Isaac Biddlecomb spent a good part of the day in the small church near the head of the wharf, which he had commandeered as temporary headquarters. His men were crowded in there as well, which at least helped to warm the place a bit. And it was not just his men, but McGinty’s and most of the Gloucester County Militia, whom he had to browbeat into joining the coming fight.
Not that he expected much of a fight. That was what the rum was for. He had taken care to make sure there was more than enough loaded onto the wagon. The worst possible thing he could do would be to give the Pine Robbers just enough to get them fighting drunk. He needed them paralytic drunk, and he made sure that his peace offering was sufficient for that purpose.
Rumstick sent four-man squads out in rotation to keep watch. They positioned themselves near the end of the wharf, hidden from view of Falmouth, three men with muskets, one with a telescope. Per Biddlecomb’s orders, the reports came in every half-hour unless something of note happened.
The first report came just as the men were settling themselves in the church and it was pretty much what Biddlecomb had expected. There had been some discussion among the banditti, or so it appeared, the men gathering in the waist, someone, Barnett, most likely, addressing them from the quarterdeck. Then the gangplank had been run out to the wharf, the barrels rolled aboard, and the gangplank brought back in.
Biddlecomb smiled as he listened. No luck, talking them out of the rum, eh, Barnett? he thought. He recalled Barnett’s demand that they take the rum back, and he savored the memory. He wondered how vociferously the man had argued against bringing the rum aboard. Barnett might understand what a threat the rum was, but at the same time, he would be as desperate as any of them for his fill of drink
After that, word came only at regular half-hour intervals because there was nothing much more to report: the Pine Robbers were gathered around the rum barrels on deck and were not doing much of anything but drinking. The look-outs reported some singing and sporadic gunfire, but the latter was just drunk men shooting into the air. Another reported that Oliver Cromwell seemed to have fired a couple of guns, swivels by the sound of it.
“Hmm,” Biddlecomb said. “I wonder if those blockheads had a notion to shoot at Cromwell for amusement. Likely Parker was letting them know it was a bad idea. But keep an eye and ear out for more.”
The sun went down not long after, and then the reports became even less interesting, with nothing to see but blackness and little to hear as the singing and shouting and gunfire slowly tapered off. Still Biddlecomb kept his men in the church, waiting for what seemed just the right moment. The minutes crept by, and the hours, until finally, as midnight approached, he decided it was time.
“Mr. Rumstick, Mr. Faircloth, get your men ready. Quiet now, all quiet,” he said. He turned to Colonel Somers and Captain Mitnick of the Gloucester County Militia. “I reckon it’s time to go.”
“Very good, Captain,” Somers said. He seemed resigned to the task. Mitnick seemed enthused.
Biddlecomb turned to Gerrish. “Mr. Gerrish, the signal to Cromwell, if you please.”
“Aye, sir,” Gerrish said. He took a lantern down from a hook and headed for the church door.
By the time Gerrish closed the door behind him, the church was filled with the shuffle of men, many of whom who had been asleep, standing, stretching, putting on scarves and hats and taking up arms. Rumstick and Faircloth were moving among them, admonishing them to keep quiet, threatening them with dire consequences if they did not. Even the loud-mouthed McGinty was talking in hushed tones and making certain his men knew to do so as well.
Biddlecomb adjusted his sword so it hung properly at his side. He picked up one of the pistols that had been sitting next to him on the pew. He primed the pan and put the hammer on half-cock, then did the same with the second. They were sea-service pistols, fitted with long clips to hook on his belt, so he slipped them into place and stepped out of the box.
Once the others were ready Biddlecomb led them outside into the bracing night air where they sorted themselves out as they had been instructed to do: Faircloth’s marines at the head of the column, the Gloucester County Militia fifty feet behind them in loose order and the sailors fifty feet behind them. They would advance down the wharf as silently as they could, with the marines ready to take the brunt of any resistance. They were the best trained, best disciplined, and Faircloth would not stand for anything else.
