The Continental Risque (18 page)

‘Sir.' Tottenhill stood and addressed the court. ‘The
Rules for the Regulation
says striking an officer is punishable by death or any such punishment as a court-martial shall inflict.'

‘Does it?' Hopkins asked. ‘Jones, hand me that. Death, that's going it a bit high.' Hopkins flipped through the pages of the
Rules for the Regulation
. ‘Here it is … No, you're mistaken, sir, the death thing is for mutiny. Striking an officer is just “on pain of such punishment as a court-martial shall order to be inflicted.”'

‘But, sir, he struck a superior officer, and, damn it, sir, I cannot speak to the other ships, but things are too lax, too lax by half, on the
Charlemagne
.' Tottenhill's voice grew louder, his face more animated as he spoke. ‘We need discipline, we need an example set. Where I am from, we do not countenance such things. We do not let our discipline slip. We take our military regulations seriously, sir.' Tottenhill was practically yelling by the time he finished, and when he stopped, the great cabin was silent.

The tirade, unexpected as it was, left the court stunned and not a little embarrassed. Tottenhill remained standing, standing at attention. Biddlecomb caught Rumstick's eye, and Rumstick raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the condemnation of Biddlecomb's command.

‘Yes, well, thank you,' Hopkins said at last, breaking the embarrassed silence. ‘Biddlecomb, what say you?'

‘Well, sir, I'll admit that morale has not been high, not since we were frozen in this second time. I doubt it's been high on any ship here, what with the cold and the smallpox. But I don't see a hanging doing much to improve it.'

‘Neither do I,' said Hopkins with finality. ‘But we need to order something, he is guilty. Let's say two dozen with the cat? Gentlemen, two dozen at first light tomorrow?' Heads nodded along the length of the table. ‘Good, two dozen it is.'

‘Sir—' Tottenhill began, but Hopkins stood and thankfully cut him off.

‘Two dozen is the decision of this court, and it is fair and final. And, sir, we are all under a great strain here, pray do not be so quick to call for a court-martial in the future. It is not for all the vessels in this fleet to solve your own problems. The court is adjourned.' And then turning to Abraham Whipple, Hopkins added, ‘Hey, Whipple, that was done pretty smart for our first court-martial, what say you?'

I have made a mistake, a foolish mistake, Tottenhill thought as he and Biddlecomb and Rumstick stood together on the
Alfred
's quarterdeck, waiting their turn to run the gauntlet of ceremony and descend to the ice.

The beginnings of that realization had nagged at him all night, and the court-martial had cemented it. He had sat there like an idiot, like a pariah, while the Yankee officers had chatted and laughed in their familiar way, unwilling to embrace him as a fellow officer, making an outcast of him. Just like Biddlecomb, who only grudgingly invited him to dinner, and that rarely, and never tried to engage him in conversation. It was clear now that one could not be a fellow officer without being a fellow Yankee.

He should never have lost his temper with Hackett. He could see the truth in what Hackett was saying; it had been an accident, he had not intended to strike a superior officer. After all, Hackett was one of his people, a Southerner, a North Carolinian.

If he was under an undue stress, it was only to be expected. Hackett no doubt felt as ostracized in that Yankee ship as he himself did. It was little wonder that the North Carolinians tried to desert, with the way they were treated, officers and men alike. It was time, Tottenhill realized, to start thinking about who his friends were.

‘Lieutenant.' Biddlecomb turned to Tottenhill, a tone of conciliation in his voice. ‘I think the court's decision was fair. Two dozen is a severe enough punishment under the circumstances. Any more or less would be injurious to discipline. As to your comments concerning discipline aboard—'

‘Sir,' Tottenhill cut him off, ‘I understand what happened today, do not doubt it. I understand very well.' He was tired of Biddlecomb's attempts at placating him. He would have no more of it.

‘Lieutenant, this is a difficult time for all of us. I expect you to stand with the other officers and help to maintain discipline.'

‘And I would like to think that other officers would stand by me, sir, though that might be more than could be hoped for.'

Biddlecomb stared into Tottenhill's eyes for a long moment, then turned away.

There, that's shut him up, Tottenhill thought, with a glow of triumph.

