The Continental Risque (5 page)

Two hours later, two hours of watching the frigate draw inexorably nearer, Biddlecomb realized that she was the HMS
Glasgow
, freshly repaired after the damage that he himself had inflicted on her two months before. She was a mile and a half astern, no more than that, her buff bowsprit and oiled jibboom thrusting high above the water, all sail set to studdingsails and royals, the churning foam under her bow boiling halfway up the cutwater.

He recalled the last time they had been in this position, the
Glasgow
racing to catch the
Charlemagne
. At that time her jibboom was gone and her bowsprit jury-rigged and her fore topgallant gear torn away. There had been no fear of capture then. But this time his was the crippled vessel. He wondered if Capt. William Maltby was still in command. If he was, then Biddlecomb could expect no mercy from that quarter.

He realized that he was gripping hard on the quarterdeck rail. Fear, physical fear, and panic at the hopelessness of their situation were seeping in around the edge of his thoughts. He remembered the parties in Cambridge given in his honor, the secret delight he took in his role of hero. A flush of embarrassment swept over him. Some hero, some pathetic pretender of a hero.

But he was not beaten yet, he would not be controlled by his fear. Nor was he ready to hand the
Charlemagne
over after all they had been through. While there was still sea room, there was still a chance.

He could make out the little town of New Rochelle just beyond the starboard bow, where Long Island Sound began to constrict into the East River, with its islands and spits of land reaching out into the water. The tide was on the ebb, sweeping them and the
Glasgow
downriver. Another few miles and they would have no choice but to race through Hell Gate and into New York Harbor; they would not be able to turn and sail back against the tide.

Biddlecomb tried to picture it in his mind: the
Charlemagne
working through the wild turn at Hell Gate, past Hallet's Point, then between Frying Pan and Hog's Back, the
Glasgow
just astern by then, if not alongside. They would be safe in that narrow water, but once they shot out the other side, once in New York Harbor, they were lost. The
Glasgow
would be on them.

Suddenly Biddlecomb felt his grip on the rail ease, felt the twist in his stomach and the tingling on the soles of his feet that heralded the first awakening of an idea. He looked astern at the frigate. The timing on this would have to be perfect.

‘Mr Rumstick, Mr Sprout, lay aft please,' he called out, and the odd sound of his own voice made him realize how silent the ship had been for the past twenty minutes. But now a buzz ran through the men as the first officer and the bosun made their way aft. Biddlecomb saw some grin, and some of the older hands whispering to those new to the
Charlemagne
. They knew by now, as well as he did, the signs of a plan springing to life.

The confidence that they had in him was, by his own estimate, completely out of proportion with reality, but it was clear that his merely conferring with his officers gave the men faith. He felt as if there was a veil between the quarterdeck and the waist, a thin gauze, and if those men forward had the insight to pull the veil back, they would realize that there was nothing there.

‘Mr Sprout, what is the state of the sheet anchor?' he asked.

‘It's secured for sea, sir, but the cable's bent and it would take just a few minutes to let her go.' Sprout gave the answer that Biddlecomb had expected.

‘Very good. We'll make ready to let it go, but I don't want them' – Biddlecomb indicated with a nod of his head the frigate that was now a mere mile astern – ‘to see what we're about. So, Mr Rumstick, I'll thank you to brace up a bit sharper on the port tack. The clew of the foresail should hide the activity on the channel.'

Rumstick looked over his head at the sails, then turned his face into the wind, and Biddlecomb could see the look of disapproval forming. ‘Yes,' he said before Rumstick could object, ‘I know the sails will set like washing hung out to dry, but we'll just have to endure it for the time being.' Beside hiding the men on the channel, the poor set of the sails would allow the
Glasgow
to catch up a bit; she was overhauling them quickly, but not quite quickly enough for the plan that was coming together.

‘Sharper port tack, aye, sir,' Rumstick said, good subordinate that he was, and hurried forward, Sprout at his heels.