Biddlecomb walked the length of the column up to where Faircloth stood at the head of his men. He paused and looked up. The blanket of clouds that had covered the sky for days had not thinned in the least, which was fine. It made for a dark night. There was a bit of a breeze blowing but Biddlecomb could have wished for more, which would help mask the sound of their approach, but he knew he couldn’t get everything.
He heard a slight huffing behind him and Gerrish appeared, a bit out of breath. “Signaled Cromwell, sir, and they acknowledged.”
“Very good.” He turned to Faircloth. “Lead on, McDuff,” he said.
Faircloth half turned and raised his sword and stepped forward and his men followed behind, muskets held across their chests. They moved at something slower than a walk, taking each step with care, moving as silently as big men dressed for winter and armed for combat could move.
A few moments later they were on the wharf, their leather-soled shoes more silent on the wooden planks than they had been on the gravel-strewn ground, and that was a relief. Biddlecomb peered ahead into the dark but he could see nothing, and he reckoned it would be a miracle if they didn’t all walk blindly off the edge of the wharf. He glanced over at Faircloth, who he could barely make out, but Faircloth seemed to be moving with confidence.
Hope he can bloody see more than I can, Biddlecomb thought. He concentrated on stepping as lightly as he could, listened for the steps of the others, and was satisfied that they were moving as quietly as they possibly could.
Soon a faint light was visible, a dull glow, low down, and Biddlecomb frowned as he looked at it, trying to imagine what it could be. Another dozen steps and he realized it was lantern light. The banditti must have lit lanterns and set them on Falmouth’s deck. The candles themselves were hidden behind the bulwarks but the loom of the light was visible above the rail. That would help.
They were halfway down the wharf, by his best guess, when Faircloth breathed the word “Halt!” and Biddlecomb and the marines came to a stop. Biddlecomb heard the word passed down the line and he tensed at the sound.
“What is it?” he said to Faircloth, his words barely audible, even to him.
“Heard something, sir,” Faircloth said. For a moment, they remained frozen where they stood, listening. Then Biddlecomb heard it as well, a low rumble, and then another, a bit higher in pitch. A grunting sound, and then a cough.
“I think it’s snoring, sir,” Faircloth said at last. Biddlecomb turned his ear in the direction of the sounds and listened for a moment more.
“I think you’re right,” he whispered, and thought, that’s a hopeful sound.
They moved on, and soon they could make out the looming bulk of Falmouth just ahead. The snoring they had heard was louder and more distinct, but still they advanced as quietly as they could. Just because some men were asleep did not mean they all were.
And then they were there, right at the frigate’s side, her dark-painted gun ports standing out against her ochre-colored hull. Again they paused and listened and again they heard nothing but the sounds of sleeping men.
Faircloth stepped up to Biddlecomb, so close they were touching. “This might be a trap, sir,” he said in a voice much softer than the ugly sounds coming from the deck above. “Might be they mean to let us come aboard and then shoot us down. Best if I go first.”
Biddlecomb shook his head, though he doubted Faircloth could see him doing it. They had been over this before, several times, but Faircloth would not let it go. Biddlecomb did not doubt the man’s motives—he only wanted to keep his captain out of harm’s way—but that was not going to happen.
“No,” Biddlecomb said in a voice meant to stop any further argument dead. “I go first.” He stepped away from Faircloth and moved forward along the hull until he came to the boarding steps bolted to the side. With the gangplank run in that was the only way to get aboard. He pulled one of the pistols from his belt and cocked it, easing the trigger in as he did so the hammer would not click into place. He looked behind him. Faircloth was there with his marines, and he could just make out Somers and the militia farther back.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more… he thought.
There was a bit of a chop on the harbor, enough that the frigate was moving with the swell, pressing against the dock, then surging away. Biddlecomb waited for the ship to come in hard against the wharf then set his free hand on one of the boarding steps and found another step with his foot. He slid his shoe inboard, looking for as much tread as he could get. He did not care to slip and tumble off the steps, not with all his men behind him and a cocked pistol in his hand.
