The strange sail was hull-down when the man at the main topmast crosstrees reported it. He called it just that: a strange sail to weather, a small and irregular patch of gray on the horizon. There was nothing more to report. It was too far off to know what sort of vessel it might be—a sloop, a brig, a ship—or much of anything else about it.
Sir James nodded as he heard the words, but said nothing, not to the look-out, not to Lieutenant John Middleton, his first officer, or the smattering of midshipmen who were standing at the leeward side of the quarterdeck, waiting for orders. There was nothing that needed saying, no orders to give. Not yet.
Experiment was sailing comfortably full and by on a larboard tack, the coast of New Jersey stretched out to the north and west. If there was any change in the strange sail’s course or the set of its sails, the man at the topmast would most certainly sing out; there was no need for Wallace to remind him of that duty. Indeed, reminding him might suggest that he, Captain Sir James Wallace, was anxious, and that was not a thing he wished to suggest. It was not even a thing he wished to acknowledge, even to himself. But he was indeed anxious.
They had been lurking off the entrance to Great Egg Harbor for the better part of three days now. They had kept far enough off-shore that they would not be seen by watchers on the beach, which meant they could get only occasional glimpses of the gap between the barrier islands, as seen from the topmasts. But that had not been any great concern. Over the course of those three days, the wind had been light and mostly southerly, which would have kept Biddlecomb bottled up in harbor.
That morning, however, the breeze had a westerly slant, good for the rebels to get to sea, so Wallace had brought his ship in close, close enough to keep an eye on the harbor entrance. If Biddlecomb was still at Great Egg Harbor, and was eager to leave, this would be a good day to do so.
“Deck, there!” the man aloft called again. “Strange sail’s a sloop, and she’s come about! Making to the northeast!”
Wallace nodded again. Sloop, he thought. What he really wanted to ask was if the sloop appeared to be Sparrowhawk, but he most certainly was not going to do that. He was not about to display any unseemly eagerness. They would find out soon enough.
Instead, he leaned back and looked up at the sails towering above his head. The breeze had been puffy and uncertain at sunrise, but it was filling in nicely now, and the fore and mainsails, the topsails and t’gan’s’ls were all drawing well, the ship heeling to leeward under the driving pressure on the canvas. If need be, his crew could flash out the studding sails with truly impressive speed. He had seen to that.
Experiment was a beautiful vessel, and her copper bottom made fairly quick and handy as well, though none of the fifty-gun ships were particularly splendid sailors. She certainly didn’t have Rose’s turn of speed or her quickness in stays, but that was no matter. With the massive 24-pounders on her gundeck and 12-pounders on her upper deck, she threw more than twice the weight of metal that his former command had done. Wallace was happy to exchange a bit of speed for that sort of firepower.
Finding nothing aloft to criticize, Wallace looked out past the weather bow toward the shoreline. It would be some time, certainly, before he could see the sloop from the deck: so small a vessel, they would have to be nearly on top of it before it was visible from that height of eye.
Sparrowhawk…he thought. He hoped very much it was Sparrowhawk. He wanted the sloop back. It was a great inconvenience to not have a tender. Even when he commanded the nimble Rose, he had one. He could have used Sparrowhawk now to keep an eye in Great Egg Harbor. But the utility of having a smaller vessel was the least of it. Sparrowhawk had been stolen from him, and worse, stolen by the rebel Biddlecomb, and now he meant to have the sloop back and Biddlecomb in irons.
One of the midshipmen broke off from the gaggle and stepped forward to the belfry at the edge of the quarterdeck. He paused, eyes on the half-hour glass, and when the last of the sand ran out he flipped it over and rang the bell, six sharp strikes, three sets of two, six bells in the forenoon watch.
“On deck!” the look-out’s call came from aloft.
“Deck, aye!” Lt. Middleton called in reply.
“Two more sail in sight, sir!” the look-out called. “A brig and a ship, looks like! All plain sail set! Bearing north by west!”
“Very good!” Middleton called back.
“Mr. Middleton,” Wallace said, just loud enough to be heard. Middleton hurried across the deck.
“Sir?”
“You may beat to quarters. Clear for action.”
“Beat to quarters, clear for action, aye, sir!” Middleton said crisply, keeping his excitement in check. The entire ship’s company had been tensed and ready for this moment, like a hunting dog waiting for the command to go. Middleton turned forward and in a voice meant to carry the full hundred and forty feet of Experiment’s upper deck shouted “Beat to quarters! Clear for action!”
