Great Egg Harbor looked just as Angus McGinty remembered it. Just as miserable and bleak and unwelcoming as he remembered. He was not pleased to see it again.
It had been a long sail north, with baffling and contrary winds, and sometimes no wind at all. Once, they had spotted a half dozen sails on the horizon and altered course to the east, standing out to sea to avoid what in all probability was a powerful British squadron. One of the ships from that small, unidentified fleet had broken off and come sniffing after them, but after a tense twelve hours, it gave up the chase and returned to the rest, leaving Oliver Cromwell, Sparrowhawk, and Hopefleet unmolested but many miles off course.
In the end, what should have been a two- or three-day passage consumed a tedious thirteen days, almost two weeks of some of the most unpleasant time McGinty had ever endured. Captain Timothy Parker of Oliver Cromwell, the dog, seemed not to trust him, despite the utter sincerity with which he presented himself. Because of this mistrust, Parker did not allow McGinty to return to Sparrowhawk but rather insisted that he sail as a “guest” aboard the Cromwell.
To that end, the boatswain and the carpenter were turned out of the tiny cabin they shared and McGinty moved in, earning McGinty the warrant officers’ blatant enmity. Worse, he was made to share the space with Captain James Finch, late of the ordnance brig Hopefleet, of all people. It was an awkward living arrangement, to say the least.
The two men dined in the gunroom with the other officers. McGinty sensed that it might have been a lively and convivial place were it not for the presence of the brooding Captain Finch, an Englishman among Yankees, a prisoner of war, and one who would remain a prisoner of war, regardless of how things played out between Parker and Biddlecomb. It was the fact he was clearly aware. Worse, perhaps, McGinty had seen among the papers that Finch was a major shareholder in the ship and cargo. For Finch, the loss of Hopefleet likely meant a huge financial loss for him as well.
Captain Finch did not hide his feelings. His sullen anger, which manifested both in dark silences and furious outbursts, was like a wet blanket over any pleasant times the gunroom might have enjoyed. Angus McGinty had dreaded the thought of reaching Great Egg Harbor, back when they had first set out for the coast of New Jersey. After two days of James Finch and the tedium of uncooperative winds, he was desperate to reach the place.
But now they were there, and the original dread was back.
“That’s the Falmouth, I take it, Sergeant?” Captain Parker asked. He had stopped addressing McGinty as “captain” once he learned of the official rank he had held in the Third Company, Fifth Pennsylvania Regiment. It was clear enough to McGinty that Parker wanted desperately to claim Hopefleet as his own prize; anything he could do to minimize McGinty’s legitimacy would help.
“Aye, that’s her,” McGinty said. Parker had at least done McGinty and Finch the courtesy of allowing them on the quarterdeck, and McGinty was there now, watching the landfall he had been anticipating with such mixed feelings for the past few weeks. Finch was there as well, but standing by himself, all the way aft in what had become his accustomed spot.
It was an hour past sunrise as they stood into the harbor with just enough wind to give them steerageway. The sky was grey, the water was grey, the shoreline was brown and grey. Falmouth lay tied to the wharf, just as McGinty had last seen her, with only her foremast and foreyard in place.
You ain’t got too bloody much accomplished, did you Captain Biddlecomb? he thought. But much as he enjoyed seeing Biddlecomb’s failure, he had to admit it was hardly Biddlecomb’s fault. Thirty men on the crew and stuck in some backwater without the least facilities or materials, there was not much that anyone can do.
And remember now, Angus, old Captain Biddlecomb is your famous friend, McGinty reminded himself. We’re good partners, him and me. At least that was what he had told Parker, and he hoped Biddlecomb would play along. McGinty’s life might quite literally depend upon it.
With Lt. Little calling commands from the break of the quarterdeck, Oliver Cromwell rounded up into the wind until her topsails went aback and the best bower was let go in three fathoms of water. Astern of her, Hopefleet and Sparrowhawk followed suit.
