His Majesty’s fifty-gun ship Experiment did not burn to the waterline. Not even close. That was a disappointment to Biddlecomb, and to Rumstick, but it was not really a surprise. Still, the fire did what it needed to do, and they both lived to enjoy that fact.
At first, the fighting played out just as Biddlecomb imagined it would. Faircloth’s men scrambled aloft into Falmouth’s foretop, the rest of Falmouth’s crew lined the rails forward where Biddlecomb guessed the two ships would come together. Wallace had his boarding party assembled on Experiment’s forecastle head, well over a hundred men massed and ready to go over the side as the two ships drew closer and closer.
But what Hopefleet was about, no one knew, Hopefleet charging down on Experiment under all plain sail. Biddlecomb could only guess that Rumstick meant to slam the brig into the man-of-war’s bow. He could not imagine what good Rumstick thought that might do.
Wallace could not have known either. He certainly did not see Hopefleet as any real threat. He made no attempt to fend her off, save for opened up with his starboard battery. He was determined to send boarders over Falmouth’s side and he did not waver in that. Oliver Cromwell was wearing back and forth, pouring round shot into Experiment’s stern, Hopefleet was driving to collide with her bow, and still Wallace closed with Falmouth, still his men stood ready to sweep the frigate’s deck.
Then everything seemed to happen at once. With a call from Faircloth, the marines in the foretop opened fire, raining musket balls down on the men on Experiment’s deck, and an instant later the men lining Falmouth’s side opened up as well.
Biddlecomb could see men on Experiment’s deck dropping where they stood, or clapping hands on bloody wounds. He heard shouts and orders passing along and then the British marines were firing back, aiming up at the foretop and at the men hunkered down at Falmouth’s rails.
Experiment’s bow swung closer to Falmouth as Wallace, eager to get his men onboard before they were cut down by Faircloth’s marines, drove his ship through the gap that remained. Biddlecomb pressed his lips together, waiting for the impact of the massive man-of-war slamming into Falmouth’s bow. Once they hit, once Wallace’s men could get aboard, then it would all be over quickly.
He looked past Experiment’s deck, out to where Hopefleet was still running down on them, and that was when he saw the smoke. It was pouring up from the brig’s main hatch and whisking away down wind. So much smoke had to mean that the entire lower deck was engulfed in flame.
“Rumstick…son of a bitch…” Biddlecomb said out loud. He was not sure if he was angry at such recklessness or impressed. Either way he knew Rumstick might well have pulled his bacon out of the fire.
Wallace, or one of his officers, seemed to see the smoke at the same time that Biddlecomb did. There was suddenly a great swirl of activity on the fifty’s expansive deck, men pointing to the starboard bow, some running forward or aft, some shouting orders. The boarding party, assembled and standing ready, broke apart as Hopefleet slammed into Experiment’s bow and her fore and mainmast come down in a smothering tangle.
There seemed to be no thought of boarding Falmouth from that instant on as the men on Experiment’s deck turned to clear the wreckage of Hopefleet’s masts and yards and sails, all tangled up with the man-of-war’s headrig and bow. They began slashing at the shrouds, shoving spars back overboard, and Biddlecomb was just starting to think that they would clear it all away before it could do Falmouth any good when the whole mass burst into flames.
It started with Hopefleet’s foresail. The flame spread quickly up to the topsail and its attendant rigging. Soon the fire was consuming Hopefleet’s broken yards, and then Experiment’s spritsail and spritsail yard and her fore staysail and then the forestay itself.
Faircloth’s marines did not let up, nor did the men on Falmouth’s rail. They continued to pour small arms fire into Experiment’s men, even as the men were fighting the mounting flames, bringing confusion and near-panic to Experiment’s foredeck. Men beat at the flames with wet bedding, they formed chains with buckets, while others fired back at Falmouth or fell wounded under their shipmates’ feet.
For some moments, Biddlecomb stared, transfixed, at the scene, before he regained his senses. He turned to Tolpin who was still at his place at the wheel. “Tolpin, bear up, bear up!” he called and Tolpin turned the wheel to larboard, swinging Falmouth’s bow away from the burning Experiment.
Biddlecomb hurried to the break of the quarterdeck. McGinty was pacing back and forth behind the line of men firing over the bulwark.
“Mr. McGinty!” Biddlecomb shouted over the gunfire and the roar of the flames. He pointed up at Falmouth’s one sail. “We’re bearing up! See to bracing the foresail!”
McGinty looked back at him, looked up at the foresail, looked over at Experiment. He waved and started directing men to the sheets, tacks, and braces.
Experiment was dead in the water, her topsails clewed up, the entire ship’s company fighting the blaze. Falmouth swung clear of the man-of-war as her foresail continued to drive her ahead, and even as slow as she was it was not long before the jury rigged frigate had left Experiment well astern.
Biddlecomb watched the activity through his glass as the man-of-war receded in their wake. He could see buckets of water moving man to man up to the foredeck, could see the heavy canvas hoses pulled forward. Experiment’s crew was trained and disciplined and well-led, and already the flames were coming under control. This would not be the end of her.
No, she was not dead, but she was wounded. Her forestay and the spritsail and the rigging on her bowsprit and jibboom were all burned away, and Biddlecomb suspected there was a lot more damage he could not see. The fifty-gun ship might not burn and sink, but neither would she be getting underway again for some time to come.
Experiment was a mile astern of them before Oliver Cromwell came up along Falmouth’s leeward side and Parker offered to take the frigate in tow. A half-hour later, the hawser had been passed between them and Cromwell, with all sail to studdingsails set, was underway, making a good four knots with Falmouth dragging behind. Sparrowhawk was with them as well, Rumstick and the remains of his crew safe aboard, to Biddlecomb’s enormous relief.
