped as well. “Cleverly done, Barnett,” Biddlecomb called. “But I don’t see how you’ll keep hold of the ship by yourself. Your men are prisoners, and we have Mr. Rumstick and his men back now. And the militia are with us.”
“Oh, I’m hardly alone, Captain,” Barnett called back. “How many of my men did you take prisoner? Twenty, maybe? You know damned well I have more than that. A lot more. And they’re here with me now. Ain’t that right, boys?”
Barnett’s words were greeted with a chorus of shouts and hoots and calls of, “That’s right, colonel!” Men unseen, hidden by the dark and the ship’s rail. It was impossible to gauge exactly how many there were, but it was not an insignificant number. Two dozen at least, by the sound of it.
Damn it… Biddlecomb thought.
“You know what’s so funny about all this, Captain?” Barnett called out.
“Don’t know, Barnett,” Biddlecomb said. “And I don’t much care.”
“Funny thing is,” Barnett continued as if Biddlecomb had not spoken. “I actually thought about starting a fight myself, for just this reason. Thought if I could start something up, why, you’d be sure to leave the ship and join in. And then I could take half my men or so, the half I trust, anyway, and slip away during the commotion, and there…the ship’s mine. But I didn’t think it would work! I didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to leave the ship, even if the guns were firing away. Fool that I am. Lucky, though, ‘cause I had it all set up. Had the boats ready so we could row around the far side of the ship, board her from the water. Had the men ready. I just didn’t reckon on you being so cooperative.”
Barnett was enjoying this, Biddlecomb could hear it in his voice. He had no doubt been rehearsing this little speech from the moment he took possession of the ship. He would want to make the point as sharp as he could, then really drive it home.
Now what? Biddlecomb wondered. If Barnett’s soliloquy had given him his moment to think, and it had not helped. Nothing had come to him.
“Captain, if I may,” Faircloth said, speaking softly. “Let’s just charge the ship, right now. We have the men here and under arms. We can attack along the whole length of the ship at once, climb aboard and overwhelm them.”
Biddlecomb was silent for a moment, considering that. In fact, he had been considering it even before Faircloth spoke. The problem was that there were not so many places where a man could climb aboard. Up the boarding steps, of course, and over the fore and main channels, but that was about it. He pictured the men trying to climb aboard by those routes in the face of Barnett’s muskets.
Then, as if he could hear the debate in Biddlecomb’s head, as if he wished to reinforce Biddlecomb’s doubts, Barnett spoke again. “Say, Captain, I got to say I was surprised at how many damned muskets you have onboard here! Of course, each of my men had a musket when we took the ship, and most got pistols, but damn me, if we didn’t find enough firelocks so’s to give two to each man. And with bayonets! Why don’t you send your men up over the side, and we’ll show you?”
Biddlecomb clenched his teeth and pressed his lips together. Barnett was not lying. Faircloth had seen to it that there were spare weapons for his men, and even more had been put aboard when Falmouth was launched, before Biddlecomb had even taken command. There were plenty of firelocks there, and that meant each of Barnett’s men likely had two loaded weapons, at least, not counting their pistols.
“We can’t attack the ship,” Biddlecomb said to Faircloth. “Not now. It would be a bloody slaughter. That’s why Barnett never attacked us before.”
Faircloth frowned. He looked over at the ship and then back at Biddlecomb.
“Perhaps if we can find some boats,” Biddlecomb continued, “launch an attack on both sides at once, but not now.” He waited for the marine to make some protest but none came. Even Faircloth could see how unlikely they were to succeed.
Biddlecomb turned and faced the ship. “So, what do you want, Barnett?” he called out.
“Not a damned thing, Captain!” Barnett called back. “I got what I want! I got the ship. And once I see what we got onboard here, well, I’ll take that, too.”
“You’re going to be disappointed, I fear,” Biddlecomb said. “There’s some ropes and some sails and some salt pork, and that’s about it.” And that was true, mostly. There were also some Continental bills, courtesy of the Congress, which were not worth much, and some Spanish gold, courtesy of William Stanton, which was worth considerably more, but Biddlecomb suspected that was all in Barnett’s pocket by now.
