Isaac Biddlecomb and the men of Falmouth were harvesting rocks when Colonel Richard Somers of the Gloucester County Militia came riding up. They had been at it for several days. Falmouth needed an ungodly number of things: guns and gun carriages, powder, shot, masts and spars, food, water, bedding, paint, tar, cordage, all of the many tons of stores and equipment that went into a man-of-war, virtually none of which were to be had on the sparsely populated New Jersey coast.
She also needed ballast. And that, at least, could be found.
But, as it happened, not easily. The sandy soil of New Jersey’s southern coast did not yield the abundance of rocks that could be found in, say, New England, and Biddlecomb and his men had to drive their two rented wagons inland to gather stones that could be sent down into Falmouth’s hold. They unearthed what they could find and loaded the stones into the wagons until the axles were groaning, then drove them back to the pier. There they loaded the stones into nets and swayed them down into the hold to be distributed along either side of the keelson.
It was tiring work, backbreaking and tedious. And it was all but pointless in light of everything else the ship lacked. But it was something that had to be done, and it was one of the few things they could do, so Biddlecomb set them doing it.
He joined in himself. He knew there would be grumbling no matter what, but there would be less if the captain took part, hefting his share of stones, wielding shovel and pick with the rest. Nor was there much else for him to do. Falmouth had no orders and no means of carrying them out if she did, and thus the running of the ship did not place huge demands on her captain’s time.
His evenings were spent writing letter after letter to whomever he thought might do his men and his ship some good: the Marine Committee of the Continental Congress, the Continental Navy Board of the Eastern Department, the Continental Navy Board of the Middle Department, John Adams, Stephen Hopkins, William Stanton. In the morning each letter would be sent off in the care of whatever courier Somers could dragoon into the task.
Captain Biddlecomb did not write to George Washington. He did not bother. He had it on good authority that the commander-in-chief had a pretty low opinion of the worth of Continental frigates, and would just as soon see them scuttled or burned than lavish valuable resources on them.
He did write to his wife, Virginia, a single, ongoing letter that for some time he did not bother to finish because he had no means of getting it to her in occupied Philadelphia. It was not until a week after their arrival at Great Egg Harbor that Somers mentioned he knew a man who had family in Philadelphia and was thus able to enter the city, and was willing to bring Isaac’s personal correspondence with him. Isaac dashed off a closing paragraph, signed it with love, sealed it, and sent it off.
Writing was done by candlelight; daytime was for hefting stones. Isaac was bending at the waist, lifting a chunk of granite the size of a small dog, a stone just at the edge of what he could manage, when he saw Somers approaching. He staggered over to the wagon and dropped the rock in the bed with a great thud, then wiped his hands on the old slop trousers he was wearing. He arched his back and groaned despite himself.
He was not entirely certain why he was groaning. It might have been for the numerous aches that throbbed in various parts of his body, or it might have been in anticipation of the latest disaster that Somers was about to deliver. Still, he was happy to pause in his labors to hear what Somers had to say, grim as that was likely to be. Biddlecomb was at least a decade older than most of the men working under his command and he was feeling every one of those years.
The Colonel of militia arrived almost daily with intelligence concerning this or that, and it rarely improved Biddlecomb’s mood. Neither Somers nor any of the militia nor anyone at Great Egg Harbor wanted Falmouth there. They would not say it outright, lest they be accused of a want of patriotism, but they were not too subtle in their hints.
Biddlecomb waved at Somers as he approached and was surprised to see that the man was smiling. That, and his upright posture, and the quick pace at which he rode, suggested that, for once, there was good news, something he was actually eager to report. Isaac allowed himself to indulge in the possibilities: they had found a hundred men to fill out Falmouth’s crew; they had located a battery of eighteen-pounders to mount on the ship; they had found a shipyard with masts and spars suitable for the frigate, which were even then being hauled by a team of oxen to Great Egg Harbor.
“Captain Biddlecomb!” Somers shouted as he reined up and slid down from his horse. “I come with great news! Great news!”
Biddlecomb felt himself smile as he approached the man. “We could use some, colonel,” he said. “Pray, what is it?”
“Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne! He’s surrendered! Surrendered his whole damned army to General Gates. Just south of Lake George, a place called Saratoga.”