The sails did indeed look like laundry on a line, and the
Charlemagne
's speed fell off noticeably, but that was fine with Biddlecomb. The frigate had closed a great deal of distance; with her towering rig and her longer waterline and the
Charlemagne
's inability to carry anything beyond plain sail, Biddlecomb guessed that the
Glasgow
was going half again as fast as the brig. But they were just passing Prospect Point, racing down toward Throg's Neck and the East River, and she was still three-quarters of a mile astern; too far away for Biddlecomb's purposes.

The after-scuttle door flew open with a crash and John Adams emerged on deck, a pistol in each hand, a pouch over his shoulder. Biddlecomb had not even noticed that he was gone. He stepped up to the quarterdeck and handed one of the weapons to Virginia. She took the pistol with the ease of familiarity and held it sideways as she drew back the cock and pulled the trigger, nodding with approval at the resulting spark.

‘Vir— Miss Stanton, I must insist that you go below,' Biddlecomb said with the tone in which he couched all of his commands. ‘I think the hold would be best, for the present.'

Virginia smiled at the suggestion, as if she found it genuinely amusing, but before she could speak, Adams spoke for her.

‘Really, Biddlecomb, I've been talking with the girl at some length now about firearms, and I'm convinced that she has a great deal of expertise. As it seems clear we are to get into some type of fight, I should think you would want every able shot on deck.'

‘Well, certainly, but … she's …'

‘A woman, yes, I've observed as much, but if she can shoot straight, we shouldn't hold sex against her.'

Virginia was smiling broader now, and Biddlecomb knew that his red face was as much a source of her amusement as anything, and he knew that that in turn was making him blush harder still.

‘Very well, you may remain on deck for the present,' he said, then called for Rumstick to lay aft before anything more on the subject could be said.

‘Mr Rumstick, I've a mind to slow us down a bit, let them close up on us. Get some hands out on the bowsprit and lash up the fore staysail as some kind of sea anchor, then lower it away on its halyard. The foresail should hide you from view.'

‘Aye, sir,' Rumstick said, and once again hurried forward, calling out the names of half a dozen of the more experienced hands to come with him.

Not ten minutes later the fore staysail was under the bow and adding its considerable drag to the barnacles and kelp that were already slowing the brig. Biddlecomb turned to the frigate, sweeping the deck with his telescope. The spritsail, braced square, hid his view of the figurehead and the foredeck, and only glimpses of the raised quarterdeck were visible around the fore- and mainsails. He could see clusters of blue coats, the officers relegated to the leeward side. There seemed to be no excitement, no running about, no fingers pointing. That at least gave him hope that his intentions had not been divined.

‘You know, Biddlecomb,' John Adams said from a foot away, his voice, loud as ever, making Isaac jump, ‘this is marvelous, marvelous. Makes a man feel alive!'

Biddlecomb took the telescope from his eye and looked down into the shorter man's face. Adams was smiling, grinning really, a broad and genuine grin of pure exhilaration. ‘I can quite see why you become so fond of this.'

‘To say I'm fond of it, Mr Adams, may be going it a bit high. I suppose if I had some kind of a prior assurance of escape, this part would be more enjoyable, but as it stands, I really can't say that I'm having fun. Still, I'll admit I do like the telling of the story after the outcome has been determined in my favor.'

‘Quite right, Biddlecomb. Bravo. But I tell you, man, you sit in that fly-infested State House and listen to those chuckleheads drone on and on about reconciliation and Petitions to the King and the invulnerability of the damned British Navy and you'll realize just how edifying your part of this thing is. You're doing something here, taking real action. Well, in this instance you're running away, but you understand my drift. You can take the initiative, do something. God but I wish I could command Congress the way you can your ship.'

‘I see your point, though I would venture to say that anything, even something as thrilling as being chased in a sinking ship by a greatly superior force, becomes a bit of a bore with repetition.'

‘I should imagine. Now, what's our plan?'

Biddlecomb was about to assure Adams that he, Adams, would learn of the plan the moment that the British did, when he was interrupted by the
Glasgow
's bow chaser. The report of the gun was loud, the frigate now less than a half a mile astern, and as if to serve as a further warning the echo of the gun came again and again from the close by shore.