“I reckon there’s plenty you ain’t telling me about,” Barnett said. “But I got plenty of time to look things over, don’t you worry.”
“This is ridiculous, bloody, damned ridiculous,” Biddlecomb said, just loud enough for Rumstick and Faircloth to hear, and no one else.
“It is that,” Rumstick said.
“Listen here, Barnett!” Biddlecomb called. “You’ve put yourself in a trap, you damned idiot! You’re on the ship but you have no way off, and you’re dead men if you try!”
The same trap we were in, Biddlecomb thought.
“I reckon not!” Barnett shouted back. “We got boats, you see, which you didn’t. And we got a damned lot of firelocks, and men who know the use of them. And you got what? The brave Gloucester County Militia? Ha!”
Biddlecomb wanted to shout in frustration, he wanted to fling curses at Barnett, he wanted to personally climb up the side of the ship and wring the man’s filthy neck. But instead, he clenched his teeth even harder and squeezed his fists until the rage passed. Mostly.
“This is pointless,” he said to Faircloth and Rumstick. “The son of a bitch is enjoying this. Let’s be off.”
“Just leave?” Rumstick asked.
“Yes,” Biddlecomb said. “I feel no need to bid the man good night.”
He turned and headed back up the wharf and heard the sound of the others following behind.
“You ain’t leaving me, are you, Captain?” he heard Barnett call out. “Now, don’t go away mad like that!”
He tried to ignore the taunts, tried to make his mind settle, to work through this problem in a methodical way, to reach some reasonable plan. But it was no use. His thoughts were nothing more than a jumble of rage and confusion and uncertainty, self-recrimination, and blame heaped on himself and anyone else he could think to blame.
Somers and Mitnick met them at the landward end of the wharf. The area was much better lit now, with a number of lanterns having appeared and the fires in the fire pits stoked up until they were several feet high.
The militiamen were going through the pine robbers’ tents, looking for war matériel or documents of some importance, Somers explained. Of course, the largely illiterate banditti were unlikely to have many documents in their possession, nor would such outlaws generally be hiding military secrets. In truth, the militiamen were simply looting.
“What of the ship, Captain?” Somers asked, happy to change the subject.
“Barnett has the ship,” Biddlecomb said, his words clipped and short. He wanted to make it very clear he did not wish to discuss the situation. “I’ll thank you to post some men here on the wharf to keep a watch, but I don’t reckon Barnett or any of them will be going anywhere tonight.”
Why would they? he thought. They’re exactly where they want to be.
“Ah…very well, Captain,” Somers said. Biddlecomb braced for some argument, but none came. He suspected that the militia’s late arrival to the fight, along with Somers’ tacit permission for his men to loot the camp, and likely to loot the prisoners and the dead and wounded as well, was making the colonel a little less eager to protest.
“Where are the wounded?” Biddlecomb asked next. “And the dead? Were any of my men among the dead?” It was a dereliction, he knew, that he was only asking that now, but Barnett’s coup had driven all other thought from his mind.
“No, Captain,” Mitnick said. “None of yours among the dead. Three men wounded. They’re in the church. Pray, come with me.” He led them across the open ground and up the road a hundred yards to the small church with its short bell tower. Inside, a dozen lanterns and candles in sconces illuminated the space with a soft yellow light. Wounded men had been stretched out in the box pews, with armed militia standing near those that housed banditti, at least those banditti still able to cause trouble.
The three wounded among the men of Falmouth were housed in a single pew. Woodbury had taken a nasty cut to the arm, which someone had done a tolerable job of bandaging. Ephraim Kirby, who had been with Rumstick, had been shot through the lungs, and it was pretty clear from the blood and from the pallor of his skin that he would not be suffering long. A marine named Willard Lot had been stabbed in the leg and shot through the arm but he seemed hale enough.
Biddlecomb spent some time with each of them, and then it was time to go. “Woodberry, do you have strength enough to come with us?” he asked.
“Aye, sir,” Woodberry said.
“Good. Lot, I think you had best stay here, what with that leg wound,” Biddlecomb said. “They seem to be taking good care of you. We’ll be by for you in the morning. No cause to move Kirby, I think.”