“Oh…” Biddlecomb said. This took him by surprise, so much so that he was not quite sure what it meant. “Burgoyne…?”
“General Burgoyne?” Somers said. “Come down from Canada in the spring, took Ticonderoga? You heard how he got beat up in Bennington, I have no doubt, him and his German butchers. Well, now it’s over for him. Surrendered his whole army.”
“I see,” Biddlecomb said. “That’s excellent news.”
“Excellent doesn’t hardly describe it,” Somers said.
“So, what does it mean?” Biddlecomb asked. “As far as the war and such?”
“Oh,” Somers said, and paused to consider the question. “Well, I guess we won’t know that for a while. It’ll depend on how they take it in London, I suppose. Maybe they’ll lose heart, and decide the Yankee Doodles are not like to be beat. Or maybe it’ll convince the French we’re going to win this thing, and they’ll join in the fight. All sorts of things might happen.”
“I see,” Biddlecomb said again. Great as the news was in terms of the grand strategic vision, it made no difference at all to his current situation. And that situation was not so grand at all.
“So,” Somers asked, “do you reckon Rumstick and them others will be back soon?”
“That I could not say,” Biddlecomb said. “If they’ve met with luck, then yes.” Biddlecomb had sent Rumstick and a dozen men inland to see if they could find a few trees suitable for masts or spars. If they could get just one more lower mast, or a couple of topmasts, it would make a very big difference in their ability to get underway.
Somers nodded. He was always interested in anything that would get the Falmouth out of Egg Harbor quicker. What’s more, Rumstick had taken with him all the oxen and suitable carts that Great Egg Harbor could provide, and Somers did not tire of telling Biddlecomb what a hardship that was.
“I debated about sending those men off, you understand,” Biddlecomb continued. “But I reckoned it was my best choice, because, as I said, it’ll get us out to sea quicker. If they’re successful. But it also slows us down here. We can’t get underway until we’re properly ballasted, especially not if we have more of the rig in.”
“Uh huh,” Somers said, nodding. He knew where Isaac was going with this.
“If we had more hands, maybe some of your militia, it would certainly help get this done all the faster,” Biddlecomb continued.
“I have no doubt,” Somers said. “But most of my men, they have families. Farms that need work, or they’re fishermen, and out on the water. And, of course, now there’s another problem,” he added, and with that his tone changed for the worse.
Of course there is, Biddlecomb thought. It was too much to hope that Somers might show up bearing nothing but good news, even if that good news had nothing to do with Falmouth’s circumstance.
“And what’s the problem now, Colonel?” Biddlecomb asked.
“It’s that son of a whore Barnett. Colonel Shadrach Barnett.”
“Barnett?” Biddlecomb said. “I thought he was gone.”
Somers had predicted that Barnett and his men would leave after their encounter on the pier. He guessed the banditti would lose interest in the possibility of taking the ship after seeing how tough a nut Falmouth would be to crack, with a hard and well-armed crew and a contingent of marines who may have been few in number but were still formidable with their training, discipline, and long bayonets.
And he had been right. Once the ersatz colonel and his men had roused themselves the following morning they had left town, all but a handful who seemed to prefer the comfort of the tavern. But apparently that departure was not permanent, and Barnett was not done with them.
“He’s back,” Somers said. “And worse yet, he’s got more men with him, and it seems there’s more coming in. These Pine Robbers, they’re mostly small gangs. A dozen men at most. But your ship, captain, it’s drawing them like moths to a flame, and they’re following this Barnett son of a bitch. They’ve all but filled the tavern. Ugly bunch.”
“Damn his eyes!” Biddlecomb said. He thought he was done with that problem, but here it was again, another shovel-full on top of his ever-growing dung heap of problems. “What, by God, does he wants with Falmouth. There’s not a damned thing aboard her of any particular value. Rigging, sails, that’s about it. God knows I have no hard money.”
“It’s pretty clear he doesn’t think so,” Somers said. “Maybe you should have let him go aboard, see for himself, like he wanted when he first came here.” The suggestion was largely rhetorical, but there was also a note of hope in the man’s voice, as if this might be an easy and bloodless way out of this situation.
“Maybe,” Biddlecomb said. “But I doubt it would solve anything at this point.” Whether it would do any good or not Biddlecomb could not guess, nor did he bother considering the question. There was no chance he would let that son of a whore Barnett come aboard his ship. It was a matter of principle now.
