The Continental Risque (11 page)

‘Come.'

The first officer opened the door and stepped into the cabin, ducking under the deck beams.

‘Ah, Mr Tottenhill, is it dinnertime already?' Biddlecomb asked, glancing down at the papers strewn across the surface that was both desk and dining table in that confined space. Protocol had forced him, at last, to invite Tottenhill to dine with him.

‘It lacks one bell to dinner, sir, but I thought perhaps this might be a good time for me to report on our readiness.'

‘Yes, quite right, of course. Please, be seated. A glass of wine with you? I still have two bottles of a tolerable Madeira.'

‘Thank you, sir, I should be delighted.' Tottenhill eased himself into the chair that Biddlecomb was more accustomed to seeing Rumstick occupy. He filled two glasses, handed one to Tottenhill, and sat again behind his desk.

‘I had hoped to have the powder stowed down before dinner, but I'm afraid we shall not,' Tottenhill began. ‘I was not at all pleased with the way Mr Rumstick was placing it, too far from the magazine by half. I was forced to roust it out and have it restowed properly. I find in these smaller vessels that the dead rise—'

‘I see,' Biddlecomb interrupted, nodding his head. ‘This surprises me, I must say. Mr Rumstick is a very experienced seaman. I don't know as I've ever seen him make a mistake in that line.'

‘Well, sir, I don't know as you could even call it a mistake, it was more that there was a better way to do things. When I was aboard the privateer, we were very much navy fashion, and I learned a great deal about such things. I credit Mr Rumstick's mistake to ignorance, no more.'

‘Indeed,' said Biddlecomb, pressing his lips tightly together. ‘Well, very good then. How are we in the article of water?'

Their discussion of the
Charlemagne
's readiness continued for twenty minutes, until the ringing of eight bells on the deck above. Biddlecomb found little to complain about in Tottenhill's report; the brig was all but ready for sea, and the first officer was aware of every article on board, quantity, quality, and location, as well as the exact number of strakes down the ship was loaded by the head and by the stern. The
Charlemagne
's captain loved the subject dearly, which made it all the more incredible to him that Tottenhill could render it so dull.

‘If we get any more shot aboard, let's stow it down in the after locker,' Biddlecomb said. ‘She likes it best another strake down astern, but I reckon she's just about right now.' A knocking at the door interrupted the thought, and rather than making his next point about the bread room, Biddlecomb called out, ‘Come!'

Rumstick stepped in, bending far lower than the others to avoid striking the deck beams, and behind him Mr Midshipman Weatherspoon, who stood straight upright, his hatless head just a quarter inch below the overhead.

‘Gentlemen, come, sit,' Biddlecomb said, gesturing around the desk, which, during his conversation with the new first officer, he had managed to clear of papers.

‘Thank you, sir,' said Rumstick, taking his seat. He nodded to Tottenhill. ‘Mr Mate,' he muttered.

‘Please, Rumstick, “lieutenant,” not “mate.” This is a navy vessel,' Tottenhill said with a smile, and looking at Biddlecomb, said, ‘We'll break him of his merchantman's habits yet, eh, captain?'

‘Let's bear in mind, Mr Tottenhill, that Mr Rumstick was fighting this war long before any of us knew there was a war.' Biddlecomb smiled at Rumstick, and Rumstick gave him a quarter smile in return. Rumstick had not used the title ‘mate' out of ignorance, he had intended for it to be insulting. The incident concerning the powder clearly had not been as amicably reconciled as Tottenhill had suggested.

‘Mr Weatherspoon,' the captain continued before Tottenhill could speak again, ‘this here is your purview.' He handed Weatherpoon several sheets of paper, the first of which was headed ‘Signals for the American Fleet.' ‘Commodore Hopkins has come up with a fairly catholic collection of signals there. I'll thank you to see that we have all of the necessary ensigns aboard.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Weatherspoon, looking over the signals. ‘“Catholic,” sir, like papist?'

‘“Catholic” like all-encompassing. You'll find, Mr Rumstick, that there are signals for fog, something we could have used on our last voyage, as you'll recall.'

‘That's certain,' Rumstick said. ‘I seem to remember you were making some grand fun of Captain Whipple for his set of signals, and when it come time—'

‘I recall,' Tottenhill interrupted, ‘in '62, aboard the
Falcon
, we had occasion to devise a set of signals. It was a singular incident, quite a funny story, really.'