Those ships were more ably handled now than they had been when McGinty commanded them. Parker had mixed up the crews, sending a number of his officers and men aboard the other ships, and placing some of the able-bodied English sailors from Hopefleet aboard Sparrowhawk and some aboard Cromwell.
Most of the lubbers of the Fifth Pennsylvania Regiment were shifted to Oliver Cromwell, where they were put to the simple tasks of hauling on lines when needed, or scrubbing decks or chipping rust off cannonballs. As a result, all three ships were decently manned, but none with enough hands who might wish to escape from Captain Parker’s grasp that they could successfully retake their ship.
Lieutenant Little barked out an order and McGinty’s men, standing in the waist and foredeck, ropes in hand, hauled away, and overhead the limp square sails were drawn up to their respective yards. Another order and those of the crew who were actual sailors raced aloft to stow the upper sails while McGinty’s men made their slow, plodding, grudging way up and out onto the lower yards to stow those sails.
McGinty stared across the water at Falmouth and wondered what Biddlecomb would do. He’ll make Parker come to him, he decided. Parker already had the upper hand—a functional man-of-war and two prizes—and Biddlecomb would not want to give him any more advantage by coming out to call. He would make Parker call on him.
“On deck!” the look-out called from the mainmast head. “Boat’s putting out!”
Or maybe not, McGinty mused. He was surprised, but he was willing to admit, at least to himself, that he could be wrong.
“Would this be your Captain Biddlecomb?” Parker asked, handing his telescope to McGinty. His voice was calm, but there was something in it that McGinty could not miss, a slight catch, a slight hesitation. Like McGinty, Parker had been anticipating this interview for two weeks now. Like McGinty, he had quite a bit riding on it. Not his life, perhaps, but still quite a bit.
McGinty extended the tube and raised it to his eye and twisted it into focus. He would have expected Falmouth’s boat to be tied alongside the frigate, but it had not been, it had come from the wharf beyond. It was clearly a fishing boat of some sort, not a man-of-war’s boat, but that was hardly surprising. The only boat Biddlecomb had possessed was the one aboard Sparrowhawk and McGinty had absconded with it.
As he recalled that fact, McGinty felt a twist in his stomach.
My dear friend Captain Biddlecomb…he has plenty of cause to want to see me hang, he thought. But I’m sure he’s over that by now, forgive and forget, and all that.
McGinty, of course, was sure of no such thing, but he still hoped the riches to be found in Hopefleet’s hold would be enough to get Biddlecomb to play along. If Biddlecomb was smart enough and quick enough to assess the situation, which McGinty doubted.
McGinty held the boat in the lens. There were a half dozen men at the oars, Falmouth’s prime seamen, men who knew their business; the blades rose and fell in perfect syncopation and the boat surged ahead with each stroke. In the sternsheets, he could make out two figures. Each seemed to be wearing a cocked hat and heavy coat, as one might expect, but he could make out no more detail than that.
“I do believe it’s Captain Biddlecomb, but I can’t tell for certain, not from here,” McGinty said. Parker made a grunting sound and said no more.
They watched for a few moments more as the boat pulled across the bleak, gray water for Oliver Cromwell’s starboard side, the side on which an officer would board. McGinty put the glass to his eye again and once again brought it into focus. The boat was close enough now that he could clearly see the men in the stern.
“Ah, yes, that’s Captain Biddlecomb, to be certain!” he said. “You fight side by side as often as me and the captain have, well, you surely recognize your old shipmate when you see him!”
Parker grunted again and reached for the telescope and McGinty handed it to him without further comment.
“Lieutenant Little,” Parker called to the first officer who stood at the break of the quarterdeck. “Do you have some sort of side party arranged?”
“Aye, captain, we’ll show due honor,” Little replied.
“Good,” Parker said with a bit of a grudging tone, his high regard for the famed Isaac Biddlecomb having dimmed a bit, apparently. Part of it, McGinty guessed, was not knowing what to expect from this upcoming interview, and part was the prospect of losing the valuable prize. Both valuable prizes.