His toe thumped softly against the side of the ship and he cursed silently and paused and listened but he heard no change from the deck above, no hint of alarm. He stepped up and took another step and another. His head came up above the edge of the deck and he looked side to side.
Just as he had guessed, Barnett’s men had lit several lanterns and set them down and now they were casting a feeble light around the waist. Biddlecomb could see heaps of sleeping men, men sprawled out in the scuppers and on the forecastle head. He could see one rum barrel had been drained and was resting on its side. He could see the jagged remnants of the head of the second barrel where it had been imperfectly bashed in. He could see no movement at all.
Two more steps and he was through the gangway and onto that familiar deck. He walked aft, stepping carefully, and heard the sound of Faircloth and his marines coming up behind. He heard a soft thump low down to starboard and knew it was one of Cromwell’s boats coming alongside. In a moment men from the state ship would be swarming over the bulwark to add to their numbers.
It was not until he reached the break of the quarterdeck that Biddlecomb encountered any of the Pine Robbers awake enough to move. A grunt, a rustle of clothing, and one of the prone men rolled part-way over. He looked up and grunted something that might have been “Who the hell are you?”
Biddlecomb reached down with the pistol and pushed the muzzle against the man’s forehead. “Shhh…” he said, softly, and the man’s eyes went wide and he nodded, sober enough to understand the threat.
In the light of the lanterns, Biddlecomb could see the first of Cromwell’s men coming aboard, Lieutenant Little in the lead. Faircloth’s marines were all aboard and spreading out along the deck, muskets pointed down at the men sprawled around, and the militia were coming up behind them. He looked down at the man at his feet.
“Stay here,” he said. “Keep quiet. Don’t move.” The man nodded, his eyes still wide, and Biddlecomb left him and crossed back to the main hatch. He paused and eased the hammer of his pistol to half-cock and slipped the gun back into his belt. By that time the deck was growing crowded as the militia and Cromwell’s boarding party and then McGinty men and the Falmouths all climbed aboard.
There was no call for stealth now, and some of the Pine Robbers were starting to stir with the sound of dozens of feet stamping fore and aft. There were groans and dull shouts of surprise and sharp orders to keep silent and not move, orders that seemed to be readily obeyed.
Biddlecomb stopped amidships and from different directions, Rumstick, Faircloth, Somers, and Little all converged on him. “So far, so good,” Biddlecomb said. “But this isn’t all of them. Let’s hope any men below are as paralytic drunk as this lot.” He could see heads nodding at the sentiment.
“Colonel Somers, you and your men secure the upper deck here. Mr. Faircloth, take a squad and bring them down the after companionway and sweep forward. Mr. Rumstick, get some of your men and go down forward and sweep aft. Check the gundeck and then the hold. Anyone you find, bring them topside. Make certain Barnett is one of them. Mr. Sprout has the lashings?”
“Aye, sir,” Rumstick said. The boatswain had brought three score lengths of cordage to bind the hands of the prisoners.
“Good. Give him some men to start lashing up everyone on deck, and those you find below as well. I’m going to inspect the great cabin, see how much damage these bastards have done.” That last came out more bitterly than Biddlecomb had intended, and he realized he was angrier about this violation of his beloved frigate than he had realized.
His orders were met with a chorus of, “Aye, sir” and “Yes, Captain” and the men dispersed to carry them out. Biddlecomb looked around the deck and felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Sometimes things actually work out the way you hope, he thought. He picked up one of the lanterns and made his way down to the waist and then aft to the great cabin.
He stopped outside the door and listened, leaning close to the bulkhead, but he could hear nothing over the growing noise of the Pine Robbers being rounded up. With the ship well secured no one was trying to be quiet. Somers’ militiamen were barking orders and kicking men awake as the marines and Rumstick’s men went stomping down the companionways to the lower decks.