The ship’s too tempting, Biddlecomb thought as the two men stood in silence. Falmouth was unlike anything that was ever seen in a place like Great Egg Harbor. A massive ship, brand-new and vulnerable, its contents unknown, it was irresistible to the likes of Barnett. He would absolutely feel the need to possess it, and would not worry about how it might profit him until after it was in his hands.
Biddlecomb understood that, but he did not give voice to those thoughts: they would have just been oil on the flames of Somers’ desire to see the ship gone. Rather, he said, “Might I count on you and your men to offer the ship some protection? And perhaps some help in fetching and loading ballast?”
“Yes, well, I’m sure there’s some help we can offer,” Somers said. “I can detail what men I can.”
Biddlecomb did not push him further. He could not endure more talk of how the men of the local militia had farms to attend to, families to care for.
God forbid you actually take part in this war, Biddlecomb thought. He himself had not even had a home for the past three years and had spent less time with his wife and son that Somers had with his livestock. And there were plenty of fighting men who had it much worse. Plenty who would never draw another breath, including young David Weatherspoon, buried just a few miles from where they stood.
He did not think Somers was wanting for courage. He was not afraid of a fight. That Isaac would have found intolerable, and were it the case, he would have been more insistent that the man put himself and his troops in harm’s way. No, Somers was not a coward. He just did not want to be bothered.
“Whatever help you can muster, Colonel, will be most appreciated,” Biddlecomb said.
“Of course,” Somers said. “And what of you? What will you do, now that Barnett’s back?” There was that hopeful note again, the possibility that Biddlecomb and his ship might leave Great Egg Harbor.
Biddlecomb had been wondering that himself. Leaving was not a consideration, but another thought did come to him. It was not a terribly helpful thought, but it was a thought nonetheless.
“I guess I’ll go talk to the man,” he said.
“You’re certain this is the wisest course?”
Lieutenant Faircloth was seated at the big table in Falmouth’s great cabin, a glass of brandy in hand, his posture relaxed. Faircloth looked relaxed, always at ease, wherever he was and in whatever circumstance. It was uncanny. Biddlecomb had often marveled at it, and wondered if it was a facade or if the man really was so genuinely untroubled.
He’s bloody rich, no wife, no child, and in command of a full nine men. No wonder he’s untroubled, Biddlecomb thought, but he made himself push such unkind notions aside. Faircloth might have been born under a lucky star, but he was also by nature bold and unflinching in the face of danger, as loyal and generous as any man could be. It was thanks to Faircloth that they were both enjoying that excellent brandy. Not only would Biddlecomb not have been able to afford it, he would not even have known how it could be had.
“No, indeed, I am not certain,” Biddlecomb said. He was in his shirtsleeves, looking in a mirror, scrubbing away the last of the rock-harvesting dirt. “But here’s the thing of it. We must see how many men Barnett has, and what sort they are. That’ll give us a notion of how much of a fight we might have on our hands. And we can’t have that bastard thinking we’re cowering aboard the ship, do you see?”
“I do see,” said Faircloth. “So, right into the lions’ den, is it? Shall I have my marines turned out? We could make a damned nice show of it.”
“I think not,” Biddlecomb said. He remembered the last time Faircloth had made a show of it. Barnett had been something less than awed. And if Barnett’s numbers had indeed swelled, as Somers said, then he would be even more underwhelmed by the marines.
“We’re not trying to provoke a fight here,” Biddlecomb continued. “Just the opposite, in fact. But I’m afraid that the presence of the marines might make things…tense.”
“Of course,” Faircloth said. “So who then will you bring on this daring mission?”
Biddlecomb turned, looked at Faircloth, and took a sip of his brandy. “I had hoped you would go with me,” he said.
“Of course, I’m with you!” Faircloth said. “I had taken that as a given, my dear sir. I meant who else.”
Biddlecomb shrugged. “Barnett is like to have a score of men. Maybe more. Two score, perhaps. So you and I alone should be enough.”
Faircloth sported a wide mustache on his upper lip, more in the style of the Hessian mercenaries than American or British man-at-arms, and he was proud of it. Now Biddlecomb could see the mustache spreading side to side as Faircloth grinned.
“You and I should be more than enough,” he agreed.