‘What do you think Tottenhill meant by that?' Biddlecomb asked Rumstick. They were standing together on the
Charlemagne
's quarterdeck, an hour after leaving the
Alfred
's great cabin. Biddlecomb was still angry over the first officer's remarks.

‘No, don't bother to answer,' he added as Rumstick made to speak. ‘I know what he meant. Son of a bitch!' In his younger days Isaac had been better at hiding his impatience. But as he grew older, and since he had made captain, he felt that ability slipping away. He wished that he could fool Tottenhill into thinking that they were friends. He did genuinely respect the man's seamanship. He just couldn't stand his company.

Tottenhill spoke little that day, and the next morning when Biddlecomb ordered Mr Weatherspoon to graciously offer to stand the lieutenant's watch so that Tottenhill might join the captain, Rumstick, and Faircloth for breakfast, the midshipman returned with a polite declination.

As a result Biddlecomb felt obligated to invite the midshipman to breakfast instead, and Weatherspoon happily accepted, chatting amiably for the better part of an hour, unaware that his captain was silent and unresponsive, pushing his fried pork around his plate with his knife. Rumstick, whose appetite was undiminished, nodded once in a while, but was, for the most part, equally silent, leaving Faircloth to maintain the conversation with the midshipman.

‘Ezra' – Biddlecomb looked up, cutting Weatherspoon off in midsentence – ‘we do have a cat-o'-nine-tails for this morning, do we not?'

‘I don't know. I figured the bosun would come up with something,' said Rumstick, surprised by the question. ‘Weatherspoon, hop up top and see if the bosun has a cat-o'-nine-tails prepared.'

Two minutes later Weatherspoon was back, Mr Sprout in tow, and Biddlecomb, who was at that moment again resolving to be more patient with the first officer, was reminded of the bloody spectacle that was about to take place aboard his brig, thanks to Mr Tottenhill.

‘God, I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't make a cat,' the bosun said. ‘Don't really know how. I had figured that Mr Rumstick, having been in a British brig-of-war and all …' His voice trailed off in embarrassment.

‘That's understandable, Mr Sprout. We should have discussed this. On the
Icarus
, Rumstick and I had plenty of chance to see how a cat is used but not how one is made. Pray go forward and see if there are any aboard that know how to make a cat and set them to it.'

An hour later Mr Sprout returned to the great cabin. ‘We got a cat-o'-nine-tails all lashed up, Captain,' he said. ‘Old fo'c'sle man, Neeley, done it. Good hand with the fancy stuff.' He paused, and an uncomfortable silence filled the cabin. ‘Anyway, sir, we got a cat now.'

‘Well' – Biddlecomb met Rumstick's eye – ‘I guess there's nothing now stopping us from … carrying out punishment. Mr Rumstick, please see the men assembled to witness this.'

Rumstick and Sprout disappeared forward, and less than a minute later the brig was filled with the sounds of bosun's calls and shouted orders and stamping feet. Biddlecomb silently strapped on his sword and pulled on his cloak. He picked up his copy of the
Rules for the Regulation of the Navy of the United Colonies
and stepped from the cabin.

The rising sun revealed an overcast and mournful day: a thick, gray-mottled cloud cover and a wind that stung like driving rain, whistling out of the southeast. The men stood at a semblance of attention, shuffling around and blowing on their hands for warmth. Only Faircloth and his marines, drawn up along the break of the quarterdeck, remained stationary, nearly identical in their beautiful green uniforms and small cocked hats.

There was a uniformity now among the men as well. Most of them had come aboard with only the poor clothes on their back, but now, on Biddlecomb's insistence, they were dressed in trousers, shirts, and blue jackets from the slop chest.

He wished that their spirits were as uniform as their clothes. The protective wall formed by the marines made him think, and it was not a comfortable thought, of the Praetorian Guard. Was it absolutely necessary that he be so protected from his own men?

‘Mr Tottenhill, Mr Rumstick,' he called his officers over to him. ‘Let's get this over with quickly. Get Hackett up here. I'll touch on the germane rules and then we'll carry out the punishment.'

Hackett was brought up from below, his hands and feet in shackles, and he and his shipmates stood impassively, save for their fending off the cold, as Biddlecomb skimmed through the
Rules for the Regulation
. ‘Amos Hackett, you stand convicted by a court-martial of the crime of striking a superior officer and are sentenced to two dozen lashes upon the bare back. Mr Sprout, secure the prisoner.'

