The French Prize (41 page)

“Such as who?”

“Well, Jack's father, my dear friend Isaac Biddlecomb, who you certainly know…” Ness nodded his agreement. “… he received a letter.” Rumstick leaned closer and Ness leaned toward him. “A letter from Alexander Hamilton. Like you, Hamilton also thought Jack shouldn't sail, said it could be dangerous. Hinted at some intrigue. But here's the thing; he mentions your name.”

“My name?” Ness said, surprise and a trace of fear in his voice.

“Yes,” Rumstick continued. He had been tracking along the line of the truth, but now he started to veer off course. “Mostly he talked about McHenry, of course, but you as well, as McHenry's associate. He said something about you arranging to have some harm done to Jack, said if Isaac didn't prevent Jack from sailing, you and McHenry might have some intrigue cooked up to stop him. He wasn't clear about what, but there it is, in Hamilton's hand. You and McHenry.”

For a long moment Ness was silent and Rumstick was silent as they looked at one another across the table, over the tankards. Then Ness said, “Why would Hamilton write such a thing? Why would he wish to expose McHenry? McHenry is his man, for all love!”

“‘Expose McHenry?'” Rumstick asked. “So, there was something to expose? Some intrigue?”

More silence. A long silence as Ness looked at the various implications of what Rumstick was asking. But rather than answer, he asked a question of his own. “If you do not get an answer that will satisfy you, Rumstick, what will you do?”

Rumstick shrugged as if he had given it no thought. “My only concern is to find the truth, and to see that no harm comes to Jack. I genuinely do not give a tinker's damn about Hamilton or McHenry or the rest. If harm comes to Oxnard or Bache I'll cheer. But if I don't find out what sort of danger my godson has been brought into, I'll give the letter Hamilton wrote to Isaac to the
Aurora
and let you all go to hell, even if we are supposed to be on the same side. I'll look to protect family over party every day.”

There was another long silence. Rumstick was acutely aware of every small sound in the room, the murmured conversations, the clink of silver, the soft pad of footsteps on the worn pine board floor. Then Ness began to talk.

“This is very involved,” he said with a note of resignation, “and it goes very high. But I will tell you, because I know you are a friend to the administration.”

And because you think Hamilton has thrown you and McHenry to the wolves,
Rumstick thought, but he did not speak.

“Hamilton has a man who's close to Bache,” Ness continued. “Don't ask me who because I don't know. But this fellow informed Hamilton of a great plan cooked up by Bache and Oxnard. They've been at it for half a year. You know that these Republicans want nothing more than to show the world that Adams is eager for war with France, eager to help the British, which is nonsense, of course. War with France? Our entire navy consists of the half-built frigate lying at the dock half a mile from here.”

“So Bache and Oxnard hit on some means of showing the world Adams wants war?” Rumstick said, steering Ness back on course.

“It was clever, I'll grant them that. What if an American ship, ostensibly a merchantman but well armed, were to attack a French man-of-war? What if the master of that ship were the son of a prominent Federalist, a former hero of the Continental Navy, a friend of President Adams? You could draw a straight line from that act of aggression to the administration, show the world that the Federalists are champing at the bit for war, turn the country against us.”

Rumstick leaned back and shook his head. “Nonsense. It was Oxnard armed the ship, it would be easy enough to show that.”

“Really? As I understand it, your Jack was the one who signed for all the guns, the powder, shot. It's likely he didn't even know what he was signing, but his name's on all of it. What's more, the young man is an intemperate hothead, everyone knows it. Forgive me.”

“No, no,” Rumstick said, “no forgiveness needed. No one knows the truth of that better than me. I've had to haul him out of many an ugly scrape. But that still don't explain how they knew Jack would get into this fight.”