The drumsticks came down on the head of the drum even before the lieutenant had finished. The drummer beat out his familiar rhythm, his call to action, and the ship seemed to explode around him. Men raced up onto the weather deck, or raced below, depending on their assigned stations. Gun tackles were cast off, sand spread on the deck, chains rigged to the yards, buckets set down, chicken coops tossed into the boats resting on the booms and yard tackles brought inboard to hoist the boats over the side, the thousand or more tasks needed to turn Experiment into the fighting machine she was built to be.
James Wallace ignored it all. He put a hand on the quarterdeck rail and stared out past the bow and toyed with what little information he had. A brig and a ship, looks like…the look-out had said. Three strange sail to weather. They were in enemy waters, and whether these ships were Biddlecomb’s or not, Experiment had to be cleared for action. They could be rebels. They could be prizes.
But where these ships Biddlecomb’s command? The frigate they called Falmouth only had her foremast in place when Biddlecomb stole her away, but here the look-out was reporting a ship with all plain sail set. Could the rebels have rigged her completely in the few months they had been hiding in Great Egg Harbor? He did not know.
In truth, he knew almost nothing, save for what had been relayed to him by his cousin, Richard Dexter, a captain in the 17th Regiment of Foot. Dexter had sent word: Biddlecomb and Falmouth were at Great Egg Harbor, and the ship was not yet fit for sea. That was all he knew, and how Dexter knew it he did not say. Wallace had sent word back asking that they meet in person, hoping there might be more information to be gleaned. He’d had no reply by the time Experiment received orders to sail.
Those orders came curtesy or Captain Andrew Hamond, who commanded on the Delaware. They arrived just when Wallace was looking for a way to get his ship out of Philadelphia and out to sea where he could run Biddlecomb to earth.
You are then hereby required to proceed down towards the Capes of the Delaware, to prevent the Rebels from getting Supplies into any of the lower parts of the River; and to prevent Ships and Vessels from attempting to come up to the Town whilst you judge that Navigation to be impracticable.
When the Season of the Year shall be still more advanced, and it appears to You necessary for the safety of the Ship to quit the Delaware entirely, You are then to Cruize off of Egg Harbour, and along the Coast to the Southward at such distances from the Shore as circumstances and the Weather will allow of…
Hamond’s instructions could not have been more perfect if Wallace had crafted them himself. He had wasted no time, had not waited for a reply from Captain Dexter, had not even waited for two of his midshipmen and a half dozen trusted hands who had been off on leave to return before weighting anchor, setting Experiment’s topsails, and dropping down the river and the bay to the Capes. Commanding officers had a disagreeable way of changing their minds, and Wallace wished to be well clear of Philadelphia as quickly as he could, lest Hamond decide to do just that.
And now it seemed to be playing out just as he had hoped. The Capes, Great Egg Harbor, the three strange sails… Save for that one part he could not explain: the presence of a fully rigged ship.
“Deck, there!” In the bustle of clearing the ship for action, the look-out had been all but forgotten.
“Deck, aye!” Middleton called aloft.
“Another sail, sir! Another sloop or such!”
“Mr. Middleton,” Wallace called across the deck, “send a midshipman up there with a glass, if you would.”
“Aye, sir,” Middleton said. Most of the midshipmen had scattered to their assigned stations for quarters, but the signal midshipman was aft, readying the signal flags for hoisting. He was smart and quick—he had to be, for that duty—and since there was no one for him to signal in any event, Middleton sent him scampering aloft.
They waited long moments for the young man to make the long climb to the main topmast crosstrees, to settle himself and train the glass on the distant ships.
“Deck, there!” he called at last, his voice higher and more difficult to hear than the look-out’s had been.
“Deck, aye!”
“Sir, the strange sail seems to be a larger vessel, but jury-rigged! Just a foresail set, sir!” Wallace could hear the edge of excitement in the boy’s voice. Every man aboard Experiment knew what they were hunting for.
“Sir,” Middleton said, turning to Wallace, “the young gentleman reports…”
“I heard him, Mr. Middleton, thank you,” Wallace interrupted the report. “Carry on, if you please.”
Wallace put his hand back on the rail and looked out past the weather bow, and with great effort, he forced himself not to smile.
Biddlecomb waited on the quarterdeck as Sparrowhawk ran down on them. He did not change Falmouth’s heading or adjust the set of the frigate’s single sail in any way. He did not need to.
