The supper party broke up a short time later, the officers heading back to their Spartan quarters for the night. Lacking a cabin steward Biddlecomb took it upon himself to make up the bed in the sleeping cabin for Virginia and Jack, and piled blankets on the settee for his own bunk.
His body ached from the day’s work, his shoulder and hip were a mass of bruises and the laceration left in the wake of Barnett’s bullet was screaming in pain. If Virginia was hoping for anything beyond sleep, she would be out of luck; even months of abstinence were not going to rouse Isaac’s ardor that night. But Virginia was exhausted as well and seemed no more inclined toward romance than he was, and soon they were all asleep in their separate berths.
They were roused before dawn the next day, per Biddlecomb’s orders. Isaac built a fire in the small brazier to warm the cabin to the extent that it would, which was not much, then left Virginia and Jack there as he climbed up on deck. By the time he stepped out of the companionway, the others were already hard at it, preparing Falmouth for sea and swaying the last of the cargo out of Hopefleet’s hold and getting it aboard Cromwell.
McGinty and his men had been put to work on Falmouth’s gundeck, muscling the nine-pounder guns they had retrieved from Hopefleet into place behind the gun ports and rigging the breech tackles and gun tackles. Biddlecomb had been avoiding the man, dragging his heels about the new orders, but he knew he could put it off no longer, so he took one last look around and then headed below.
“Mr. McGinty,” Biddlecomb called as he stepped off the ladder and onto the gundeck. He looked down the row of guns, the last of which McGinty’s crew was heaving into position. They looked small—silly, actually—in place of the eighteen-pounders Falmouth was intended to mount.
McGinty left off his work and stepped over. “Aye, Captain,” he said. McGinty never said sir, Biddlecomb noticed.
“How goes it?”
“Not so bad. Guns are in place, tackle rigged. There were fourteen of them aboard Hopefleet so I put seven on each side. Wee little things, them guns, for a great ship such as this. Not sure how much hurt they’ll do a fifty-gun ship-of-the-line. But thing is, this Wallace won’t think the frigate’s armed at all. When those guns run out, won’t that be a nice surprise?”
“Well reasoned, Mr. McGinty,” Biddlecomb said. “I wish I had thought of it. But see here, Mr. Rumstick is taking command of Hopefleet, so when we sail I’ll need you to stand in as acting first officer aboard this ship.”
Biddlecomb could see the subtle amusement on McGinty’s face and it annoyed him greatly. But why wouldn’t he be amused? He understood perfectly well how little Biddlecomb wanted him to be second in command, and what little choice he had.
“Mr. Rumstick, he’s happy with this plan, is he? His fine promotion?”
“Mr. Rumstick obeys orders. As I expect you to do. It’s not too late to see you hanged for piracy.”
“Oh, aye, Captain!” McGinty said, smiling. It was an empty threat and they both knew it. Biddlecomb was now as fully implicated in the questionable taking of Hopefleet as McGinty was.
“In any event,” Biddlecomb said, “you seem to know your way around a ship, stolen or otherwise, so you’ll have to do. Pray see this work finished up and report to me topsides.”
Biddlecomb left him to it and climbed back up the ladder to the waist and then up to the quarterdeck. He looked over at Oliver Cromwell anchored nearby. Parker had brought her anchor to short stay and sent men aloft to start loosening off sail. A cable length beyond her, Sparrowhawk, now under the command of Mr. Sprout, Falmouth’s boatswain, lay at short stay as well.
Hopefleet was still rafted alongside Falmouth, the men in the waist battening the hatches down and getting her ready for sea. The brig’s master, James Finch, had been turned over to the Gloucester County Militia, a prisoner of war. Now her crew was made up of a few of Falmouth’s men and a few of Hopefleet’s original crew who had been offered their freedom in exchange for cooperation.
Rumstick had taken command that morning and now he was all over the ship; back on the quarterdeck, stamping forward, bellowing orders, pointing at this and that, then back on the quarterdeck. He might not be happy about his exile to the brig, but he would not be found wanting. At the last moment, Biddlecomb had sent Gerrish as well, to serve as Rumstick’s first officer.