Biddlecomb gave up trying to listen and instead reached down and turned the doorknob and pushed the door open a fraction of an inch, then waited. Nothing. He drew one of the pistols from his belt and cocked it. He held the gun in his right hand and the lantern in his left. He pushed the door open with his foot and stepped inside.
He held the lantern high, the pistol straight out in front of him, and he turned slowly, larboard to starboard, as he scanned the inside of the cabin. There were a few pewter plates and remnants of food scattered over the top of the table and empty wine bottles strewn about. The doors of the sideboard were hanging open and its contents had been tumbled out onto the deck. Various storage lockers under the settees aft were also open, the things they once held pulled out and tossed around. The Pine Robbers had rifled the cabin well, but there seemed to be no damage beyond that.
This is not so bad… Biddlecomb thought.
He took another step aft and then another, looking behind him and then looking side to side once more. He wondered if any glass had been broken. The after end of the cabin was made up of the stern windows, and there were smaller windows on the sides in built-out sections called badges. On a larger ship, the badges would have housed the captain’s private head, but on Falmouth, they were just windows. And Biddlecomb was pleased to see they were all intact.
Falmouth had the largest great cabin Biddlecomb had ever enjoyed, but it was still not particularly big and there were not many places for someone to lie in wait. One more look around and Biddlecomb was satisfied. He eased the hammer of his pistol to half-cock and set it on the table, then hung the lantern from a hook in an overhead beam.
His toe bumped against an empty wine bottle on the deck and he reached down and picked it up, and another beside it. He recognized them as having held a vintage that Faircloth particularly liked, and which he and the officers had enjoyed, sitting in that cabin. He pictured the banditti swilling it down like it was blackstrap.
Elisha will not be happy to see this, Biddlecomb thought. He was about to set the bottles down when he heard it, a shuffle from behind, a creak of wood, loud enough to make him start. He whirled around to see the far end of the table rising up from the deck as if it had been caught by a strong wind.
Just for an instant Biddlecomb stared in confused wonder. Then Shadrach Barnett came up from behind, lifting and flipping the table with his shoulder as he stood. He had a pistol in each hand and he shouted, “You bastard!” as he brought the guns up and aimed them at Biddlecomb’s chest, ten feet away. Biddlecomb saw the black circles of the muzzles coming up level and he flung the bottles in his hands at Barnett and leapt sideways just as the guns went off.
The noise was thunderous in the confined space of the cabin. Through the blast of the discharge, Biddlecomb heard the balls buzz by his head, felt one tear through his coat and graze his side, but he gave it no thought. His hand was on the hilt of his sword and he drew the weapon as he turned back to face Barnett.
Barnett was shouting now, not words, just a bellow of pure fury. He flung one of the pistols at Biddlecomb. The gun hit him in the chest with surprising force, enough to knock him backward. He stumbled as went back and he felt the sword slipping from his fingers.
Then Barnett was up and over the upset table, holding the second pistol by the barrel, butt up, like a club. Biddlecomb tightened the grip on his sword and raised the blade just as Barnett swung the pistol at his head.
Sword and gun met a foot from Biddlecomb’s face. Biddlecomb twisted his wrist and forced the pistol down and sideways, then lifted his right foot and drove it into Barnett’s gut. Barnett flew back and slammed into the table, off-balance, stumbling, and Biddlecomb lunged forward, leading with the point of his sword.
Barnett reacted with a speed that Biddlecomb could hardly believe. He swung the pistol down in a wide arc and knocked the blade away, then pushed off the table and slammed into Biddlecomb shoulder first, driving him back. Biddlecomb was vaguely aware of footsteps outside the great cabin, voices shouting, but all his concentration was directed at keeping on his feet.
He had stumbled halfway across the cabin by the time he managed to regain his footing, and five feet separated him and Barnett. For the space of a heartbeat, the two men looked at one another, and then Barnett shouted again and charged.