For all of that day and most of the next, they made their heading northeast, with Cromwell towing Falmouth in her wake. The wind backed from south of west to all but southerly, but that still served them well. Sparrowhawk stayed to the north of them, between the two ships and the coast of New York, keeping a weather eye out for British cruisers, but the horizon remained blessedly empty.
The sun was past its zenith and heading for the horizon on the second day of their passage when they spotted Montauk and Block Island off the larboard bow. Those waters were Biddlecomb’s, he knew them as well as he knew any home he had ever lived in, and he could have easily navigated them in the dark or in any weather if need be. But there was no need, because Captain Parker aboard Oliver Cromwell knew them just as well, and the approaches to New London even better.
On Parker’s signal, both Cromwell and Falmouth tacked together, though in truth Falmouth did not so much tack as she was dragged around by the tow rope. With the wind over the larboard beam, they stood into Long Island Sound and at daybreak the next morning dropped anchor at New London, at the mouth of the Thames River. McGinty assembled a boat crew and they rowed over to Oliver Cromwell: Biddlecomb, McGinty, Faircloth, and Ezra Rumstick, who had come back aboard Falmouth the moment the anchor was set.
A proper side party was in place to welcome Biddlecomb aboard as he climbed up the steps on Oliver Cromwell’s side. The boatswain’s mates let loose with their calls just as his head reached the level of the deck, and the marines, in two rows, presented arms. Biddlecomb stepped aboard and walked down between the lines of marines and shook Parker’s outstretched hand.
“Welcome to New London, Captain,” Parker said. He was smiling broadly. Biddlecomb realized it was the first time he had seen the man smile.
“Thank you, Captain. And thank you for pulling us the whole way here.”
“I suspect you’ll want to visit your wounded first?” Parker said.
“Yes, very much,” Biddlecomb said. Oliver Cromwell carried a surgeon onboard, to Biddlecomb’s great relief, and the wounded from Falmouth and from Hopefleet had been transferred to the Connecticut ship so they might be under his care. Parker led Biddlecomb below now, where the men were recovering in the sickbay: Ewald and Gosbee, Manning, McGinty’s men Bellows and Foster, and a few others.
The splinter in Gerrish’s side had not pierced his bowels, as it turned out, and the surgeon was able to cut it free and to dress the stump where his foot had been. He had been given laudanum for the pain. He was sleeping when Biddlecomb stepped up to his hammock, but his color looked as good as one might hope for a man who had endured what he had. The surgeon felt that Gerrish’s chances of survival were decent, much better than fifty-fifty. Maybe seventy-thirty, which he reckoned good odds.
They breakfasted in Cromwell’s great cabin, guests of Captain Parker, who, it turned out, could be quite gracious when the mood struck him, which it certainly did at that moment. They had a fine time of it, recounting their experiences during the fight and the ponderous sail to New London. When the plates were cleared away, Biddlecomb turned to business.
“Well, Captain Parker,” he said. “This is your home, you know who’s who here, so I reckon it would be best if you were to arrange the sale of the materiel we took from the prize. And I think it would be appropriate if you were to keep Sparrowhawk as tender to Cromwell, if you like.”
“Most generous, sir,” Parker said. “And yes, I would like that very much.”
“And perhaps you could assist me further,” Biddlecomb continued, getting to the real reason for his generosity. “If I don’t miss my guess, you probably have some influence in this state. Any help we might get in procuring masts, yards, boatswains stores…I would say just about everything a ship might need…that would be most appreciated.”
The talk continued on like that for a bit more, amiable negotiations, though negotiations nonetheless. Biddlecomb and his officers took their leave at last and were rowed back to Falmouth. There Sprout also had a proper side party ready, though somewhat less impressive than the one Parker had assembled.
Virginia and Jack were on the quarterdeck when Biddlecomb climbed up the ladder. They had come through the battle unscathed; Experiment’s twelve-pounders were able to flatten sections of bulwark but they could not punch through Falmouth’s hull, yellow pine planks over frames of white oak. Despite that fact, her time below, huddled in the dark, feeling the impact of the round shot against the hull, Jack screaming in her arms, had been the worst experience of Virginia’s entire life, surpassing even her long ride while holding the wounded Captain Dexter at gunpoint.
Biddlecomb kissed her and kissed Jack on the cheek.
“How did you fare with Captain Parker?” Virginia asked.
“Well enough. He can be gracious when he cares to be, but he’s still a tight-fisted Yankee merchant captain at heart.”
“I know the sort well,” Virginia said. “I’m the daughter of one. The wife of one.”
“Perhaps the mother of one,” Biddlecomb said.
“Will you get what you need to finish Falmouth out?” Virginia asked.
“Parker agreed to help,” Biddlecomb said. “We need masts, spars. Cordage. Guns. Men. Mostly we need men. And even with Parker’s help, we still have shortages to contend with, and no hard money to spend, and the privateers are first in line for stores and the best seamen.”
“You’re making me quite melancholy, Captain Biddlecomb,” Virginia said.
“On the other hand, there’s little danger of me sailing away anytime soon,” Isaac replied.
“Ah, now that does my heart glad to hear!” Virginia said. She put her arm through his and they looked out to the east where the sun was climbing up over the sound and the low hills of Fisher’s Island.
Little danger…Biddlecomb thought. There was every reason to believe that. He, Rumstick, Faircloth, McGinty, they were well out of harm’s way now.
It’s an odd thing, though, he thought, how harm has a way of hunting us down.