Biddlecomb turned his face into the wind and felt it on his cheeks, cold, weak puffs of winter air. It had been flat calm when he first emerged from the great cabin, but now with the rising sun a bit of an off-shore breeze was filling in—no gale of wind but enough to move the ships, and blowing from the right direction to waft them out of Great Egg Harbor and out to the open sea. It made him desperately anxious to get underway.
He looked around again, looking for something, anything, that was not being done as quickly as it could be so that he could bark out some orders, get things moving along, but there was nothing he could see. McGinty emerged from the scuttle and made his way aft.
“Guns are secure,” he said. He turned his head into the breeze that way Biddlecomb had done. “Wind seems fair to get us to sea.”
“It does,” Biddlecomb agreed. “So we should get to sea.” He looked down at Hopefleet again. The last of the battens were being set in place. “Mr. Rumstick!” he called and Rumstick looked up from his spot on the quarterdeck.
“Aye, sir?” Rumstick called back, and he was thankfully too far away for Biddlecomb to see his expression.
“Are you ready to get underway?”
“Aye, Captain, we are!” he replied. Biddlecomb turned to McGinty.
“Get the boats manned and let’s tow Hopefleet clear,” he said. McGinty nodded and went forward, calling orders as he did. Biddlecomb listened to his instructions to the boat crews, and he could find no fault in the way he was going about the business.
He picked up a speaking trumpet and put it to his lips. “Mr. Sprout!” he called over to Sparrowhawk and Sprout on the quarterdeck looked over and waved. “Underway, if you will! Once Hopefleet is clear, pray lead us out!”
Sprout waved again and suddenly the activity of the morning doubled and tripled, with men on all four ships racing aloft to cast off sail and others placing handspikes in windlasses, or heaving capstans around, or securing the fenders aboard the ships that had been rafted up. Oliver Cromwell seemed in all respects ready to get underway, but for the sake of diplomacy, Biddlecomb did not care to issue orders to Captain Parker.
He put the speaking trumpet up to his lips. “Oliver Cromwell, halloa!” From Cromwell’s quarterdeck Parker waved to him.
“We’re towing Hopefleet clear, Captain, then she’ll get underway!” Biddlecomb called. He was stating the obvious, but he felt that it had to be stated.
“Very well!” Parker called back. He said a few words to Little and Little shouted orders forward and the men at the capstan began heaving the anchor up the last thirty feet. As they did, Hopefleet’s men passed tow lines to the boats gathered at her bow and McGinty ordered the Falmouth’s men to get the gangplank run in and the head-fasts and stern-fasts singled up.
Virginia emerged from the companionway that led up from the great cabin with Jack, as usual, snug in his sling. She had a wool cap pulled down over her head and a heavy cloak wrapped around her and the baby.
“Do I hear the sounds of ships getting underway?” she asked.
“You do,” Biddlecomb said.
“Do you mind if I join you here?”
Biddlecomb looked around at the empty quarterdeck. “There seems to be room enough,” he said. “You know, usually a man-of-war’s deck is a very crowded affair, but not aboard this one.”
“Well, being part of Falmouth’s crew, it’s a very exclusive club,” Virginia said. “Lucky you only have the one sail to handle.”
“Yes,” Biddlecomb said. “Lucky. That’s just the word I was thinking.”
The lines holding Hopefleet against Falmouth’s starboard side were cast off as the boat crews dug in and the brig was pulled clear, the gap between the ships quickly widening. Biddlecomb looked over at Sparrowhawk. Her big fore-and-aft mainsail was rising up the mast, and forward the men at the windlass were heaving the anchor up. A moment later the sail was set and drawing, the anchor hanging from the hawse pipe and the sloop gathering way.
Next, it was Oliver Cromwell’s turn. Her anchor broke the surface, dripping water and caked with mud. The fore topsail was sheeted home and hands tailed onto the halyard, hoisting the yard aloft. The sail flapped and filled in the breeze and the small man-of-war turned her bow east, falling in astern of Sparrowhawk, making for the gap in the barrier islands that would lead them out to sea.
“Mr. McGinty, let’s loosen off the foresail, if you please,” Biddlecomb called.