For five minutes, until their dinner arrived (an excellent fricassee of winter hare with potatoes and a plum duff pudding, courtesy of the carpenter's wife, who was now acting as cook for the gun room and great cabin, yet another pleasure they would lose when they put to sea), Tottenhill regaled them, bored them, in fact, with the tale of the
Falcon
's exploits. ‘I was fourth lieutenant then, we called our officers lieutenants, not mates, Mr Rumstick, man-of-war fashion, when all of this took place. It was—'

‘If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant,' Biddlecomb interrupted, it being his duty, as he saw it, to save his guests from further tales that Mr Tottenhill might relate, ‘I should like to inform the company of what I know concerning our future.'

That, more than anything, was bound to command attention. The cabin fell silent and the three men leaned forward expectantly, so expectantly in fact that Biddlecomb was forced to laugh. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, but you look so like children in a confectioner's I couldn't help myself. And I'm afraid that I'll disappoint you. I can tell you we sail on the tide tomorrow afternoon, and that we are rendezvousing at Cape Henlopen, but beyond that I know nothing.'

In a moment of silence they digested this news. ‘No idea where we're bound, or what we're to act?' Rumstick asked.

‘None, I'm afraid. But it looks to me as if this ice is breaking up, and we only need three or four days at the very most to fetch Cape Henlopen, and I should think then we'll find out what our mission is to be.'

‘The Chesapeake, I should guess,' said Tottenhill, speaking with the smugness of one who has privileged information. He kept his eyes on his plate, cutting a generous bite as he continued. ‘Lord Dunmore, the former royal governor of Virginia, is ravaging the countryside with his improvised fleet. I believe we are to teach him a lesson.' With that Tottenhill put his fork in his mouth and glanced around the table for reactions.

‘Well ain't that something,' said Rumstick. ‘I'd have thought we was bound for Narragansett Bay, clear those rascals out of there. That's where the fleet is most needed, not in your Southern colonies.'

Tottenhill swallowed quickly. ‘You see, sir, there is your problem, your damned regionalism. This is not, sir, a New England navy, it is a navy of the United Colonies, and I will thank you to remember that.'

Tottenhill was angry, genuinely angry, and Biddlecomb found the outburst more surprising than anything else. He could see Rumstick flaring, see that the second officer was prepared to give it back with interest to the first. ‘Gentlemen, I have no doubt that the Naval Committee …' Biddlecomb began with some weak platitude, the best he could concoct in the instant that he had to prevent a confrontation, then was happily interrupted by voices outside the great cabin door.

‘Yes right here, good man,' someone was saying, a voice that Biddlecomb did not recognize. ‘No, you needn't stand like you've a ramrod up your backside, you'll be here for a while … Yes, good. Carry on.'

In the great cabin the four men listened intently to this odd exchange, and Biddlecomb was on the verge of standing up to investigate when there came a knocking on the door.

‘Come,' he said. The door opened and a uniformed officer stepped in, though both the uniform and the officer were unknown to Biddlecomb and, judging from the others' expressions, to anyone in the cabin.

He was in his late thirties apparently, with wisps of gray sneaking in among his light brown, unpowdered hair, his head unencumbered with a wig. He wore on his upper lip a thick mustache in a style rarely seen in the Colonies, but in his case it seemed to go with his generally amiable expression. His eyes, as he looked around the cabin, had a pleased and vaguely amused look, which reminded Biddlecomb of Virginia Stanton. He wore white breeches and a white waistcoat and over that a striking green coat with white facings.

‘Ah, gentlemen, you are at dinner,' he said. ‘I apologize for this interruption,' then as if as an afterthought, he snapped to attention and swept his hat off in a salute, saying, ‘Elisha Faircloth … beg pardon, Lt Elisha Faircloth, Second Battalion, Fourth Company of American Marines, sir!' He gave a quick bow and smiled, as if expecting applause for his performance. ‘I took the liberty of posting a sentry outside your cabin door, Captain, navy-fashion and all.'

‘Indeed.' Biddlecomb could think of nothing else to say. He stood and extended his hand. ‘Capt. Isaac Biddlecomb, your servant.'