They watched the boat approach for another moment and then Parker made his way to the ladder and climbed down in the waist. Forward, Cromwell’s handful of marines came up from below, uniformly dressed in their dark coats and white crossbelts, muskets in their hands. They hustled over to the entry port where Lt. Little arranged them in two lines, as if the visiting officers were going to be made to run the gauntlet.
McGinty followed Parker down into the waist, wondering if the man would send him away, but Parker said nothing. Behind McGinty, Finch also made his way down. McGinty wished Parker would at least send the Englishman away, but still the captain said nothing.
The boat was fifty feet off the starboard side when McGinty took his place just behind Captain Parker. He could see Biddlecomb clearly now, and felt a bit of relief that it was indeed Biddlecomb, that he had not been mistaken. He recognized Midshipman Gerrish sitting beside Biddlecomb, his hand on the boat’s tiller, and he recognized the men at the oars as well, most of whom he could name.
Two more pulls and the boat was lost from McGinty’s sight. Lt. Little was standing by the entry port, watching it approach, and behind him the boatswain’s mate stood ready with his call, the boatswain himself being off in command of Sparrowhawk.
“Attention!” Little called out and the marines snapped to attention in an admirable manner. They felt the boat bump alongside, and a moment later Biddlecomb’s head and shoulders appeared at the level of the deck and the boatswain’s mate set in with the high-pitched tweeting of his call. Then Biddlecomb stepped on deck and made his way between the lines of marines and the boatswain’s call fell silent.
Captain Parker took a step forward. “Captain Isaac Biddlecomb, welcome aboard the Connecticut State Navy ship Oliver Cromwell. I am Captain Timothy Parker. I believe we met a few years past. In Newport, if I recall.”
“Of course, captain, of course,” Biddlecomb said with a bit of a smile, shaking Parker’s proffered hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, and congratulations on your command.” If Biddlecomb genuinely remembered the man or was just faking it, McGinty could not tell. Biddlecomb’s eyes flickered around the ship, settled on McGinty for a second, then moved on. His expression did not change at all.
Cool as a cucumber, that one, McGinty thought. He was impressed. But at the same time he could get no sense for what Biddlecomb was thinking, and he found it unnerving in the extreme.
Parker half turned and with a hand on Biddlecomb’s shoulder led him back to where McGinty and Finch were standing.
“Captain Biddlecomb, I give you Sergeant Angus McGinty, of the Fifth Pennsylvania,” Parker said, gesturing toward McGinty.
Ah, a test is it, you unsubtle dog, McGinty thought. Parker was trying to make the lie of McGinty’s story even before McGinty could say a word. But to McGinty’s surprise, and his relief, it was Biddlecomb who saved him.
“I know Sergeant McGinty of old, fear not,” Biddlecomb said. “He had command of my sloop Sparrowhawk, and I’m pleased to see her come back, and none the worse for wear.” His words conveyed nothing; not anger, nor delight, nor satisfaction at having McGinty again within his grasp. Nothing beyond the simple fact of his knowing the man and the ship.
“And this,” Parker went on, turning to Finch, “is Captain James Finch, late of the brig Hopefleet, which is also at anchor astern of us.”
Biddlecomb was about to speak when Finch took a step forward and cut him off. “Captain, or so you style yourself, I must protest this treatment, which is contrary to…”
He got no further. Parker held up his hand, and in a voice that did not allow for argument said, “Belay that, Captain Finch! All in good time. Captain Biddlecomb will have the truth of the matter.”
“Aye, indeed,” McGinty said. He nodded toward Biddlecomb. “It’s my pleasure to return here with Sparrowhawk, Captain, and with a valuable prize to boot. Just we had planned, you recall, when last I…”
Parker’s hand was up again and he cut McGinty off as well. “Yes, yes, there’s much to untangle,” he said. “Captain Biddlecomb, won’t you join me in my cabin for some coffee, so that we might discuss all that has transpired here?”
