Do something, just bloody do something, damn your eyes, McGinty thought. It was maddening, maddening in the extreme. For an hour and a half, since the first hint of dawn, the three ships had been sailing a parallel course, Sparrowhawk heading south by west with Hopefleet in her wake and the strange ship two cable lengths to weather.
The newcomer had not changed course or altered the set of his sails in any way. He just stood on, his ten guns jutting out from the gunports, ready to tear Sparrowhawk apart in a single broadside, if he so chose.
“Sergeant, what the devil are they about?” Foster called from the larboard rail where he and the rest of the ship’s company were leaning and gawking out across the water. Their initial excitement at seeing the American flag had turned to confusion as the minutes rolled past and nothing seemed to happen.
“They’re having their breakfast…writing love songs to sing us…how should I bloody know?” McGinty snapped. He, too, had run through the gamut of emotions, with more twists and turns than those of the men under his command who did not appreciate the precariousness of their position.
He had been furious at first with his ill-luck, to have a fortune within his grasp only to then have it snatched away. But that feeling had faded and the fear had set in as he began to truly appreciate that he was likely to lose a great deal more than a valuable cargo. Then the fear had turned to resolve as he reminded himself of the many tight places he had managed to wriggle out of over the years. And with that thought, he was suddenly eager to get to it, to grapple with these bastards in whatever way they meant to grapple, to match wits with the Yankee Doodles, which he did not figure would be much of a match at all.
But the captain of this ship seemed to be in no such hurry, and as the minutes crept by in their petty pace, McGinty found his resolve turning to frustration and anger. He looked aloft at the peak of Sparrowhawk’s gaff for what he knew was at least the fourth time. The Continental flag with its stars and stripes was flying there, the wind blowing it over to leeward making it clearly visible to the ship off their larboard side. That being the only Continental flag they had, Hopefleet, per McGinty’s orders, was flying no flag at all.
Despite his wanting to appear cool in front of the men, McGinty was ready to start cursing out loud by the time the ship finally made a move: a slight turn to starboard and her yards here hauled around a bit and she turned on a heading more directly toward Sparrowhawk. Now their courses were converging, and the two of them would collide eventually if no one altered course again.
It did not come to that, however, because the stranger, when she was still two or three hundred feet away, turned back to her original course and hailed. McGinty heard the voice come over the water, amplified by a speaking trumpet: “What ship is that?”
He was ready for the answer because he had been turning it over in his head for the past hour or so, had been going down one rabbit hole after another, trying to find the passage that would lead him to freedom, at a bare minimum, and to possibly holding onto his prize as well.
“Continental sloop Sparrowhawk!” McGinty called back. “What ship are you?”
There was a pause before the answer came. “Oliver Cromwell, Connecticut State Navy!”
Connecticut State Navy? McGinty thought. He was only vaguely aware that states had navies, and he certainly did not think any of them had cruisers of this size.
Bloody far from home, aren’t you? he thought next. But then he realized it might be a stroke of luck that this ship was part of a state navy, and not the Continental service. He wasn’t entirely sure how it might work to his advantage, but he had an idea that it might.
He lifted his speaking trumpet, ready to make some haughty reply, to throw this state navy blockhead onto his beam-ends, but the master of Oliver Cromwell beat him to it.
“Where are you from, and where bound?” he called.
“We’re late of the Delaware Bay, on Continental business,” McGinty replied, conveying in his tone that men such as him did not have time to waste with the Connecticut State Navy. “If you wish to escort us, you’re welcome, but otherwise pray don’t hamper us!”
He lowered his speaking trumpet and waited for a reply, waited longer than he expected he would. There seemed to be some discussion going on aboard Oliver Cromwell. That was not good.
“What is the brig astern of you?” the voice called back.
“She is our prize. Continental business! We must make all haste!” McGinty called back.
Again there was a pause, with only the familiar sound of the creaking of the hull and rig and the slap of water to fill the air. McGinty could see the looks of confusion on the faces of his men, and the British sailors as well. They must have thought this would be a simple matter: a ship of a state navy meets a ship of the Continental Navy and her prize, they wave to one another and then everyone goes on their way. It’s how McGinty felt it should play out. The only one who seemed to feel differently was this whore’s son aboard Oliver Cromwell.