If the frigate had been rigged out the way she was supposed to be, he would have to heave to to allow the little sloop to catch up. Not one of the ships in the squadron could have kept up with Falmouth. Even the strange sail to leeward, her t’gan’s’ls now visible from Falmouth’s deck, would have been left in the nimble frigate’s wake.
But as it was, even Sparrowhawk was quicker than Falmouth with just her single lower sail set, and Sprout had no difficulty swooping down astern of Biddlecomb’s ship and coming up within hailing distance of the leeward side.
“Mr. Sprout!” Biddlecomb called through his speaking trumpet. “What say you?”
“Man-of-war, Captain!” Spout called back. He had no need of a speaking trumpet; boatswains generally did not. “I daren’t get too close, sir, but she’s a man-of-war, for certain! British colors! A big bastard…beg your pardon, Mrs. Biddlecomb…might well be a fifty!”
“Very good, Mr. Sprout,” Biddlecomb replied. “And her heading?”
“Making a rhumb line for us, sir! Never a doubt, like a hound on a fox!”
“Thank you, Mr. Sprout!” Biddlecomb called back. “Pray, take a place to weather, keep an eye on this fellow, but keep well out of his grasp, even if you have to run off to the westward!”
“Aye, sir!” Sprout called. “And Godspeed to you, sir!”
“And you, Mr. Sprout,” Biddlecomb called back. He did not entirely care for the sound of that. It had a finality that did not sit well.
Sprout gave an order that Biddlecomb could not hear and Sparrowhawk’s bow swung away from Falmouth’s side. The little ship spun around through three quarters of a circle, tacking smartly and coming up under Falmouth’s transom as Sprout charged off to take his station to weather. Biddlecomb envied the man his maneuverability.
“Godspeed, is it?” Virginia asked, with her hint of a teasing smile, a look that Biddlecomb generally adored. “Is that not what one says on parting forever?”
“Yes, sometimes,” Biddlecomb said. “And sometimes it’s when one plans to meet up again, unscathed, in an hour’s time.”
“Well, I hope it was the latter that Mr. Sprout had in mind.”
“I’m sure it was, my dear,” Isaac said. McGinty was standing at his now-familiar place on the weather gangway and Biddlecomb called to him. “Mr. McGinty, pray pass the word for Mr. Faircloth, and then I would speak with both of you, if you please.”
“Aye, Captain!” McGinty said and rather than pass the word, he hurried below himself. A moment later he was back, leading Faircloth who had donned his immaculate uniform. They climbed the quarterdeck stairs and stepped over to the weather side as Virginia moved discreetly to the leeward.
“I have no doubt you gentlemen heard what Mr. Sprout had to say,” Biddlecomb said. “All the ship’s company did, I’ll warrant.”
Heads nodded and the officers mumbled, “Aye, Captain.”
“Good,” Biddlecomb continued. “Mr. McGinty, is the ship ready? Cleared for action?” He could see McGinty starting to smile again, but this time he managed to suppress it, with some visible effort.
At least the man had sense enough to keep his jokes to himself just now.
“Not too much onboard that needs clearing, Captain,” McGinty said. “The lads left the guns secured by their tackle, after their wee drills. I suppose we could sand the decks, get out water buckets and the like.”
“Very good,” Biddlecomb said. “Whatever you can do to make proper preparations, do it. Mr. Faircloth, I need not ask if your marines are ready.”
“Ready they are, sir. Uniformed, guns inspected and loaded. Cartridge boxes full.”
“Good. We’ll probably want half of them in the foretop and the other half aft on the quarterdeck. Small arms are like to be more effective than the ‘great guns’ on the gun deck. But right now I want you to roust out every musket or pistol we have onboard. Have your men inspect the locks and replace any flints that need it, or anything else that needs doing. Pray see that anything that can fire a bullet is ready to go.”
“Very good, Captain,” Faircloth said, and he and McGinty went off to see to their duties. Biddlecomb walked to the aft end of the quarterdeck and brought his glass to his eye, and then swept the ocean around him with the lens.
Falmouth and the other ships of his little squadron were spread out over a mile or so of ocean. The wind was still steady from just south of west, and the ships were sailing northwest on a broad reach, the wind just over their larboard quarters. Oliver Cromwell and Hopefleet were both sailing under topsails alone, but even with that reduced canvas, they were having a hard time not sailing away from Falmouth.