But there was no damage to the
Charlemagne
, and Biddlecomb doubted that the frigate's bow chasers would even bear on them. The gun was primarily to unnerve the Americans, and judging from the uneasy glances aft and the heads craning over the bulwark and looking astern it was having just that effect. Adams, however, grinned harder and fingered the butt of the pistol he had thrust in his waistband. Like aqua vitae to a midwife, Biddlecomb thought.

‘Miss Stanton, I think it time you went below,' he called out.

‘I'll go below directly, Captain,' said Virginia, heading forward toward the break of the quarterdeck.

They rounded Throg's Neck and turned more westerly, and Biddlecomb ordered the yards braced around. They were into the East River now, encompassed by the colony of New York. He could see the water piling up around the rocks that thrust out of the water near the shore, could see flotsam carried swiftly in the fast-moving stream.

Stanton stood just to weather of the helmsmen, hands clasped behind his back, his feet apart, the white hair under his cocked hat whipping around in the following wind. He wore a stoic, disinterested expression, but Biddlecomb was not fooled. The old man was enjoying himself and found this every bit as exhilarating as Adams. More perhaps, for Stanton had spent his youth and early manhood at sea. His had been the life of a sailor and an adventurer, not the life of a city attorney.

Only in his later years had he been forced to give that up to tend to a merchant fleet grown too large to manage from shipboard and to raise his daughter ashore (as a girl she had accompanied him to sea many times) after her mother's death. Biddlecomb tried to imagine how Stanton would feel about his protégé kissing his daugher.

Isaac glanced over at the space of deck where Virginia had been standing and was surprised to find her standing there still. ‘Miss Stanton, I thought you were going below.'

‘I am, just this minute, Captain.'

‘Well, please do so,' he said with more irritation in his voice than had been there a moment before.

‘Captain,' William Stanton said in a low voice, and Biddlecomb stepped over to him. ‘Might I suggest that you let at least two hundred feet of cable go before you make if off? With the bow weak as it is, snubbing it up short might tear it clean out, but with enough scope the weight of the rope will take up the shock immeasurably.'

‘Quite right, William,' Biddlecomb said, smiling despite himself. Stanton had figured out what he was about to do.

The
Glasgow
fired again, the sound louder, much louder now. She had closed to less than a quarter of a mile and was drawing perceptibly nearer every moment. Past the bow Biddlecomb could see the north and south shores of Hell Gate, Montresor and Buchannan's Islands and Hallet's Point, two miles away. The
Charlemagne
was going too slow; at that rate they would be under the
Glasgow
's broadside before they even made it to the Gate, and that would be an end to things.

‘Mr Rumstick, send someone to cut that fore staysail away. Just cut it!' Biddlecomb waited, ten seconds, twenty seconds, and then the
Charlemagne
lurched forward as the sea anchor was cut free. She felt lighter underfoot and he could sense, without measuring it against the shore, that they were moving faster.

He stepped aft to the taffrail and peered down into their wake, afraid that the sail would hang up in the rudder and continue to slow them down. But the gray hundle of canvas emerged from beneath the counter, undulating and sinking in the river. By the time the
Glasgow
passed over it, it would be embedded in the muck.

He looked up at the
Glasgow
, towering over them. Less than three hundred yards astern. Along her yellow sides he could see the gunports raised, the great guns run out. He had hoped they would not do that, not yet. He had hoped to avoid her broadside. But now that would be impossible.

The land to the north and south was passing swiftly, more swiftly than was warranted by the mere fifteen knots of wind that was blowing over their transom. The current was carrying the
Charlemagne
, sweeping her down to Hell Gate, and sweeping the frigate along with her.

‘Make your head right for Hallet's Point,' Biddlecomb called forward to William Stanton.

‘Right for Hallet's Point, aye,' Stanton replied, then turning to the helmsmen called, ‘Port your helm a bit … good, steady as she goes.'

Virginia was standing by the lee rail ramming a wad down the barrel of her pistol. ‘Miss Stanton, damn it, down below with you, please.'