It was a minute or two before the master of Cromwell replied, and when he did, the words were exactly what McGinty did not wish to hear. “Heave to! Heave to, we mean to come aboard you!”
Damn you, you impertinent rascal, McGinty thought. He lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips. “I told you already, captain, we must make all haste! Not a moment to lose! Continental business of a most urgent nature!”
This time there was no hesitation in the reply. “Heave to immediately, or we’ll fire into you!”
Damn… McGinty thought. These bastards don’t seem overly impressed by this ‘Continental’ horse shit. Maybe it’s actually worse, them being Connecticut State Navy. He looked around the deck, looked at Hopefleet in their wake, and then looked out to the shoreline to the west. He sighed.
“Hands to the braces!” he called. “Cast off them damned bowlines. Make ready to heave to!” There was nothing for it, he could see that.
Ten minutes later Sparrowhawk was stopped dead in the water, as was Oliver Cromwell, a hundred yards to windward. Pip, happily, had been alert enough to see what was going on, and his men cooperative enough that they were able to heave the brig to before she slammed into Sparrowhawk’s transom. Now both vessels waited as a boat from Oliver Cromwell pulled away from that ship’s side and made its way over the swells to Sparrowhawk.
“Bellows!” McGinty called to the nearest of his men. “Go below, fetch up the prisoners locked in the mate’s cabin.” He would have liked to keep those men hidden, but if he was caught doing so, which he likely would be, it would be very difficult to explain.
A few moments later Finch and his two officers and the two foremast hands appeared on deck looking noticeably worse off for having spent the night jammed together in the small cabin. The sailors headed forward, the officers came aft.
“I trust you had a comfortable night,” McGinty said as they approached.
“Comfortable?” Finch said. “Damn you, you…” His voice trailed off as he noticed Oliver Cromwell hove to weather. He stared at the ship for a moment and then turned back to McGinty, but McGinty cut him off before any questions could be asked.
“Now, see here, boy-o,” McGinty said. “This ship, she’s a Yankee Doodle, just like us. It ain’t the bloody Royal Navy come to save your miserable hides. So you’ll all keep your bloody gobs shut, or it’ll go hard on you after they leave, depend on it.”
Finch frowned and McGinty could see that he was wrestling with making reply. But finally he settled for a “Humph,” and said no more.
The Cromwell’s boat closed the distance quickly, the oars expertly manned by twenty sailors in blue jackets, three officers sitting in the sternsheets. Along the centerline, between the rowers, sat a company of marines. McGinty could not help but feel a pang of jealousy at the sight of them, and of so many experienced, able-bodied American seamen.
Ah, damn my eyes, give me them men and I’ll sweep the seas clean, he thought, but then the boat swooped up under the transom and came along the leeward side and McGinty knew it was time for him to go to work.
He strode across to the gangway and stood back as the first of the officers stepped through the bulwark and onto the deck. McGinty did not greet them and he did not smile. His expression, his stance, conveyed the notion that he was not at all pleased with this interruption of his voyage, that he did not have time to waste, and that these upstarts from a mere state navy were making a grave mistake interfering with Continental business.
“Gentlemen,” he said when the last of the officers had come aboard and the first of the marines came up behind them. “It’s regrettable that you chose to delay us in this manner. As I said, I’m on business that won’t admit of delay, and…”
“That’ll do, captain,” the first of the officers said. He was looking around Sparrowhawk’s deck, not really paying attention to McGinty at all. McGinty knew full well what the man was seeing: a ridiculously small crew for a naval vessel, men dressed as soldiers, not seamen, men carrying muskets on deck. And he knew what the man was thinking: something was not right aboard Sparrowhawk.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the officer from Cromwell turned to McGinty. “And you, sir, are…?”
“Captain Angus McGinty. Continental Navy.” He kept his tone formal, made it clear he was offended at having to answer impertinent questions.
“Continental Navy?” Finch huffed behind McGinty’s back. “You said you were a privateer! You’re a damned pirate, sir, and nothing more.”