“Yes, Captain, quite a bit to discuss,” McGinty said, “I’m with child to tell you everything that’s…”
Once again Parker’s hand came up, a gesture that McGinty was starting to find truly annoying. “Captain Biddlecomb and I shall meet alone, I think, Sergeant,” he said. “I’ll send for you when we’ve come to some sort of understanding.”
He turned his back on McGinty and put his hand on Biddlecomb’s shoulder once more and gestured toward the door to the great cabin in the bulkhead under the quarterdeck. Biddlecomb made his way aft, with Parker right behind, leaving McGinty and Finch standing. McGinty could almost feel the rough cordage of the noose tightening around his neck.
Lieutenant Little dismissed the marines and the boatswain’s mate. He leaned over the side and called down to the boat, “You boys can come aboard it you like! No need to sit in the boat.” From below the gunnel, McGinty heard a chorus of voices call, “Thank you, sir!” and the rustle of men standing and the thump of shoes on the bottom of the boat.
Reckon I’ll just go aft, McGinty thought as he turned quickly and headed for the quarterdeck ladder. He was certain that the men of Falmouth would recognize him on sight, but he was not so certain they would be happy to see him, or that they would treat him in any civilized way.
He made his way up the ladder and aft. He was tempted to stand by the scuttle over the great cabin and try to hear what was being said below, but he knew it would look too obvious, and he knew from experience that one could not hear anything from there in any event. Instead, he wandered over to the far side of the deck, where he was least likely to be seen from the waist, and leaned on the rail to wait.
Time…it’s a damned odd thing, ain’t it? he thought as he stared across the deck out toward Falmouth and the shore beyond. He glanced over at the half-hour glass. It had been turned just before Biddlecomb’s boat had come along side, and six bells in the morning watch rung out. McGinty would have guessed it was ready to be turned again, but he could see less than half the sand had run out since then.
“Ah, damn my eyes!” he said softly. He had never been tried in a court of law. The few times he had been up for trial he managed to slip away before any proceedings began. But he had to imagine that this is what it felt like, at trial’s end, waiting in some miserable cell for a jury of unfeeling strangers to determine your fate.
He looked around, wondering if there was some means of escaping this time, but there was none. He was on a ship. The only way off was in a boat or in the water, and neither option held much promise of success.
He stared out toward the shore. He thought about the hour glass. It had certainly run out by then, he was certain, and some poor midshipman would pay a price for letting that happen. He glanced over at it and saw that in fact there was still a quarter of the sand left to run.
“Ah, damn my eyes!” he said, a little louder that time and vowed he would not look at the glass again. He sighed and gazed aft at where Sparrowhawk and Hopefleet rode at their anchors.
“Sergeant McGinty?” The voice made McGinty jump, which only further irritated him. He turned. Lieutenant Little was standing at the top of the quarterdeck ladder. “This way, sergeant,” he said.
McGinty pushed himself off the rail and ambled across the deck as if he had not a care in the world and followed Little down the ladder. Forward, the men from Falmouth were leaning on the rails and sitting on the hatches. McGinty glanced over at them, long enough to see the ugly looks they shot back at him, then turned and ducked under the quarterdeck and walked aft.
The marine sentry was at his station at the great cabin’s bulkhead. He announced the men as the approached, and on Parker’s order opened the door. Little went first and McGinty followed.
The great cabin was pleasantly warm, with the weak morning light coming in through the windows and a fire burning in a small iron woodstove. Parker sat behind his desk, papers spread out before him, a silver coffee pot and a cup set off to one side. He did not look particularly happy. Biddlecomb was seated across from him, a cup identical to Parker’s in his hand. He did not look happy either, or angry, or amused. There was nothing on his face, no discernable expression, just a sort of pleasant blankness.
“Well, now, I trust you’ve worked this all out?” McGinty started in. He had intended to let one of the others fire the opening broadside, but he could not help himself.