“Oxnard put an associate aboard, fellow named Chapman but he was going by the name Frost, put him aboard to goad Jack on. Apparently Bache has connections enough in France to see that a small man-of-war would be stationed where they needed it. He lived in France, you know, years ago, with his grandfather. In any event, they arranged to have this man-of-war on station. This Chapman, or Frost, convinces Jack to attack, they fight, the Frenchman sustains some damage but takes Jack's ship as a prize, and there's your international incident.”

Rumstick shook his head again, slowly, trying to fathom the depth of this intrigue, but the man in the fore chains was calling
No bottom! No bottom, here!

“It all hinged on Jack, do you see?” Ness said. “Son of Isaac Biddlecomb, young and impetuous enough to go after a man-of-war, with a little convincing. We thought if he could be wounded—not killed, mind you, just wounded enough that he could not sail, then the plan would fall apart.”

“Why didn't you just inform Jack of this? Or Isaac? Convince him not to go?”

Ness said nothing. He looked at Rumstick, apparently waiting for Rumstick to figure it out on his own. “No, never mind. That was a foolish question.” Which it was. Rumstick knew better than anyone that Jack would not listen, and that trying to warn him off would just make him want to do the thing even more. It was how he was made.

And it went beyond that. If Jack resigned from command of the
Abigail
, Oxnard would know something was acting, perhaps cotton to the fact that he had a spy in his midst. Hamilton would not allow that to happen. Hamilton was an intriguer, his plots more important than the life of one young sailor.

Rumstick was quiet again, but at length he spoke. “And what has happened? Has it played out as Oxnard hoped?”

“We don't know,” Ness said. “There's been no word. We would have thought to have heard something by now, but there's been nothing. We fear the worst, and we are bracing for the news from the West Indies.”

Rumstick considered that. There was one possibility that no one seemed to have considered. At the center of all this was Jack Biddlecomb, son of Isaac Biddlecomb. Did it occur to no one that in the fight with this Frenchman he just might win?

 

27

In the end it was not above an hour and ten minutes before Jack was certain that the distant vessel was indeed
L'Arman
ç
on
. She was right to windward and running down on them, and though the two ships were not heading directly at one another they were converging at a combined speed of probably eight knots, which meant that in the space of seventy minutes they had reduced the distance between them by ten miles or so, leaving only three miles to go.

Seventy minutes was as long as Jack could tolerate standing on the quarterdeck feigning disinterest. He shed his coat and hat, took up his glass, and climbed aloft. He did not know if Wentworth made a point of ignoring him because he made a point of ignoring Wentworth and so did not see if the man had even glanced his way as he came up over the edge of the maintop.

He settled on the topgallant yard beside Adams and focused the glass to weather.
Lovely ship,
he thought. And she really was. The steeve of her bowsprit, the sweep of her sheer, the degree of tumblehome, it all worked together to present an image of strength and grace, the famed work of the French naval architects, from the nation that had given the world Versailles and Notre Dame. And like those famed edifices, the French navy, as Jack understood, was looked on by the radicals as some leftover from the
Ancien R
é
gime,
a suspect thing.

The corvette was running with a bone in her teeth, carrying much the same sail as Abigail, though, sailing with the wind betwixt two sheets, she had studdingsails set to weather and to lee.
Fight or flee?
Jack thought. Here was the question. Was it worth cracking on and making a run for it? The only way they might succeed with that plan would be to keep the Frenchman astern until nightfall, and then do some clever thing to shake them. He looked to the west. The sun was at least six hours from setting.
L'Armançon
was at most an hour away from having
Abigail
under her guns.

“I guess that's settled, then,” Jack said out loud.

“Pardon, sir?” Adams said.

“It's nothing. Keep an eye on her, Adams, let me know of any changes she makes, changes to sail or course, anything.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Adams said as Biddlecomb swung down to the topgallant shrouds and began heading back to the deck, the shrouds sticky and warm under his hands, the tar and varnish mixture growing soft under the wicked sun. He climbed around the crosstrees and down the topmast shrouds. His feet were on the edge of the maintop and he still had not yet decided if he would do the mature thing, the thing he knew he should, but did not wish to do.