Biddlecomb brought the tip of his sword up, or tried to, hoping the man would run right onto it. He was too late. Barnett knocked the sword aside with the butt of the gun, never slowing as he did. Biddlecomb heard the pistol hit the deck, and then both of Barnett’s hands were up and his fingers were wrapped around Biddlecomb’s neck.
The two of them staggered back and Biddlecomb felt the crushing force on his throat as Barnett squeezed. He slammed at Barnett’s arms from below, again and again, but the man was powerfully strong and the blows made not the least impression on him.
Biddlecomb abandoned that, reached up, and punched Barnett in the face but still Barnett’s grip did not falter at all. He punched him again and again, to no avail. He twisted and started to feel the air in his lungs running short. He kicked, hard, and felt his foot hit Barnett’s knee. He wound up and kicked again, and this time his shoe made solid contact with the man’s groin.
That, at last, seemed to have some effect, but it was just to make Barnett more angry still. Biddlecomb felt the grip tighten on his throat, felt those iron fingers pressing hard into his flesh until there was no chance of drawing breath. Barnett shouted again and pushed and Biddlecomb felt himself stumbling back, and back again, the two men, locked together, half-falling across the great cabin.
Biddlecomb’s vision was blurring and he knew that with the next step, or the one after, his back would slam against the cabin side and he would be pinned there. Off to his left, he had a vague image of Ezra Rumstick pushing through the cabin door, pistol in hand, and more men behind him. The side of the cabin came into view as they tumbled backward and Biddlecomb knew they were about to hit.
And then they did. But they did not hit the solid planks of the cabin’s side. Rather, they hit the badge farther aft. Biddlecomb felt his shins come hard against the low shelf that formed the structure’s base. Barnett squeezed harder still and pushed him back, and then the stumbling became falling as their legs stopped dead and the rest of them continued on.
Over they went, Biddlecomb and Barnett, locked together. Biddlecomb felt his head and shoulders hit the glass windows, felt the frames give way, heard the sound of the glass shatter. The cold air embraced them as they went back through the broken space and then there was nothing under them; no deck, no wall, nothing but air.
Barnett’s grip loosened as they fell, tumbling, and Biddlecomb had just enough time to think that they were going to hit the water and to consider the agony that that would bring when he hit the wharf. He came down on his shoulder and his hip, and the impact sent pain rippling through him and drove out what little air was left in his lungs. He thrashed and gasped and managed to get a breath, and then another.
Barnett… Two thoughts came at once: Barnett was no longer choking him, but if he was still alive, he was still a threat. Biddlecomb put his hand down and pushed himself up. He felt the pain redouble and he wondered if he had broken anything in the fall, but knew it would have to wait. He got his legs under him and pushed himself to his feet.
Twenty feet away and ten feet up Rumstick stood framed in the broken badge, his face a mask of fear in the light of the lantern. “Isaac!” he shouted but Biddlecomb did not have time to reply. Barnett. He had to find Barnett.
He looked side to side but the man was not there and it occurred to Biddlecomb that he had run off, that he had managed to escape, and the thought made him furious. Then he heard a sound, a grunting sound, animal-like, and down by his feet. He looked over and there was Barnett. Biddlecomb had landed on the wharf but Barnett had hit the wharf’s edge and half tumbled over. Now he was clinging on, his fingers finding a tenuous grip on the worn planks, the rest of him, from the waist down hanging over the water in the narrow space between the ship and the wharf.
Biddlecomb took a few stumbling steps in his direction, unsure even as he approached what he would do. His first instinct: a kick to Barnett’s head, the joy of watching him tumble into the water below. He took another step and realized he could not do that. That would be murder, pure and simple. Worse, if Barnett could swim he might escape.
Another step and Biddlecomb dropped to his knees and grabbed Barnett’s arm and looked into his ugly, snarling face.
“Let go of me, you whore’s son bastard, I’ll kill you!” Barnett growled.