“Aye, Captain!” McGinty called aft. “But you know, you could just call it ‘the sail’ since we only have but the one!”
“Please see to your duty, Mr. McGinty,” Biddlecomb replied. He turned to Virginia who was trying not to smile, but was smiling none the less. “Everyone seems to find great amusement in our having only one sail,” he said.
“Just because your foremast is very short, that’s no reflection on your prowess as a man,” Virginia said.
“I’m relieved that you think so,” Biddlecomb said. “A ship’s master can get sensitive about these things.”
Forward, a half-dozen men raced up the fore shrouds and spread out along the foreyard, casting off gaskets and coiling them into neat bundles as the heavy sail dropped into its gear. A moment later they were back on deck and McGinty ordered them to man clew garnets, buntlines and leechlines, and stand by the few remaining lines holding them to the wharf. From the gangway amidships, he turned and looked back at Biddlecomb on the quarterdeck.
“Send Ferguson aft to take the helm, Mr. McGinty,” Biddlecomb called, “and then let’s have the foresail and let go the head-fast. We’ll hold the stern-fast for now.”
“Aye, Captain!” McGinty called aft, then turning forward bellowed, “Let go clews and bunts! Haul away the foresheets!” Like a massive gray curtain, the foresail dropped from the yard and fluttered in the breeze as the sheets were hauled aft. Ferguson came hurrying up the ladder to the quarterdeck and back to the big wheel mounted just forward of where the mizzen mast should be.
“Hands to the braces!” McGinty called next and most of the men left off what they were doing and ran to those lines.
I feel like I’m commanding a merchantman again, Biddlecomb thought. A man-of-war of Falmouth’s size would normally ship a crew of a hundred and twenty men or more, enough that all the lines could be manned at once. What they were doing now was more akin to the merchant service, where cut-purse owners insisted on the smallest crews possible to run their ships.
“Brace up, larboard tack!” McGinty shouted and the men forward leaned into the braces. He could see Falmouth’s men instructing McGinty’s soldiers when to pull the ropes and when to hold as the big fore yard came swinging around and the sail began to fill with the breeze.
“Mr. McGinty seems to know his business,” Virginia observed.
“He does,” Biddlecomb agreed. “Now, if he can resist stealing the ship out from under our feet we should be in good stead.”
Slowly Falmouth’s bow began to swing away from the wharf, pushed off by the wind in the foresail. Biddlecomb crossed over to the larboard side and took the stern-fast off the cleat himself and hauled it back onboard. He could not recall the last time he had personally handled a dock line, but here was another price to pay for having so small a crew. He dumped the rope on the deck and turned to Ferguson. “We’ll follow astern of Hopefleet,” he said. “See that you don’t run her down.”
Ferguson smiled. “Aye, sir, I’ll try,” he said. They would be lucky if Falmouth would move at all with her one sail set. Running down one of the other vessels was the least of their concerns.
Biddlecomb stepped back to Virginia’s side and looked forward, past Falmouth’s bow, as best as he could. McGinty had hauled away on the slablines to lift the foot of the foresail a bit, which made their view a little less obscured by the canvas, but not much. Bending over, Biddlecomb could see Hopefleet a couple of cable lengths ahead, her topsails set and drawing. Beyond her, Oliver Cromwell was well underway. Sparrowhawk he could not see, lost from sight behind the other vessels.
The breeze, which Biddlecomb feared would die away, was actually filling in, holding the foresail steady as it bellied out, and driving Falmouth along fast enough that he could hear a ripple of water down her side. The sun was climbing up above the horizon, and already he could feel the air growing warmer.
They stood on like that for half an hour or so, with the shoreline passing down the larboard side and a smattering of islands to starboard, before Biddlecomb walked forward to the forecastle head for an unobstructed view. Faircloth had his marines lined up on the leeward side and he and Sergeant Dawes were running them through the manual of arms. The men seemed to perform it flawlessly to Biddlecomb’s eye, but either Dawes for Faircloth found some flaw with each step, and the men were made to do it again, and again.
