The Continental Risque (2 page)

Then finally Thompson came to the end of the letter. At Virginia's table Richard Henry Lee fidgeted and drummed his fingers on the table, anxious to make his motion before any other could be made, as Hancock went through the formalities of having the letter entered into the record.

‘Mr President!' Lee leapt to his feet and called out even before Hancock was quite done speaking. ‘Mr President, I move that a committee of three be appointed to prepare a plan for intercepting these two vessels bound for Canada and that said committee proceed on this business immediately.'

‘So moved,' said Hancock. ‘Does anyone—'

‘I second the motion,' said Christopher Gadsden of South Carolina.

John Adams leaned over, close to Hopkins. ‘Now we shall see some lively discussion, I'll warrant.'

The first to offer that lively discussion was Edward Rutledge of South Carolina. He rose from his seat beside Gadsden, casting an ugly scowl at his fellow delegate as he did, and addressed Hancock.

‘Mr President,' he began, glancing around the room with shifting eyes in his peculiar and annoying manner, ‘not all of us from the Southern colonies, nay, very few of us indeed, share Mr Gadsden's enthusiasm for a naval force. A challenge to Great Britain of the high seas, the unprovoked capture of her merchant vessels, would be no less than a declaration of war, a declaration of our desire for independency—'

‘If the gentleman would care to put that in the form of a motion, sir,' Adams called across the room, ‘I should gladly second it.'

Rutledge stood silent, nodding his head and shrugging his shoulders until the laughter and pounding subsided, then began again. ‘Sir, I submit that it is the most wild, visionary, mad project that has ever been attempted. We cannot hope to take on the might of the British navy, and such an attempt would bring ruin down on our heads, would destroy any hopes that we might have for reconciliation. It is like an infant taking a mad bull by the horns.

‘What is more profound and remote,' Rutledge continued, ‘such a plan would ruin the character and corrupt the morals of our seamen. It would make them selfish, piratical, mercenary, and bent wholly upon plunder.'

‘One thing's for certain,' Hopkins said to Adams, ‘Rutledge doesn't know much about the morals of our seamen if he thinks sending them after these brigs will corrupt them any more than they are now.'

At last Rutledge finished, and John Adams took the floor. ‘Mr President,' he began, his voice soft, calm, and reasonable as he began, and building in intensity as he spoke. ‘As a considerable part of my time, in the course of my profession, I have spent upon the seacoasts of Massachusetts, I have conversed much with the gentlemen who conduct our cod and whale fisheries, as well as the other navigation of the country. I have heard much of the activity, enterprise, patience, perseverance, and daring intrepidity of our seamen. As a result of this personal knowledge I have formed a confident opinion that if they were once let loose upon the ocean, they would contribute greatly to the relief of our wants as well as to the distress of the enemy.'

And so it went on through the morning and into the afternoon. Outside the rain let up and a watery sunlight made its way through the tall windows as inside the State House the issue of sending armed vessels after the unarmed ordnance brigs and the greater, the much greater, implications of such action were made to run the gauntlet of debate.

At last the motion of forming a committee was put to a vote, and the motion was passed. Like an actor taking his cue Hopkins moved that the committee consist of Mr John Adams, Mr Silas Dean of Connecticut, and Mr John Langdon of New Hampshire, and that motion too was passed by the same vote as the first. The newly created committee took their leave of the Congress. In an hour they were back.

‘Mr Adams, has your committee prepared a plan regarding the ordnance brigs?' Hancock asked.

‘We have, Mr President, and by your leave I shall read it.'

‘Pray, Mr Adams, proceed.'

‘Resolved, that a letter be sent by express to General Washington, to inform him that Congress having received certain intelligence of the sailing of two north country brigs …' Adams read the report, the words couched in his lawyerly language. Hopkins was once again surprised at how such wording could render even the most dramatic documents dull and nearly intolerable to the ear.