‘An honor,' said Faircloth, shaking the captain's hand, ‘but of course you need no introduction; not many in this town that don't know Captain Biddlecomb.'

‘Indeed,' Isaac said again, this time embarrassed. ‘Allow me to present my first officer, Lt Roger Tottenhill, and my second, Lt Ezra Rumstick. And this is Mr Midshipman Weatherspoon.'

Hands were shaken all around, and after a chair had been found for Faircloth and the last of the fricassee passed his way, he said, ‘Fourth Company's been assigned to the
Charlemagne
, something of a last-minute thing, I'm afraid. Don't believe they knew you were coming. Only twenty men, good lads all. “Lads,” I say; half of them are old enough to be, well, my older brother, in any event.' He glanced around the table with his half-amused expression, the flesh around his glinting eyes crinkling as he smiled. His gaze settled on the Madeira. ‘Ah, I am mad for Madeira. Might I?'

‘Of course, of course, how rude of me,' said Biddlecomb, pouring a glass.

‘Your coat, Lieutenant, is it a marine officer's uniform?' Tottenhill asked.

‘No, not an official one. There are no official uniforms as of yet, I don't believe, but some of us have taken to wearing these coats, hope to convince the Congress to make them official, what? Dashing color, ain't it?'

‘I believe it was a requirement of Congress,' Rumstick spoke for the first time since Faircloth's appearance, ‘that the men enlisted in the marines were to be able seamen. Is that the case, do you know, Lieutenant?'

‘Able seamen, well … I'll be honest, there was quite a rush to sign up for the battalions, those drums and all, recruiters marching through the streets, quite stirring to those of adventurous spirit. I think it may be that they were none too discriminating in signing men up.'

‘And you, sir?' Biddlecomb asked, looking up at Faircloth from his plum duff. ‘Might I enquire as to your background? Were you employed at something before accepting your commission?'

‘Employed? Oh, Lord, no. I'm a gentleman, sir. My father wanted me to join the Philadelphia Light Horse. Can't bloody stand horses, miserable animals, much prefer a rational ship under my foot to some insane animal under my arse.'

‘We are of one mind in that, sir,' Biddlecomb said. ‘Do I take it then that you are not a seaman?'

‘Well, as it happens, my uncle has a yacht, so I am not without some knowledge of the sea. And I have been studying, oh, yes. Mountaine's excellent
The Seaman's Vade Mecum
.'

Glances were exchanged around the table, and at last Biddlecomb said, ‘Well, Lieutenant, I suggest you get as much studying in as ever you may in the next twenty-four-hours, for after that, your training, I assure you, shall begin in earnest.'

‘This yacht, sir, it was quite a large one,' Faircloth added quickly. ‘Perhaps I did not represent myself well.'

Further inquiries into Faircloth's maritime abilities were interrupted by a rather loud discussion beyond the door.

‘I got a message for the captain,' came a voice, loud and irritable. It was Ferguson.

‘All right, then, I'll announce you. What's your name?' the marine sentry replied.

‘Ferguson.'

The sentry knocked on the door and opened it, just a crack. ‘Ferguson for the captain,' he called.

‘Very well,' Biddlecomb replied, and then to the officers seated at the table said, ‘This is rather silly, don't you think?'

Before any could voice an opinion, Ferguson stepped into the cabin and saluted. ‘Beg your pardon, sir, and sorry for all the noise. I guess we're doing things different now, being in the navy and all. Bloody marine—'

‘What is it, Ferguson?' Biddlecomb asked.

‘Beg pardon, sir. The recruits from North Carolina is here, and a mangy lot they is, sir.'

Mangy they were, but that did not stop Tottenhill from giving Ferguson a thorough dressing down for saying so. The captain and officers left their dinner to go topside and greet the new men, who had arrived just in time. There were twenty-six in all, making up about a third of the
Charlemagne
's company. They were dressed in rags for the most part, unwashed and with hair and beards long and unkempt, giving Biddlecomb the suspicion that most of them had been recruited from prison.

That worrisome fact aside, Biddlecomb could tell in one glance that they were seamen. Seaman had a quality that no landsman could imitate. They had a way of looking about the ship, assessing it rather than staring in wonder, a way of standing, a certain angle at which they wore their hats, that indicated better than any credentials to which they laid claim that these men were at home on shipboard. Of that at least he was thankful.