The officer from Cromwell looked at Finch and then looked back at McGinty, an eyebrow raised.
“Master of the prize we took,” McGinty said, nodding toward Finch. “He’ll say what he will to try and worm out of being made a prisoner of war. And who are you, sir?”
“Lieutenant John Little, first office of the ship Oliver Cromwell,” the man said, making the words sound almost like an afterthought.
Oh, Little John, is it? McGinty thought. And is Robin Hood the master of the ship? But he kept the jibe to himself, which for him was no easy task.
“You have your commissioning papers, I assume?” Lieutenant Little said. “Your orders and muster book and such? Ship’s logs?”
“No, I don’t, and bloody thanks to you,” McGinty said. “You start chasing after us, and sure we can’t see your colors. You might have flown them from the masthead, where they’d do some good. We reckoned you were Royal Navy, reckoned we’d be taken for sure, so we threw the lot overboard.”
“All your papers? You threw them overboard?”
“It’s customary, you know, to keep such things out of the hands of the enemy.”
The lieutenant regarded McGinty for a moment, and his face showed no hint that he believed this story. “It’s customary to throw signal books and orders and correspondence overboard,” he said. “Not commissioning papers and muster books and ship’s logs.”
“You may have your ways in your Connecticut State Navy,” McGinty said. “When you sail under orders of the Continental Congress, you do things a wee bit different, boy-o.”
Lieutenant Little sighed a deep sigh. “I can see we won’t get this straightened out here,” he said. “Captain Parker is master of Oliver Cromwell, we’ll let him sort this out. Pray, get what papers you have remaining, if any, and join me in the boat.” He turned to Finch. “You had best come as well. I’ll warrant you have an interesting tale to tell.”
McGinty retreated down to Sparrowhawk’s tiny great cabin. He found a canvas bag and stuffed all the paperwork he could find into it, which included the sloop’s logbook from her days as His Majesty’s armed vessel Sparrowhawk and the logs and sundry papers from Hopefleet. Since taking command he himself had not kept a log of any kind. He did not see the point, and he did not feel it would benefit him to have any official record of his activities.
He made his way back on deck and down into the boat alongside. Finch was already seated in the sternsheets, while one of the officers and the company of marines remained aboard the sloop.
They crossed over to Oliver Cromwell in silence, and when the boat hooked onto the chains Little and the other officers went up the boarding steps first, then Finch and then McGinty with his sack of documents. He was met at the gangway by more marines, standing in two lines, and gun crews standing idle at each of the twenty great guns.
“This way, gentlemen,” Lieutenant Little said, leading McGinty and Finch up a short ladder to the quarterdeck aft. There they were met by a man in a blue uniform coat with white waistcoat and breeches and a most serious-looking expression.
“Captain Parker,” Lieutenant Little said, gesturing toward McGinty. “May I present Captain Angus McGinty of the Continental sloop Sparrowhawk?” He put just the slightest emphasis on the words ‘captain’ and ‘Continental’, enough to suggest that those designations were not to be taken as a given.
Captain Parker gave a perfunctory nod and Lt. Little said, “And this is Captain James Finch, formerly master of the brig Hopefleet, which Captain McGinty took as a prize. Gentlemen, I give you Captain Timothy Parker of the Connecticut State Navy ship Oliver Cromwell.”
“An honor, sir,” McGinty began, “but let me say, as I tried to inform the young officer here, I…”
“You have your papers, sir?” Parker interrupted. “Ship’s log, commissioning papers, and such?”
“I’ve some,” McGinty said. He was still trying to project an air of importance, of a man not to be trifled with, but this Parker was making the task considerably difficult.
“It seems he threw most of them overboard, sir,” Lieutenant Little chimed in. “Or so he says.”
“Threw them overboard?” Parker asked.
“And well I did,” McGinty said. “Given the position you yourself put me in, sir, I would…”
“Yes, yes,” Parker said with a wave of his hand. “We’ll see about that. Here, is that what you have?” He pointed to the canvas bag in McGinty’s hand.
“Aye, it is, and…”
Parker reached over and before McGinty knew what he was doing he took the bag. “I’ll see what you have here, sir. Pray remain on deck and I’ll send for you. Lieutenant Little, with me, if you please.”