‘… he apply to the council of Massachusetts Bay for the two armed vessels in their service, and dispatch the same, with a sufficient number of people, stores, etc., particularly a number of oars, in order, if possible, to intercept said brigs and their cargo, and secure the same for the use of the continent; also, any other transports laden with ammunition, clothing, or other stores—'

‘Hold a moment, sir!' John Dickinson was on his feet. Adams stopped and peered with ill-disguised irritation over the top of the paper at the delegate from Pennsylvania. ‘What is this business about “any other transports”? The plan was to call for the intercepting of two brigs, two specific brigs. It was not a general invitation to piracy.'

‘Well, Good Lord, man,' Adams replied, ‘should our vessels ignore any ship just because it is not one of these brigs? Should they let pass a wealth of materials that will strengthen our enemy simply because they are carried on ships that we were not aware of?'

‘You go too far, sir, too far by half.'

‘Point of order, Mr President,' Hopkins called out. ‘Is this the time for debate?'

‘It is not. Mr Dickinson, please be seated. Mr Adams, pray continue. We shall have debate after the motion is read.'

Adams continued. He read on through instructions for securing the prizes in the most convenient places for the purpose above mentioned, for requesting the governors of Rhode Island and Connecticut to provide the general with ships, for the vessels of war to be on the continental risk and pay.

It was half past eight when the issue came to a vote. One by one the colonies were called, and on the big board that recorded their votes the markers were slid to yea or nay. It seemed to Hopkins that for all the shouting the debate had swayed few opinions. The colonies voted just as they had for the original motion to form a committee.

But that was enough for passage.

‘Virginia,' the secretary called out.

‘Virginia,' said Lee in his smooth, confident, aristocratic tone, ‘says yea.'

Hopkins caught Adams's eye and the two men smiled and nodded. Hopkins knew full well what Adams was thinking; it was the same thing that he himself was thinking. They did not yet have a navy, per se, but they had the next best thing. The United Colonies were, as a nation, sending armed vessels out to hunt for British ships. They were taking the war to sea.

Capt. Isaac Biddlecomb turned and stared over the taffrail of the
Charlemagne
, brig-of-war. Four miles astern and dead in line with their wake was a British frigate, a powerful enemy in all-out pursuit. Again.

The only odd thing about being thus pursued was how familiar it felt, as if being chased by the Royal Navy were a daily routine. To be sure, they had been chased so often in the past year that Biddlecomb had reason to feel that way. And while the familiarity failed to eliminate his fear, it did much to mitigate it.

They were being overtaken, of that there was no doubt. But in their favor, they were halfway down Long Island Sound, heading for Hell Gate and the East River and the many islands and inlets around New York, with no more than four hours of sunlight left. And that, he felt, with a confidence born of experience, made their escape a near certainty.

He considered the sensation brewing in his gut, the vague terror that was as familiar as the sight of the frigate astern. He was reminded of the time, fifteen years earlier, when as an ordinary seaman he had discovered that laying out on a yard to reef sail in a howling storm was no longer a new and terrifying experience. It had become, rather, an old, familiar terrifying experience.

And so it was here, in late October of 1775, after nearly a year of fighting in a conflict that was not quite a war, for an end on which few agreed, Isaac Biddlecomb found himself once more in the all too familiar position of being chased by a frigate of the Royal Navy.

He had, in the past year, been chased by the frigate
Rose
all over Narrangansett Bay. He had been chased by the
Cerberus
through the Caribbean and through these northern waters after leading a mutiny aboard the brig
Icarus
, a vessel of the Royal Navy aboard which he had been impressed. He had been chased by the frigate
Glasgow
in Bermuda, in his ill-fated attempt to liberate British gunpowder from that island, and chased by the two-decker
Somerset
clear across Boston Harbor to the American lines.

So Biddlecomb was not overly surprised when, that morning, with the
Charlemagne
just south of Block Island, the lookout aloft reported the sails of what might well be a man-of-war hull down on the eastern horizon.

And when the strange ship hauled her wind and set studdingsails aloft and alow in what was without question pursuit, Biddlecomb had ordered the brig's canvas stretched, had turned her bow northwest to pass Montauk Point and run into Long Island Sound, and had settled into the monotony of eluding a stern chase. He was tired of being chased and wondered if his grudgingly chosen career as a naval officer would ever entail attacking, as opposed to running away.