“Worked it out, Sergeant?” Parker said, with something like a snort of disdain. “Well, I don’t…”
“We’ve had an interesting talk, Mr. McGinty,” Biddlecomb said. “You’ve been busy.”
“Yes, well, to be sure,” McGinty said, and thought, what the devil did Parker tell him? What the bloody hell does Biddlecomb know, or think?
“Busy he’s been, captain,” Parker said. “But as I mentioned earlier, at what I’m not quite sure.”
“I understand you took a prize, sergeant,” Biddlecomb continued, his eyes never leaving McGinty’s. “Quite a valuable one, it seems.”
McGinty looked at Biddlecomb, at his unreadable face. Is the man fishing? he wondered.
“Aye, that I did,” McGinty agreed. “Loaded to the gunnels with military supplies. Cannon, powder, shot, muskets, everything dear Falmouth is crying out for. I’m sure the good captain told you that.”
“Indeed,” Biddlecomb said. “More or less.”
“And I also said, as you will recall,” Parker added, “that what Sergeant McGinty took don’t matter so much as the manner in which he took it. Smacks of piracy, it seems to me. From what I’ve told you, I think you’d have to agree with me, Captain Biddlecomb.”
“Piracy?” Biddlecomb said, sounding a bit shocked at the word. “I don’t know about that.” He turned back to McGinty. “Sergeant, I’d like to hear you tell it, pray. Your story. From when you first left us.”
Damn my eyes, you’re being damned coy, McGinty thought. Biddlecomb seemed like a man feeling his way in the dark. Why?
He’s looking for a way to keep the bloody prize for himself, McGinty thought next.
And that was perfectly understandable, with avarice likely played just a small part in it. The brig, as McGinty had suggested, was loaded with exactly the matériel that Biddlecomb needed to outfit Falmouth. And Falmouth, McGinty knew, was the center of Biddlecomb’s universe. He would be very eager indeed to keep hold of that particular cargo.
And McGinty was more than happy, delighted even, to help, because keeping Hopefleet meant excusing McGinty’s behavior.
“I’d love to tell you the truth of the thing, Captain,” McGinty started in. “It’s what I’ve tried to do all along.”
He turned to Parker. “Captain Parker, I’ve told you some of how Captain Biddlecomb here took Falmouth and Sparrowhawk right out from under John Bull’s nose, and let me say, it was one of the boldest, and bravest acts I’ve every witness, and I’ve been around a bit, I can tell you. Your admiration for Captain Biddlecomb is well placed, sir, and I was damned proud to play my small part in that.”
This next part was a gamble: McGinty didn’t know what Biddlecomb had told Parker, or what game Biddlecomb wished to play: but McGinty was a gambling man at heart, and if ever there was a time to throw the dice, it was now.
“But as to what I’ve been about,” McGinty continued, turning back to Biddlecomb, “after we arrived here in Egg Harbor and you took Sparrowhawk into the Continental service, as you recall, and you gave me the brevet promotion to captain of her, well, the boys and me we put to sea. Hunting prizes that would help with fitting out Falmouth, just as we’d planned, Captain. Not so easy, with the greenhorns I had onboard, but of course you needed the able-bodied seamen aboard Falmouth. So, we were on the hunt for a week or so when we run into the ordnance brig and took her with never a fight. And we were on our way back here when we run into dear Captain Parker and his fine ship.”
“You were not on your way back here, Sergeant,” Parker pointed out. “You were heading south.”
McGinty gave a stifled sigh of exasperation. “We were sailing north until we saw you and took you for a British cruiser. Then we thought best to put about.”
“We never saw you come about,” Parker said, a note of frustration creeping in. “You want us to believe that you spotted Oliver Cromwell, put both your ships about, ships you could hardly sail, and were settled on a new course before we ever even noticed you? Is that what you’re saying, Sergeant?”
McGinty shrugged. “I’ve no idea when you saw us, Captain Parker,” he said. “But if you didn’t see us until we had gone about, well, you had best have a word with the man who was on look-out.”