“Sir, I must protest this outrageous treatment…” Captain Finch said, stepping forward, but Parker waved him off as well.
“You’ll have your chance, sir, depend on it. Now, pray, forgive me.” He nodded again, turned, and he and Little disappeared below, leaving McGinty and Finch to wander the Oliver Cromwell’s quarterdeck in silence.
McGinty sauntered over to the rail at the forward end of the quarterdeck and looked down at the waist below, and then up at the rig and the sails. Everything was tidy and ship-shape, the guns and the rigging blackened down, the sails in good repair, the men properly fitted out. The deck was white from scrubbing and the masts neatly painted a buff color. A ship of the Royal Navy would not have looked any better.
Ah, this Parker’s a right tartar, I see, McGinty thought. Pushing him about will take some doing, you’d best believe. It had been his plan from the first to brass it out, to show sufficient confidence and outrage that he could bowl over any martinet of a naval captain, smother him in horse manure and be on his way. He had done it often enough and found it generally worked. But it would only work on a certain type of martinet, and it seemed this Captain Parker was the wrong type altogether.
Well, we’ll see now, won’t we? McGinty thought. And he knew he was right about that. One way or another, he would see.
For a few moments more, he remained at the break of the quarterdeck, staring idly across the water at Sparrowhawk and rehearsing his story in his mind. He had to have it fixed, he knew, had to repeat every element exactly the same way. Any change in the tale, any misspoken words, were the death of deception.
“Captain McGinty?” he heard Lieutenant Little call.
McGinty turned to find the officer standing behind him. Little was still putting that note of doubt in the word ‘captain’ and McGinty considered giving the man a verbal back of the hand for his impertinence, but decided against it. Better that Little not know he was getting under his skin.
“Captain Parker will speak with you now, sir,” Little continued. He led McGinty down the ladder to the waist and then aft under the quarterdeck to the door of the great cabin, the scuttle being reserved for the captain and first office alone.
A marine sentry stood at the door to the great cabin and as they approached he knocked on the door and called, “Lieutenant Little, sir!”
Bloody thinks he’s bloody Admiral George bloody Rodney, McGinty thought as Parker called “Come!” The marine opened the door and McGinty ducked into the spacious cabin—spacious at least in comparison to that of Sparrowhawk.
Parker was seated behind the table that took up a good part of the cabin’s deck space, the various logbooks and papers McGinty had brought spread out in front of him.
“Captain McGinty,” he said, looking McGinty in the eye, “we seem to have a…complicated situation here.” His tone was less brusque, less officious, and dismissive than it had been on deck. More reasonable. McGinty found that encouraging. And suspicious.
He glanced down at the table. Hopefleet’s bill of lading was on the top of the pile, sitting at the captain’s right hand.
Ah, you greedy bastard! McGinty thought. You see how valuable that prize is, don’t you? And you want it, all legal-like.
“Complicated? I suppose you might say so,” McGinty said. “Though not so different from what we Continental Navy fellows encounter, often enough.”
“The thing of it is,” Parker continued, “I see here that your sloop, Sparrowhawk, was part of the Royal Navy but a month ago. And that’s about all I see. No indication she was taken into the Continental service. And I dare say I’ve never heard of any vessel of that name captured or adjudicated or commissioned. And I generally hear of such things.”
“As I explained to your Lieutenant Little,” McGinty said with a note of weariness, “Most of the papers went overboard, on account of me taking you for a British cruiser. And as to Sparrowhawk, she was taken into the navy in an informal way, sort of a brevet promotion, if you will. We took her on the Delaware River, right in the middle of the worst of it, trying to hold Black Dick Howe at bay. It was Captain Biddlecomb, of the Falmouth frigate…”
“Hold a moment,” Parker said, leaning back. “Captain Biddlecomb? Captain Isaac Biddlecomb, of Rhode Island?”
Ah, that’s struck a spark! McGinty thought. “Yes, Captain Isaac Biddlecomb, of Rhode Island,” McGinty said. He had no idea if Biddlecomb was from Rhode Island or the far side of the moon, but he reckoned he had best play along. “Do you know that worthy, sir?”