Oh, damn it all,
he thought, then stopped and swung inboard. “Mr. Wentworth?” he said, trying for a conversational tone. Wentworth, still leaning against the mast, looked up, pretending to have not realized he was there.

“Captain?” he said. He climbed to his feet. Jack looked to see if there was any sign of soreness, any impediment to his movement in the wake of the wound he had delivered, but he could see none. Wentworth was standing easy, with the athletic grace he generally displayed. His sandy hair was bound back in a queue and he wore just a linen shirt and breeches, with wool socks and his now battered shoes. He looked more like a sailor than he did the macaroni who had come aboard. Jack had seen that sort of transformation before. The sea had a way of doing it.

Jack hesitated because he had not decided what he would say, out of the various things he wished to say. He wanted to ask Wentworth what he knew about Frost's intentions, and how he knew it. He wanted to ask if he knew anything at all about who Frost was. He wanted to tell Wentworth he had probably been right all along, though that one was pretty low on the list of statements he wished to make.

He could not decide, and he could not stand there like an idiot any longer, so he said, “That's
L'Arman
ç
on
to weather, as you may have guessed. I imagine we will engage her. If you would care to take your place in the maintop with your rifle again, I would be grateful. You did great execution the last time.”

Wentworth nodded his head. “Thank you, Captain, for saying so.” His voice was less rigid and formal than it had otherwise been since the duel. “I would be honored to help in whatever way I can.”

They remained silent for a few seconds, neither man knowing what more to say, so Jack mumbled, “Very good…,” found the ratline on the futtock shroud with his foot, and continued on the deck.

Frost was aft, of course, though his presence was really starting to grate on Jack, just as Wentworth's had. “
L'Arman
ç
on
, I'll warrant!” he said, delight in his voice.

“
L'Arman
ç
on
, indeed,” Jack said.

“Should we clear for action, Captain?” Frost said next, which Jack found supremely irritating. If he said yes he would be allowing Frost to take control. But if he said no he would just sound petulant, since they did need to clear for action, and he would have to give the order anyway, a minute or two after that.

“We'll clear for action when I give the order, Mr. Frost,” he said and Frost took the hint, stepped back, removed the grin from his face, and said, “Of course, Captain, of course.”

Jack managed to drag it out for another five minutes, examining the set of the sails, scrutinizing the corvette to weather through his glass, passing a word with Tucker. At last he said, “Mr. Tucker, let us clear for action and send the men to quarters.” He said it softly and could not deny the thrill that he felt in saying those words, a burgoo of exhilaration, fear, uncertainty, and resolve.

Tucker turned, shouted down the length of the deck, “Clear for action! All hands, clear for action, there!” Jack wondered if Tucker had ever said those words before. He doubted it.

In the naval service, Jack understood, there would have been drums beating and boatswain's calls and all sorts of martial sounds, but aboard the merchantman they had only the strong voice of the mate.

But it was enough. The men, who had been anticipating the order, leapt to, casting off the gun tackles, laying out sponges, crows, handspikes, and rammers, getting fire buckets ready, spreading sand on the deck. The new men had sailed aboard
Abigail
for all of five hours but they showed the discipline and training for which the Royal Navy was so well known, and fell to their tasks with ease and familiarity. Jack had assigned them to the guns, mostly, because they knew far more about such things than did the Abigails, and the Abigails knew far more about sailing their ship than did the British jacks. To weather and lee they were heaving the guns in, drawing the tompions, casting off the lead skirts over the vents.

Meanwhile John Burgess saw chains rigged to the yards, and extra braces rove off. The Abigails hoisted the new launch up and over the side to tow astern, unwilling to make the dumb mistake of leaving it on deck this time. No hammocks were stacked in hammock nettings because there were no hammocks or hammock netting, nor was there netting to stretch above the deck to protect from falling debris, or a gunner to retire to the magazine or a carpenter to get plugs for shot holes, because
Abigail
, for all her fine armament, was still a merchantman.