“Don’t be stupid, Barnett,” Biddlecomb said. He reached out for Barnett’s other arm but Barnett pulled it out of the way and reached up for Biddlecomb’s throat, fingers spread. He was an inch from getting hold when Falmouth surged against the wharf, driven by the unseen chop, pinning Barnett between the massive ship and the unyielding wooden beams. Barnett’s eyes and mouth went wide and he made a grunting sound and Biddlecomb heard the sick crack of ribs and spine.
For a moment they remained like that, eyes locked, silent, Barnett’s face frozen in surprise and agony as he was ground against the wharf by the terrific force of the ship. Blood erupted from his mouth like a dark waterfall. And then the ship surged back, leaving Barnett half draped over the wharf, alive or dead Biddlecomb could not tell. He hung like that for a second, maybe two, then dropped away, falling past the edge of the wharf, and Biddlecomb heard his body hit the water below.
There were footsteps on the wooden planks now, running, and lantern light bouncing over Falmouth’s side. Hands grabbed onto Biddlecomb’s arms and shoulders and helped him to his feet. He straightened as well as he could and looked around. Rumstick was there, sword in hand, concern on his face, and Faircloth as well.
“Captain!” Rumstick said. “What…are you…?”
“Fine, I’m fine, Ezra,” Biddlecomb said, making himself stand a little straighter, a little less like the cripple he felt. “Barnett’s dead. Crushed.”
Mitnick was holding a lantern over the edge of the wharf and looking down at the water. He turned back toward the rest of them. “Dead, for certain,” he said.
“We can see if any of them banditti care enough to fish him out,” Rumstick said. “If not, well, the tide’s just starting to ebb. That should take care of it.”
They went back aboard where Sprout and his men were binding the last of the Pine Robbers hands, at least those that needed binding. Three of the men could not be roused from their stupor and two more were dead, from either drink or cold of both. There seemed to be no enthusiasm among them for pulling Barnett’s body from the water and giving it a Christian burial, so the tide was allowed to do the work for them.
It was well past midnight when Somers and Mitnick and the Gloucester County Militia marched the Pine Robbers off to whatever they would use for a jail and left the Falmouths back aboard their ship. The third barrel of rum had not been breached, so Biddlecomb ordered it open and a tot was called for each man. Rumstick set the watches, with half the men going below to sleep and the other half taking up muskets and positioning themselves around the deck. What they were guarding against neither they nor Biddlecomb knew, but Biddlecomb figured it was best to be ready.
At long last he dragged himself below and aft to the great cabin, where he found that someone had ordered canvas nailed up over the shattered badge to at least keep the frigid night air at bay. He shed his coat and sword belt and shoes and climbed wearily into his bed, his familiar bed. He let the memories of that day, that long, strange day, whirl around in his mind as he drifted into a deep and profound sleep.
It was past dawn when he woke, with sunlight, which he had not seen in some time, streaming in through the aft windows. He lay in bed for a moment, certain that something had woken him up, but not certain what it was. And then he heard it again, a knocking on his door, not too loud, but not tentative, either.
“Sir? Sir?” It was Gerrish’s voice.
Biddlecomb sat up and winced in pain as he did. His shoulder and his hip, where he had hit the wharf, were in agony, and he knew there would be some impressive bruising to see once he removed his clothes.
“Yes, Mr. Gerrish?”
“Someone…ah…someone to see you, sir,” Gerrish replied. Biddlecomb’s first reflex was to tell them both, Gerrish and this visitor, to go to the devil. But Gerrish was no fool, and if he deemed this person worthy of waking the captain for, then he was probably right.
“Very well, just a moment,” Biddlecomb called. He set his feet down on the deck and stood with care and received a new set of pains for his trouble. He remained standing for a moment, letting things settle, then made his way across the cabin and pulled the door open.
Gerrish was standing there, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, but Biddlecomb’s eyes went to the person behind him. A familiar face, perfectly familiar, but one that somehow did not go with this setting, like two things juxtaposed that were not supposed to be. For a moment, Biddlecomb just stared, trying to reconcile the anomaly. And then he spoke.
“Virginia?”