“Met the man once,” Parker said, “but I know him by reputation well enough.”
McGinty could not miss the tone of respect in Parker’s voice, and thought, Maybe old Biddlecomb isn’t quite the silly blockhead I took him for. Here was an unforeseen path opening up before him.
“I’ve no doubt you do know his reputation,” McGinty said. “Any man-of-war’s man would, who’s served on this station. So you must know, he was given command of the Falmouth frigate, building in Philadelphia. Problem was, the damned British took the town before the ship could sail clear. She didn’t even have her ballast in her. My lads and me, we were assigned to her protection, do you see? Sent to keep her out of the hands of Billy Howe and his German butchers.”
“Assigned?” Parker asked. “By who?”
“By General Washington, of course!” McGinty said as if the answer should have been obvious. “We were with the Fifth Pennsylvania, Continental Line. The general sent me because he needed a man who knew his way around a ship, and I’ve been to sea all my life, man and boy. Commanded a privateer in the first year of the war. My lads, to be sure, are not sailors. Lieutenant Little here might have mentioned as much.”
Parker looked at Little and nodded and Little nodded as well.
“There’s the reason, do you see?” McGinty said. “We were sent to protect the frigate, not sail her. But when the British sent Sparrowhawk to cut her out, me and Captain Biddlecomb, we took Sparrowhawk instead. And he puts me in command of her, and my men as crew, because he has not a real sailor to spare.”
“I see,” Parker said. “And how do you happen to be out here? And taking prizes?”
“Well, we managed to get the Falmouth frigate to Great Egg Harbor in New Jersey. But she’s got no spars, no stores, no ordnance. So Captain Biddlecomb sends me out in command of Sparrowhawk to see what we could take from the British to fit her out. Hunting for prizes, you know, and us being a commissioned Continental vessel, and all. And damn my eyes if I didn’t hook exactly what the good captain was fishing for!”
“Hmm…” Parker said. Like McGinty, he was seeing great riches slipping from his fingers. “The sloop’s not, in fact, a commissioned vessel. And she’s not a privateer. You’re not a commissioned naval officer. And yet Captain Biddlecomb sends you out to cruise against the enemy? Smacks of piracy, what?”
“He did it on his own authority,” McGinty said.
“I’m not sure he has that authority, Captain,” Lieutenant Little chimed in.
Sorry, Little Lieutenant, but you won’t get your slice of this pie, McGinty thought, but rather than voice his sympathy, he said, “You’ll have to take that up with him, Lieutenant. And General Washington, who give him his orders.”
For a long moment Parker was silent, staring blankly at a point just past McGinty’s left shoulder, considering all of this. “So, Captain,” he said at length, “you say you left Captain Biddlecomb and his frigate at Great Egg Harbor?”
“Aye, Captain, that’s where we were bound,” McGinty said.
“Yet you were heading south when we spotted you.”
“We were heading north when we spotted you,” McGinty said. “Making for Great Egg Harbor. We put about when we saw you and took you for a British cruiser. As I have explained. Several times.”
Parker nodded slowly. “I think perhaps the best course of action here is for us to escort you back to Great Egg Harbor,” he said. “I trust Captain Biddlecomb will then be able to set this all straight.”
Ah, damn your eyes! McGinty thought. Parker was still hoping to catch him in a lie and keep Hopefleet and Sparrowhawk for himself. The fact that McGinty was in fact lying would not help matters. Nor could he expect to receive much aid and comfort from his old comrade in arms Isaac Biddlecomb.
“I have to agree, Captain Parker. Back to Egg Harbor, and Captain Biddlecomb can give you the truth of the matter and put this all to rights,” McGinty said, though it was in fact the very last thing he wished to see happen.
He pictured the chart of the coast in his head. If they were anywhere near where he thought they were, and the wind held steady the way it was, then Great Egg Harbor was about two days’ sail away.
Ah, Angus, boy-o, you know you’re in no danger of drowning on this passage, he thought. If ever there was a man born to be hanged, it’s you. But the hangman had been put off once again, and now he had another forty-eight hours to come up with some other means of keeping that worthy at bay.