Biddlecomb turned to Mitnick. “My men and I will be at the tavern,” he said. “And we’ll see this whole mess straight, come morning.” He nodded his good nights and headed off without another word. He did not think he had to strength to say another word.
They walked in silence down the frozen road; Biddlecomb, Rumstick, Faircloth, and the thirty or so men of Falmouth. Less than a quarter of the men they would need to sail the ship. If they even had possession of the ship, which they did not.
They came at last to the tavern, which was dark now, quite unlike the last time Biddlecomb had been there, when the place had been lit up with the pine robbers’ revelry.
“Please, sir, allow me to deal with this villain of a tavern keeper,” Faircloth said as they walked past the gate with its pineapple finials and up the path to the door.
“If you wish,” Biddlecomb said, but he was glad for the offer. Speaking to anyone was about the last thing he wished to do just then, and speaking civilly was even less appealing.
Faircloth knocked on the door, then knocked again and then shouted and knocked again, and finally, the door opened to reveal the tavern keeper in his nightshirt, blunderbuss in hand, and his wife behind him holding a lantern aloft.
“We’ll need lodging for the night,” Faircloth said, pushing his way in past the man and his lady. “Beds for thirty-eight, and we’ll need refreshment before we turn in. Ale, meat, cheese.” He spoke with that presumption of superiority and expectation of prompt and obsequious service that only a man of Faircloth’s station could pull off. And the tavern keeper and his wife responded just as Faircloth expected them too, turning out the servants and the cook and seeing all in readiness to make the Falmouths as comfortable as they could be.
Biddlecomb remained below stairs long enough to see that his men were indeed properly fed and given drink and provided with beds for the night, with Boatswain Sprout and Sergeant Dawes to see that no one got out of hand or took advantage of the near-presence of great stores of alcohol. That done, he told the innkeeper to show him to whatever room he had available.
Lantern in hand, the innkeeper led the way up one narrow flight of stairs and then up another to the third floor. “Ain’t a large room, sir, but it’s private and the best private room we got,” the man explained as he huffed up the steps. “All the quality who stay here, they take this room.”
All the quality… Biddlecomb mused. He could just imagine the quality who passed that way.
They reached the third floor at last and the innkeeper opened the door. It was indeed a small room, but a fire had been stoked up in the fireplace, which took the chill from the air, and it seemed to be reasonably clean and there was a bed that looked tolerably comfortable. It was everything Biddlecomb dreamed it might be.
“Thank you,” Biddlecomb said and the innkeeper nodded and said his goodnights and left, closing the door behind him. Biddlecomb stood for a moment, looking into the flames of the fire. Then he took his off overcoat, heavy with the weight of the pistols in the pockets, and hung it on a hook, then his sword belt and his waistcoat and breeches, and climbed gratefully into bed.
The storm in his head had not abated, the anger and self-recrimination.
Now what in all hell do I do? he wondered as he lay with eyes open, watching the light from the fire dancing across the ceiling. He had no idea how he would get his ship back. He did know, however, that he would have all night to think on it. Sleep would not come anytime soon, he was sure of that. And even as those thoughts were still roiling in his head, he fell into a deep and dreamless slumber.
It was daylight when he woke to the sound of a fist pounding on his door. But it was not a fist at first, it was, in his dream, a loose plank on a boat that was banging each time the bow slammed down on a wave. He moved forward over the thwarts, trying to reach the plank and hold it in place so it would stop its slamming around, but every time he moved, a wave made the boat pitch and tossed him back again.
And then he was awake and the boat was gone and the fist was still pounding.
“Come!” he shouted and the door swung open and Ezra Rumstick came barging in. “Captain, you awake?” he asked. Biddlecomb looked at him. He did not bother to reply.
“Well, here’s what’s acting,” Rumstick continued, ignoring Biddlecomb’s irritated expression. “Got word at first light from down at the harbor that there were some ships standing in. More than one. So I sent Ferguson down to see what he could see. And he just got back and said there were three ships. One is a small man-of-war by the looks of her. Continental colors. The other’s a brig, merchantman, mostly likely. And the third’s a sloop. And Ferguson says he can’t say for certain, but he’s got a pretty good idea that the sloop is Sparrowhawk.”