The Continental Risque (17 page)

Pray God this is an end to it, he thought.

At least they did not mutiny.

‘That son of a whore, that bloody son of a whore,' Amos Hackett snarled under his breath as he glanced aft at his captain, the Yankee Biddlecomb. He hated Biddlecomb even more now than he did after Biddlecomb had dressed him down over the slops back in Philadelphia.

He hated him because of the deserters. Because he had handled the deserters to perfection.

He ran his eyes over number five gun, on which he worked the rammer and sponge when at quarters. It was the fifth week of their being frozen in the ice, and they were once again going through the absurd dumb show of clearing for action. The men were moving slowly, their morale as low as Hackett had ever seen. It was fertile soil for mischief.

His tools, the rammer and sponge, were in their proper place, as was the priming wire, the tub of slow match, and the bucket of water.

The only instrument missing, for which the rest of the gun crew was busily searching, was the linstock. Hackett did not join in the search. To his certain knowledge the linstock for number five gun was being used by the men of number three gun, while the one previously belonging to number three gun was lost in a dark corner of the bilge. He knew that because he had hidden it there himself.

The deserters. Hackett had started the idea of a mass desertion, murmuring low suggestions to his messmates, and had found in Bennett an eager audience. ‘You best believe if there's any danger, them Yankees will send us North Carolina boys in first,' Hackett had muttered. ‘We're just here to stop bullets for them.'

‘You're right, Amos, God damn my soul you are right,' Bennett had said. And then it started, the whispering, the planning, the threats to any who might tell tales. They had all assumed that Hackett would come with them. Indeed, he had all but said he would. The stupid bastards, as if he would do something that foolish! As if they could ever have gotten away, even if they had not been so stupid as to stop at that barn.

There had been some harsh words when the others saw that Hackett was not running with them, but in the end there had been no time to argue about it, and Hackett had promised to hold up the search as much as he could.

And he did just as he promised. Of course he held up the search not one second, but that was as much as he could do.

‘Here, Captain,' Hackett said to the captain of his gun, ‘them sodomites have our linstock, I recognize it.' He pointed with his chin in the direction of number three gun.

‘You got our linstock there?' the captain asked, his voice thick with accusation.

‘Sod off,' the captain of number three gun replied.

A week before, Hackett had begun to perceive some animosity between the old crew members at number five gun and number three, and he was curious to see if he could make that flare up.

The ship's company was falling apart around him; he had only to find the fissure, the thin crack between factions, and stick his knife blade in. Then the fun would begin.

As he had done with the deserters. It had been a fine thing. Hackett never thought that they would get away, but he figured that their attempt, and the subsequent punishments, would really set the crew against the officers, to his greater amusement.

But the bastard Biddlecomb had played it just right: stormed in on them, shot one of them in the shoulder to show he wouldn't be taken advantage of, scared them all half to death, and then let them off easy. Hackett found himself growing angry again, thinking about it. They came back aboard more in awe of Biddlecomb than anything. Well, he was not done with that Yankee son of a bitch, not near done.

He turned to the captain of number three gun, desperate to vent his anger.

‘Give me that, you son of a whore!' He yanked the linstock from the gun captain's hand. ‘There, look at this. Got the number five carved in it. You recall I carved that there just the other day, in case these bastards done something like this.'

The men of number five gun took a step toward number three, and the men of number three took a step toward number five.

‘Well, this here's about what I'd reckon from a bastard like you,' the captain of number five growled.

‘Give me that, you great horse's arse!' The captain of number three lunged at the linstock, but Hackett swept it out of the way and shoved the gun captain back, hard.

‘Leave off, you thieving bastard. I'll go to the captain with this,' Hackett said. He could feel the rage building.

‘You're the thief, fucking buggering bastard. Give that here!' The captain lunged again. Hackett dropped the linstock and caught the man up by the collar with one hand and with the other delivered two quick blows to the side of his head. It felt good, in that instance, with all the hatred toward Biddlecomb building up. If he could not start a riot, at least he could vent his anger by pounding someone. He struck the man again. He felt his control slipping.