“There’s another matter that’s of greater concern, Sergeant,” Biddlecomb said. “Captain Parker says you had no papers when he took you. This is why he’s come to the reasonable assumption that you’re a pirate. What say you?”
McGinty looked at Biddlecomb. Parker must have asked him about the status of Sparrowhawk, about the legality of McGinty’s taking vessels on the high seas. The entire question of who could claim Hopefleet as a prize rested on the answer. Could Biddlecomb have possibly deflected all of Parker’s queries until he had a chance to hear McGinty’s story? If so, that was some impressive verbal fencing indeed.
“I had no papers to show, that’s no lie,” McGinty said. “Sure Captain Parker explained to you that I threw them all overboard? The brevet commission you give me, the ship’s commission, all the documents from the Marine Committee, the signal books, the written orders, all of it, I put ‘em in a sack with a round shot and tossed it all over board.”
“Why in the world did you do that?” Biddlecomb asked.
“We had no notion of what Captain Parker’s ship was,” McGinty explained. “Couldn’t see his colors. We took him for British, as I said, and reckoned we were prisoners, for certain, what with him being so powerful and all. So, all the papers, over they go.”
Biddlecomb shook his head in disbelief. He sighed and gave a bit of a smile. “Sergeant,” he said, as if addressing a child who is more stupid than disobedient, “you don’t throw everything overboard. The signal book, the written orders, certainly. Any official correspondence. But not the ship’s commission. Certainly not your commission, or the logbooks or such as that. Dear God, man, Captain Parker would have been well in his rights to hang you from the yardarm, then and there. How could he think you were anything but a pirate? I hope you thanked the man for his forbearance.”
McGinty turned to Parker. “I do indeed thank you, sir, for your wisdom in returning to this place, so that Captain Biddlecomb could put this all to rights.”
“Humph,” Parker said. “I’m not sure what exactly Captain Biddlecomb has put to rights.” McGinty could hear the frustration in his voice, the sense that he was about to lose his valuable prize and he was not even sure how it had happened.
“I’ve kept my own council here, Captain Parker, I’ll own that,” Biddlecomb said. “I wanted to hear what Sergeant McGinty had to say, to reassure myself, at least, that there was nothing… untoward about this business.”
“And?” Parker demanded.
“The sergeant has made some mistakes, to be sure, but I’ll take responsibility for his actions.”
“You’ll…so you authorized this? What McGinty’s done?”
“I take full responsibility, yes. Sergeant McGinty is under my authority. Isn’t that right, sergeant?”
“Oh, yes, Captain, very much so,” McGinty said.
“And now that you’ve returned, sergeant, and had some success, I reckon you’ll be eager to get back to work with us here, help with fitting Falmouth, getting her to safety.”
“Ay, captain, that I certainly am!” McGinty said with the enthusiasm of a man who could feel the noose being lifted from his neck. “It’s what we were trying to do before, of course, before all this business began.”
“Well, captain, there you have it,” Biddlecomb said, turning to Parker. “I thank you for your assistance in escorting Sparrowhawk and her prize here. A damned valuable prize, I might add. Given the trouble you’ve gone to, I think it only fair that you should get Sergeant McGinty’s share of the prize money, which will be substantial, I imagine.”
“Oh…well…” Parker said and McGinty could see the man’s demeanor changed for the better.
“Sergeant McGinty,” Biddlecomb said, “that seems fair to you, isn’t it?”
“Oh, fair indeed, Captain,” McGinty said, his tone a decent facsimile of genuine agreement.
“Excellent,” Biddlecomb said.
“Very well, then,” Parker said next, “if that is all settled, then I guess we’ll be underway as soon as the wind is fair.”
“Ah, yes, as to that,” Biddlecomb said. “Before you sail, I do have one request. It seems I have something of a tricky situation here, and I wonder if I might call on you and your fine ship and crew for some assistance.”