‘I must say, Captain, your calm demeanor does much to bolster the confidence of your passengers,' a feminine voice broke the quiet on the quarterdeck. Biddlecomb pulled his gaze from the frigate's sails and looked over at the leeward side where Virginia Stanton leaned against the rail.

She was dressed in a hooded caraco jacket over a silk dress that flared out at the waist and draped down off the wire hoops of her false hips. Her hands were thrust into either end of a fur muff to defend against the cold winter air. From beneath her hood and cotton mobcap her brown hair tumbled down around her ruddy face, her girlish smattering of freckles, her playful smile. Biddlecomb could see the toes of her old and well-worn riding boots peeking out under the long skirts. Despite himself and his assumed air of detachment, he smiled as well.

‘I am pleased that I can be of some comfort to you, Miss Stanton,' Biddlecomb said, smiling broader still at their sham of formality. He wanted to rush across the deck and grab her in his arms and kiss her, a long, lingering kiss, and would have done so had they been alone. ‘With any luck at all we'll shake them off through Hell Gate or around Long Island,' he said instead.

‘Hell Gate, is it?' said William Stanton, Virginia's father, who stood beside her at the leeward rail. Stanton squinted at the hilly shoreline of Connecticut, ten miles north of them, then at Long Island, ten miles south. The
Charlemagne
was running nearly dead downwind in a fifteen-knot breeze, running west southwest through Long Island Sound toward the point where that bay narrowed into the East River, with its cluster of islands and the wild dogleg turn through Hell Gate.

‘Tide's on the ebb now,' Stanton observed. ‘Water'll be running like a son of a bitch through Hell Gate by the time we get there.'

It was an observation by an experienced mariner, and Biddlecomb could hear no implied criticism in Stanton's tone. Stanton, he knew, understood the situation perfectly.

There was every chance that the frigate would not dare follow them through the treacherous passage. Big ships rarely went through that way; indeed, it was rare for any ship, big or small, to risk itself among the rocks, islands, and back eddies of that twisted passage, particularly at the height of the ebb when the water crashed through the Gate like a flash flood.

And even if the frigate did dare to follow them, and assuming they both made it, on the other side were any number of rivers and bays around New York in which they could hide or at least keep ahead of their enemy until nightfall. Once it was dark, the
Charlemagne
could disappear. Virginia's confidence was not misplaced, or so Biddlecomb assured himself, and her obvious admiration of his boldness bolstered in turn his own confidence.

‘Did I ever tell you, Isaac, of the time I took the old
Providence
through Hell Gate, back in the winter of '64 … or '65, one of those?' Stanton asked.

‘No, sir, I don't believe you did,' Biddlecomb lied, running his eyes over the
Charlemagne
's rig and her waist as Stanton launched into the story, as well-worn as Virginia's boots. From long experience Biddlecomb nodded and smiled at the appropriate spots, but his thoughts were on the condition of the vessel under his command. To any observer a mile or so away, or to anyone unfamiliar with the way of ships, she was a lovely sight, well proportioned, her sails set and drawing, her rig taut and blacked down.

But a closer look would reveal the crazing in that facade. Her mainmast was fished five feet above the deck; stout lengths of timber were lashed around the circumference of the mast to take the strain where the actual wood had been nearly shot through. The red paint on the inboard side of the bulwarks and the linseed oil on the outboard side were variegated shades of dark and light where sections of the brig's side had been knocked flat and then repaired and freshly finished. The main topgallant sail and the fore topsail were brand-new and stood out from their worn and much patched brethren aloft. The
Charlemagne
was a tired vessel.

Over a month before she had fought a running battle with the two-decker
Somerset
, racing across Boston Harbor, and was nearly beaten to death before Biddlecomb ran her aground at the feet of the American army encamped in the hills surrounding the city and laying siege to the ministerial army there. Along with the
Charlemagne
, Biddlecomb had brought in a prize, the
Mayor of Plymouth
, loaded to the deckhead with gunpowder, that precious compound of which the American forces were in desperate need.