And then Tottenhill was there, that stupid, miserable jellyfish Tottenhill, grabbing both of them and pulling them apart, shouting, ‘Stop this, this instant! I order you to stop!' Hackett punched the gun captain again, was hit himself in the jaw.

‘Stop this!' Tottenhill shouted again.

Hackett loathed that idiot first lieutenant, had wanted to do for him for a while. Don't, don't, he warned himself, but he was beyond control. He half-turned, grabbed Tottenhill by the collar, and pushed, sending him sprawling to the deck.

That was a grave mistake. Hackett knew it the instant that his fist had wrapped around the first officer's collar, but by then it was too late. ‘God help me, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' Hackett pleaded, letting go of the gun captain and kneeling beside Tottenhill. ‘Forgive me, sir, it was an accident,' he whined.

Tottenhill pushed the supplicant aside and leapt to his feet, clutching the elbow on which he had fallen and grimacing in pain. ‘Master-at-arms! Master-at-arms! Put that man in irons, now! Lock him below!' Tottenhill shouted, and the master-at-arms, aided by the gunner and Mr Sprout, grabbed the surprised Hackett and restrained him.

‘No, sir, please, no! It was an accident!' Not the chains, not the black hold, not the solitude, Hackett thought.

‘Lock him below!' Tottenhill said again, and Sprout and the master-at-arms dragged Hackett away.

‘Damn it. Damn it all to hell,' Biddlecomb said softly. He did not want to make a great issue out of this; that would not help the fragile mood of the crew. If Rumstick had been there first, he would simply have knocked Hackett flat and kicked him around and that would have been an end to it. But now he had no choice but to support the first officer.

‘What did you have in mind, Mr Tottenhill?' Biddlecomb asked as Tottenhill stepped back onto the quarterdeck. The captain spoke softly; this was not a conversation he wished to be overheard. ‘We could stop his tot, put a wooden collar on him, some “shameful badge of distinction” as the navy rules put it.'

Tottenhill looked surprised, shocked even, at the suggestion. ‘He struck me, Captain.'

‘I can order no more punishment than a dozen lashes. Anything more requires that we convene a court-martial.'

‘Then convene a court-martial, sir.' The first officer spoke in a loud whisper. ‘He struck a superior officer. He might have broke my arm. I want him tried, sir, and I want him hung.'

And despite the godlike powers he possessed aboard his vessel, Biddlecomb had no choice but to accommodate his officer's desires. If the first lieutenant wanted a court-marital, then a court-martial he must have. Biddlecomb thought of Adams's quite unrealistic vision of a ship captain's autonomy. This was the price Biddlecomb paid for the cheering crowds and the thrill and pride of commanding a ship in the Continental navy.

Tottenhill joined him for dinner that afternoon. Biddlecomb had extended the invitation the day before, before Tottenhill had forced him into this disciplinary corner, before the first officer had further soured his already sour mood. Isaac had hoped the dinner would improve their strained relationship, which was growing more strained by the day.

It was not a success.

The
Rules for the Regulation of the Navy of the United Colonies
laid out that a court-martial should consist of three captains and three first lieutenants, and if available, three captains and three lieutenants of marines. Since, as it happened, every captain and lieutenant of both the navy and the marines for all of the United Colonies was frozen in within one hundred yards of each other, that otherwise tall requirement was easily met, and the result was a crowded great cabin aboard the flagship
Alfred
.

Biddlecomb sat on the starboard side, right against the ceiling, not a member of the court-martial but a grudging witness. His head was inches below a rather stiff portrait of the commodore's wife, Mrs Desire Hopkins, painted, he mused silently, some years after that appellation was quite applicable.

Second Lieutenant Ezra Rumstick, who sat beside him, was also a witness, though even more grudgingly so than his captain. He sat in the
Alfred
's great cabin with arms folded, looking around.