Biddlecomb left them and continued forward, past the foremast—the only mast—and the foot of the foresail and up to the forward edge of the forecastle. From there, he could see the mile-wide gap between the barrier islands and the open ocean beyond. The local fishermen at Great Egg had assured him that he would encounter no sandbars if he kept to the north side of the passage, though to a man they declined his invitation to come aboard in the capacity of pilot.
Hopefleet was still on station, right ahead, with just her topsails set, but even under that reduced canvas she was drawing away from Falmouth. Cromwell was nearing the entrance between the islands and Sparrowhawk was nowhere to be seen. Sprout’s orders were to head out to sea, off to the southwest, and scout around as best he could, to see if anyone was waiting for them.
Biddlecomb was looking out toward the open water when McGinty stepped up beside him. “I got me lads, the boys from the Fifth Pennsylvania, organized into the gun crews, Captain. I reckon they know more about guns then they do about pulling on ropes. I had to take some of the sailor-men, too, to make the numbers, but I trust I picked the ones who’re least use on deck. Freeman’s down their now, putting them through a drill.”
“Good,” Biddlecomb said, embarrassed that he had not thought to do that himself. “We’ll want a good hand aloft on look-out as well.”
“Beg pardon, but I sent that fine fellow Pip up to the foretop,” McGinty said. “He’s been up there this past half-hour or so. Got nothing to report, I reckon, which is why you’ve not heard from him.”
“Good,” Biddlecomb said again. For a moment they were silent, looking out at the horizon. “Very well, then, Mr. McGinty. Carry on.” He could think of no other orders to give, nothing else that they should be doing. With so little rigging, so few materials or gear aboard, and so few crew, there was not that much for the men to do.
Biddlecomb made his way back to the quarterdeck and took his place at the weather rail. That spot was considered the exclusive domain of the ship’s captain, but in this instance, there was one person aboard who could ignore that rule with impunity—the captain’s wife—and she joined him there, watching the New Jersey shoreline move slowly past.
They stood on for another half an hour with the gap between the islands opening up ahead of them and the sun climbing higher off the starboard bow. Biddlecomb bent at the waist and looked under the foresail. Hopefleet was still right ahead, but now the distance between them had opened up to nearly half a mile off.
“Can you see Hopefleet, still, Ferguson?” he asked.
“Aye, sir,” Ferguson said. “Mostly.”
“Keep right in her wake,” Biddlecomb said. With Falmouth nearly empty and riding high her draft was about the same as that of the brig. If Hopefleet didn’t run aground, then Falmouth shouldn’t.
“Right in her wake, aye,” Ferguson said. And soon they were there, between the barrier islands, the northerly one a quarter mile off the larboard side, the southern three quarters of a mile away. Biddlecomb found himself bracing for the jarring shudder of the ship running hard on a sandbar, but the impact never came, and soon the islands were astern with nothing but open ocean ahead.
Cromwell and Hopefleet had already hauled their wind and made their courses just a bit north of west. The motley fleet would stand well out to sea, clear of the shipping around New York, before turning northeast for New London. Or standing on past Cape Cod and then making for Boston.
“Mr. McGinty,” Biddlecomb called to the acting lieutenant who was standing forward on the gangway. A first officer would usually keep to the quarterdeck when they were not needed elsewhere, but McGinty seemed to prefer being elsewhere.
“Aye, Captain?” McGinty called.
“Pray see that Pip in the foretop has a glass, if he does not have one now.”
“Aye, Captain,” McGinty said again. A moment later Billy Burke was racing up the fore shrouds, bringing a telescope up to Pip in the foretop.
“Pip!” Biddlecomb called, once the man had had a chance to look around with the glass. “Do you see anything of Sparrowhawk?”
“Aye, sir!” Pip called back. “Three points off the starboard bow!” There was another pause as Pip collected more information. “She’s on larboard tack and standing northeast!”
Standing northeast…Biddlecomb thought. He had sent Sprout off to scout things out to the west, but now Sprout was on a heading to rejoin the squadron. Perhaps he had found the horizon clear, nothing to report.
Then Biddlecomb heard a new sound, like a soft pop, muted and distant. He waited a moment, and then he heard another.
“Sparrowhawk’s signaling, sir!” Pip called down.
So I hear, Biddlecomb thought. Two guns. The prearranged signal. Enemy in sight.