The armorer knocked the shackles away, and Sprout instructed Hackett to remove his shirt. When he did, the prisoner's wrists were bound to a grating leaned against the starboard bulwark. Sprout pulled the cat-o'-nine-tails from its red baize bag – Biddlecomb was surprised to see that Neeley had had the time to craft that as well – and ran the nettles through his fingers.

‘Do your duty, Mr Sprout,' Biddlecomb said, and the cat came down on Hackett's back, and the first blood of the voyage was spilled.

Biddlecomb glanced up at the men assembled and watching the flogging and did not like what he saw. In his brief time aboard the British brig-of-war
Icarus
he had learned a great deal about floggings. Among other things he knew that a ship's company would accept the punishment if, in the opinion of the lower deck, it was warranted. But Biddlecomb recognized the grimaces, the set faces he was seeing now, and he knew that the men were not at all pleased with what was happening.

He heard Sprout say, ‘Twelve,' and looked down at the grating. Hackett was hanging limp, and only his sharp intake of breath with each stroke told Biddlecomb that he was still conscious. His back was a series of red ribbons, and the blood was seeping into his trousers and pooling on the deck. With each stroke of the cat he jerked under the impact. This despite the fact that Sprout was clearly going easy on him, letting the wicked tips of the nettles strike the grating and not his bare skin.

Biddlecomb ground his teeth together hard and twisted his hands behind his back. He had known this moment would come and had dreaded it, dreaded it more than combat. He recalled those many times, standing on the
Icarus
's deck, witnessing a flogging, hating the man who had ordered it. Were his own men having those same thoughts now? Biddlecomb could hear a murmur rising from the watching crowd.

And finally Sprout said, ‘Twenty-four,' and the horror was over. Hackett was cut down, supported by two of his messmates, and carried below to be attended by the
Alfred
's surgeon, who had come aboard for that purpose.

Lieutenant Faircloth, that generally cheerful officer, stepped up onto the quarterdeck, looking more morose than Biddlecomb had ever seen him. The captain turned to his other officers. No look of satisfaction was on Tottenhill's face, no expression of any kind. That was fortunate for him, for Biddlecomb was ready to dress him down mercilessly if he had looked even a little smug.

‘All right,' Biddlecomb said. ‘We'll drill with the great guns until dinner, then issue canvas for make and mend and stand down to an anchor watch for the rest of the day. Mr Faircloth, I don't know what your intentions are, but perhaps it would be best to keep your marines under arms for a while. Drill them or something so they don't actually appear to be on an alert.'

‘Aye, sir.' Faircloth nodded. Biddlecomb was not certain why he had ordered that, did not know what it was that he feared, but somehow it seemed a good idea to have the marines and their weapons at the ready. He looked out at the white ice stretching away to the far shore and cursed it, cursed it out loud, unconcerned with who might hear or what they might think.

Fifteen hours later, Amos Hackett lay facedown on a bunk swung from the beams at the forward end of the berthing deck. His little area was screened off from the rest of the deck by a canvas screen hung from the overhead, giving the convalescing man some small degree of privacy.

Hackett was rated as a fore topman, able-bodied, but he was able-bodied no longer, and the mere act of breathing caused him pain enough to make him gasp. From the other side of the screen he could hear the cacophony of snoring from his sleeping mates, but he was awake, his back and his mind on fire.

He cursed the navy and the ship and the officers. And mostly Biddlecomb, who could have prevented this flogging, who had let that idiot Bennett go and had quashed the insurrection that he had so carefully begun. He fantasized about his revenge. It would be his, and it would not be too hard to come by. Not with the way the men were feeling now.

He heard footsteps on the deck overhead, the middle anchor watch prowling around, making certain that the brig was safe and that no more of her company managed to escape their frozen hell by slipping over the side and running across the ice to shore.

There was a small hatch just above him, and a ladder that descended almost to the head of his bunk, the forwardmost scuttle to the berthing deck. Those men who had come to see him had come and gone through that hatch. Now he heard the familiar groan of the grating being lifted, surprising at that time of night. He twisted as best he could to see who was coming, but the effort caused him renewed agony and he gave it up.