‘What is the name of the flagship's first lieutenant?' Biddlecomb asked, as much to try to engage Rumstick in conversation as to assuage his frustration at forgetting. ‘The Scotsman with the red hair?'

Rumstick leaned forward and glanced at the man in question, who was carrying on an animated conversation with Captain Saltonstall. ‘He's one of these fellows with three surnames. John Jones Paul, or Paul Jones, I think. Paul John Jones? One of those. I forget.'

Across the cabin, and as physically far away from his fellow officers of the
Charlemagne
as he could get in that space, sat Tottenhill, arms and legs crossed, foot wagging nervously up and down, as he glared impatiently around the room.

Two tables had been pushed together to make one long enough to seat the twelve-man court, and it ran from one side of the cabin to the other with barely enough room to squeeze in on either side. This despite the fact that, by Biddlecomb's estimate, one could have placed two and a half great cabins from the
Charlemagne
in the
Alfred
's.

It had already been a long morning, but the officers called to sit were still milling about. They had begun to assemble at nine o'clock, walking across the ice and waiting their turn to go up the flagship's side. At last all were aboard and below in the great cabin and served coffee and soft tack and butter and jam. It was a break in the dreary, icebound routine, a pleasant social occasion, and all seemed to share in the amiable atmosphere, save for Biddlecomb and Rumstick, the miserable Tottenhill, and the vastly more miserable Hackett, who spent the morning in chains and under guard on the
Alfred
's gundeck.

‘Well, call me a son of a whore,' Commodore Hopkins said. He was seated in the middle of the table, the only one yet seated, and reading over the
Rules for the Regulation
.

‘Who here knew we was supposed to do a damned divine service twice a day? Whipple, did you know that? Captain Saltonstall? Has anyone done that? What a blackballing waste of time. I thought I read these sodomizing things. Damned lawyers' clerks and parsons. Listen to this: “If any shall be heard to swear, curse, or blaspheme the name of God, the commander is strictly enjoined to punish them for every offense by causing them to wear a wooden collar,” et cetera, et cetera. “If he be a commissioned officer, he shall forfeit one shilling for each offense, and a warrant or inferior officer, sixpence,”' he read, and then without a hint of irony added, ‘Well, I'll be God damned.'

‘Sir?' Tottenhill interjected, the higher than normal pitch in his voice sabotaging his attempt to sound like a man in control.

‘Yes, of course, Tottenhill,' said Hopkins. ‘I guess we had best get on with this thing.' The commodore stood up and called the room to attention, announcing that the court-martial was about to commence. ‘Let's see here, Whipple, you slide in there, then Saltonstall, and you marines, Captain Nicholas, there, come in on this side, amidships. Good, and you lieutenants outboard.'

Whipple with some difficulty squeezed his big frame around the end of the table, followed by Dudley Saltonstall and the others, shuffling sideways to their places until at last all were seated and ready.

After the morning's festivities the court-martial itself was something of a let-down. Tottenhill stood and in an unemotional, mechanical way described the events of the previous morning, then Biddlecomb stood and confirmed what Tottenhill had said. Mr Rumstick was called and related much the same story, though with a painfully obvious attempt to soften up the event. But at last, and under direct questioning, he was made to admit that Tottenhill's presentation of the facts was in no way inaccurate.

Finally Hackett was called, and in a stammering voice, shaking, Biddlecomb guessed, as much from stage fright as from fear of capital punishment, he related the events. His story did not differ in any material way from that of the officers, save for his claim that he didn't push Tottenhill but rather fell into him, accidently knocking him to the deck, and that when he pushed him, he forgot that the man was an officer. Other than the fact that the one statement seemed to contradict the other, he was fairly convincing.

Forty-five minutes after testimony began it was over. Hackett was removed from the great cabin and the
Charlemagne
's officers sat facing the twelve-man court.

‘Well, I reckon he's guilty as charged,' Commodore Hopkins said. ‘But let's have a vote on it. All who say he's guilty say “aye.”'

Twelve ‘Aye's' were muttered along the table.

‘Well, that's that. I guess now we figure a punishment.'