They considered pistols, they considered swords, but in the end, they decided to go unarmed. There was no chance that they would prevail in a fight, so it seemed pointless to bring weapons and possibly provoke one. Likewise, they decided that it would be civilian dress, not uniforms. Faircloth was disappointed by that decision, Biddlecomb knew—he loved his bottle-green regimentals—but gentleman that he was he said nothing.
They donned heavy coats, the night being cold, and Biddlecomb instructed Mr. Gerrish to take command of the ship. Gerrish protested, of course, protested about their going and then about his not going. But the midshipman knew his captain well, and he pushed the argument right to the point where Biddlecomb was starting the grow annoyed, and no then further.
This was one of the few times when Biddlecomb was glad that Rumstick was not aboard—the first officer would not have stopped short as Gerrish had, and he certainly would not have been left behind.
It was a mile or so over a half-frozen dirt road to the heart of Great Egg Harbor, and light enough from the quarter moon that they did not need a lantern to navigate. The town itself consisted of a smattering of buildings: a few houses, a small church, a blacksmith shop, and a dry goods store that was also a chandlery of sorts.
Most of the village, washed in the dull moonlight, was barely visible as they approached. But the big, three-story public house was brilliantly lit, the windows blazing from the massive fireplace in the common room and the numerous lanterns hung about, enough light that one might have thought the tavern was on fire. Even from a fair distance off Biddlecomb and Faircloth could see the crowd of men in the big room. They seemed to have the casual, unhurried manner of folks who set down their cares as they lifted their tankards.
They stepped through a gate with twin pineapples carved on the top of the posts and made their way up the narrow path, past a garden of raised beds filled with brown, twisted stalks. They paused at the big front door and exchanged smiles, a quick acknowledgment of the madness of what they were doing, then Biddlecomb swung the door open.
He had been in that particular tavern a dozen times at least, during his current stay in Great Egg Harbor and back when he drove Charlemagne ashore on the nearby barrier island, but he had never seen it like this. There were dozens of men in there, crowded at the tables, gathered in clusters around the room, standing near the bar. The air was dense with smoke, which hung like morning fog in the room and swirled and danced in the light of the fire. The cumulative noise of the crowd, raucous and well into their cups, was as thick and heavy and nearly impenetrable as the smoke.
Colonel Shadrach Barnett was seated at a table near the center of the common room, the biggest table there, and him at the head of it. The rest of the table was taken up by his men—Biddlecomb recognized the one Barnett had called “Sergeant Wilcox”—and the surface was strewn with platters, tankards, bowls, knives, and the debris of a meal inelegantly eaten.
Faircloth took the lead, pushing his way through the room, making his apologies with all the grace that that crowd warranted and no more, Biddlecomb following in his wake. Heads turned as they moved toward the bar, conversations dropped away. Biddlecomb’s eyes were on Barnett, who looked up as he became aware that something was acting.
The quick run of expressions across Barnett’s face nearly made Biddlecomb laugh. There was confusion at first, then recognition, then surprise, then anger, all in the time it took Biddlecomb to advance three steps. Then all of that went away, and Barnett forced a blank look on his face as he watched Biddlecomb cross the room.
He and Faircloth reached the dark-red painted bar and Faircloth called for the tavern keeper to bring them ale.
“This fellow’s doing a good business,” Faircloth said, loud enough to be heard over the noise and nodding toward the tavern keeper who was filling their tankards.
“As good as he’d do in six months of normal trade, I’d wager,” Biddlecomb said. “At least he must be happy we’re in town, and the custom we’re bringing him, even if no one else is.”
“The doxies above stairs are happy too, I should think. They have to be making their fortune as well,” Faircloth said and Biddlecomb regarded him with a raised eyebrow.
“Not that I know about doxies above stairs,” Faircloth insisted. “Just what I hear from some of my boys.”
“Captain Biddlecomb!” Barnett called, his voice loud and jovial, cutting through the sound of the drunken men, which was building in volume once again. Biddlecomb turned to see the colonel on his feet and pushing his way through the crowd, a touch unsteady but still moving with authority, his way unimpeded as the others in the room moved quickly out of his path.
So this is how he wishes to play it, Biddlecomb though. So be it. He took up the tankard the tavern keeper had set on the bar and took a deep drink as he watched Barnett cross the room toward them.