Biddlecomb swiveled to the south. Sparrowhawk was there, having positioned herself somewhat between Falmouth and the strange sail to leeward. Biddlecomb continued his scan until the glass came to rest on the ship following astern. Her topsails were visible now, which meant she was rapidly overhauling them. And she was indeed big; Biddlecomb could see that clearly. Bigger than a frigate, certainly, though not as big as a seventy-four. So, a fifty? Experiment?
McGinty stepped up onto the quarterdeck and came aft. “Guns are as ready as they’re going to be, Captain,” he reported. “The men are at quarters. We’ve a dozen or so left for sail handling and such, but that should do us.”
“Very good. You have gun crews to work both sides at once?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Sprout reported just one sail,” Biddlecomb said. “If there is indeed but one enemy ship, let’s pull the men from the unengaged side and get them on deck with muskets. If this son of a bitch decides to get close, muskets will be worth more than having a crew for each gun.”
“Very good, Captain,” McGinty said. He turned to leave but Biddlecomb stopped him.
“This ship in our wake,” he said, “It’ll most likely prove to be Experiment. She’s certainly Royal Navy, whatever ship it is.”
“Aye, Captain,” McGinty said.
“You were in the navy, weren’t you, McGinty? The Royal Navy?”
“Aye, for a bit. Got bloody tiresome, all the piping and the flogging and such. Boatswain’s mates…bloody boatswain’s mates.”
“So you joined the army? The Continental Army?”
“Might have been in His Majesty’s Army too, for a spell,” McGinty said. “It all gets a bit hazy.”
Biddlecomb shook his head. “Loyalty doesn’t seem to be your strongest trait.”
McGinty smiled at that. “Not true, Captain, not true at all. The lads who are with me, I’m loyal to them. I’d die for them. I reckon I could say the same for the other fellows on this bark, now that they’ve welcomed me like the prodigal son. Or near enough.”
“Your king? Your government? No loyalty there?”
“My king?” McGinty smiled broadly. “I’m Irish, you’ll recall.”
“Hard to forget,” Biddlecomb said. “But I do believe George the Third is King of Ireland.”
“And king of his American colonies. How well is that working, boy-o?”
“Captain,” Biddlecomb corrected.
“Captain, then. Captain in a rebel navy. You’ll be a hero if you win this thing, but I’ll warrant it’s a rope’s end for you if you don’t.”
“Well, I have that advantage on you. At least there’s only one country looking to hang me.”
“Ah, as for me, let ‘em try!” McGinty said. “But tell me, are you worried about my loyalty to you? To the ship? Is that it? Are you afraid that I’ll…I don’t know…desert in time of battle?”
“Something of that nature,” Biddlecomb said.
“Here’s the truth of it, Captain Biddlecomb. When you grow up in Ireland, you learn pretty damned fast that it’s your people…family, village…they’re the ones deserve your loyalty. The rest…government, kings…the devil take the lot of them. Because, Captain, they’ll bugger you every time, and first chance they get.”
“We’re not your people,” Biddlecomb said.
“Whoever I decide to fight alongside, they’re my people, Captain, never you doubt it. As long as they’ll have me.”
“Well, we seem to have no choice this time,” Biddlecomb said. “Either of us. So pray, carry on.”
“Aye, sir, that I will!” McGinty said, then saluted and hurried forward. Biddlecomb stepped over to the aft corner of the deck and picked up a canvas bag that lay there. Inside were the smattering of flags that Falmouth had aboard. He fished around until he found a red flag, tightly bundled and ready to run aloft.
He carried it forward to the break of the quarterdeck. A few of the older hands were standing amidships and he called out, “Manning!” and Manning broke off from the rest and hurried aft.
“Take this and run it up to the weather yardarm,” he said, handing the flag to Manning. “Make certain it’ll be visible to Hopefleet.
“Aye, sir,” Manning said and hurried forward. Biddlecomb retreated to the weather side of the quarterdeck and Virginia joined him there.
“What is it that’s Manning’s up to?” she asked.
“Signal,” Biddlecomb said. “One of the few we worked out. It’s for Rumstick aboard Hopefleet. It means ‘take Falmouth in tow.’”
“I see,” Virginia said. “You reckon Hopefleet can tow us clear?”
“No,” Biddlecomb admitted. “No, I don’t.” In truth, he did not think Hopefleet’s taking them in tow would accomplish one damned thing. It was just something to do, something other than simply waiting for death to come rolling down on them. They would still die, certainly, but at least they would die doing something.