“Colonel Barnett,” he said once Barnett was close enough that he could speak without raising his voice overmuch. “A pleasure to see you again, sir. Pray, allow me to present Lt. Elisha Faircloth. I don’t believe you had the pleasure, when last you visited my ship.”
“Don’t believe I did,” Barnett said, his voice sounding like a shovel in wet gravel. He nodded at Faircloth and his eyes flicked up and down the two men, fast as a snake. They had unbuttoned their great coats on entering the tavern and the absence of weapons did not go unnoticed.
“I’ll own I’m a bit surprised to see you here, captain,” Barnett continued.
“Why is that, Colonel?” Faircloth asked, with just the right amount of faux curiosity in the question, just the right touch of irony in the word colonel, enough that Biddlecomb heard it but Barnett, through the noise and the rum, did not.
“No reason,” Barnett said. “Just don’t seem like the sort of place for a man of your breeding.”
“Good enough for a colonel from George Washington’s headquarters,” Biddlecomb pointed out, nodding toward Barnett. “But pray, what brings you back? I had thought you had learned enough. You know, to make your report.”
Barnett’s expression darkened somewhat, his patience with that game wearing thin, his native wit faltering. “We’re not done here, captain. Not done,” he said. He looked slowly and meaningfully around the room, at the abundance of men. “Come back to finish it up.”
“I see,” Biddlecomb said, nodding. “Well, best of luck with that.” He turned away from Barnett, leaned on the bar, and took a long drink from his tankard, and Faircloth did likewise. He waited for Barnett to leave, though he knew with certainty he would not. Barnett would not tolerate Biddlecomb’s having the last word. He would not tolerate Biddlecomb’s turning his back on him.
“Say, Captain, I give you high marks for courage, coming in here like this,” Barnett said at last. “Maybe not for intelligence, mind, but for courage? Sure. Even if you did try to sneak in, leaving the fancy uniforms back on your ship. You and the toy soldier here.”
Biddlecomb took another drink from his tankard. He did not turn around and he did not reply. A second passed, then another, then Barnett clapped a hand on Biddlecomb’s shoulder and pulled, half spinning him around. The half-full tankard jerked sideways and with just a little assistance from Biddlecomb, a wave of ale hit Barnett square in the chest.
Barnett looked down at the ale and then up at Biddlecomb, and Biddlecomb could see the controlled rage boiling just under the surface. They looked at one another, unflinching, unblinking, as if each was holding a lit match, each waiting for the other to light the gunpowder that would blow the tavern to bits.
And then Barnett smiled. And then he laughed. “Clumsy, clumsy!” he shouted. “Both of us, clumsy, clumsy! We keep this up, there might be trouble.”
He turned and addressed the common room. “Boys!” he shouted. “We have here a genuine captain of the navy of these united states! And I say we give him a big cheer! And the marine as well!”
The others, the banditti, half-drunk or more, fired up, eagerly took up Barnett’s suggestion, shouting and raising tankards.
“Hip, hip…” Barnett shouted.
“Huzzah!” the crowd replied, tankards raised even higher. Biddlecomb watched the men as they cheered: young men, old men, dirty and rough-hewn. Fighting men, but men who fought for themselves, for their fellows, for the scraps they lived on, and the hope of riches. Half of them, it seemed to Biddlecomb, did not know if Barnett’s cheer was supposed to be sincere or ironic, and they did not seem to care.
“Hip, hip…”
“Huzzah!”
“Hip, hip…”
“Huzzah!” they yelled again and the cheer broke down into random shouting, toasting, cussing, laughing.
“There, captain, a proper welcome!” Barnett said, smiling even wider now. “And I reckon it ain’t the last you’ll get from us!” He slapped Biddlecomb on the shoulder, nodded toward Faircloth, then turned his back and made his way back to the table, done with the officers of the navy of those united states.
“Well, that was damned friendly of them,” Faircloth said, and unlike Barnett’s men, Biddlecomb did not miss the irony in the words.
“Friendly, indeed,” Biddlecomb said. He looked down into his empty tankard. They had managed to learn a few things, at least, in this ill-advised outing. They learned that they were indeed very outnumbered by some very bad men. They learned that Barnett had no intention of giving up until Falmouth was in his possession. And they learned that their situation was bleak, even bleaker that Biddlecomb had realized an hour before.