The Story

On the first day of 1775, Isaac Biddlecomb, twenty-eight year old captain of the merchant vessel Judea, is caught by the British frigate Rose attempting to sneak into Narragansett Bay with a hold full of smuggled molasses. Biddlecomb is forced to run his ship up on the rocks to escape, but Capt. Wallace of the Rose is not satisfied and pursues him on shore. In a twist of very bad luck he and his friend Ezra Rumstick are arrested in a public house in Providence, and only just manage to escape and join the merchant ship William B. Adams, aboard which they are hired to sail.

Meanwhile, Lt. James Pendexter of the Royal navy, nephew of Admiral Samuel Graves, is given command of the brig Icarus, despite scant qualifications. When the short-handed Icarus meets the Adams on the high seas, Pendexter recognizes a way to fill out his crew - impress American sailors - and soon Biddlecomb and Rumstick find themselves virtual prisoners aboard a British man-of-war, a floating hell, and only the most drastic measures will assure their escape.

Author's Note

This book was originally titled Weight of Iron and it is the first novel I ever wrote. I had been sailing traditional ships professionally for some years when I started, and had been thinking about writing for a while.

I was actually thinking about something set in the War of 1812, though in retrospect it is not surprising that I came up with this idea. I was working aboard the replica of the H.M.S. Rose and so I was surrounded by her history and the history of the naval war of the Revolution.

Once I had the idea I was amazed that no one else had ever really done it, save perhaps for Kenneth Roberts - the naval aspects of the American Revolution as told from the American perspective. For the two years it took me to write Weight of Iron I was certain someone else was going to publish something like it, but so far so good.

Aficionados of traditional sail might recognize the name Biddlecomb from the nineteenth century book The Art of Rigging by George Biddlecombe. I wanted to avoid the sort of "Mike Steel" type of flashy hero's name and I thought Biddlecomb fit the bill. I dropped the last "e" to make it more American looking.

It was my experience aboard the Rose that led me to making Isaac a native of Bristol, Rhode Island. For smuggling, of course, Rhode Island was the natural choice, being historically the epicenter of that activity. We sailed on Narragansett Bay many times during my time aboard Rose, and the town of Bristol always gave us such a terrific welcome whenever we tied up there that I had to make it Isaac's home town. And Rhode Island was intimately tied to the beginnings of the Revolution, and in particular the naval aspects of it. Rhode Island, Isaac Biddlecomb and Bristol all seemed a natural fit, and so a series was born.

Lastly, Isaac's sailing into the bay and skirting the rocks so close that the spray hits the deck is based on one of the favorite tricks of Captain Bailey of the replica Rose, who takes great delight in scaring the hell out of the crew and thrilling those ashore by coming right up to the rocks, aware as he is that there is water aplenty.

Chapter One

Judea

Captain Isaac Biddlecomb was carrying more sail than was prudent, more sail than was even safe, for the thirty- five knots of wind gusting from the south southwest. It was a fact of which he was quite aware, but chose to ignore, hoping instead that the Judea's thin spars would bear the strain for an hour more. An hour and a half at the most.

He pushed himself off the leeward rail and walked up the steeply sloping quarterdeck to the weather side, noting again, with some irritation, that such physical activity was not as effortless as it once had been. It wasn't his age; he was only twenty-eight, and while he no longer had the lean, tough physique that he had enjoyed as a foremast sailor and even as a mate, he could hardly be considered fat. Still, the work of a ship's captain and its concomitant lack of physical activity was spoiling him and he made a vague resolve to do something about it.

Biddlecomb reached the weather side, grabbed on to the caprail atop the bulwark and peered aloft. His long dark hair, bound in a queue, whipped around his head and stung his cheek like driving rain and the tail end of his long wool coat beat against his legs. His tricorn hat was jammed into the binnacle box for safe keeping. He buttoned the uppermost of the silver buttons on the coat and flipped the broad collar up to keep the wind off his neck and to tame his flogging hair as he studied the sails and spars above.

In the light of the gibbous moon he could make out the fore and main topgallant masts, one hundred feet and more above the deck. They bowed dangerously to leeward, bending to the pressure of the yard and sail. He looked down at the water rushing along the ship's side and streaming aft in a long, straight wake before disappearing in the night. They were making eight knots at least, more likely eight and a half. Through the darkness he could just see the loom of the land ahead, the colony of Rhode Island. In an hour they would be safe in Bristol.

"Fall off a point, Rigney," Biddlecomb turned to the helmsman.

"Fall off a point, aye," replied Rigney at the wheel, easing two spokes to larboard.

Biddlecomb leaned over the weather rail and peered forward around the edge of the main sail, staring into the darkness ahead. At last he saw it, a thin grey line, broad on the starboard bow.

"Rigney, there's Castle Hill. Do you see it?" Biddlecomb pointed toward the rocky slope that marked the entrance to Narragansett Bay, just visible in the moonlight.

"Aye, sir," he said at last.

"And the breakers on the rocks?"

"Aye."

"Good. We'll stand in as close to those rocks as ever we can. Plenty of water there, so don't be shy."

In the glow of the binnacle light Biddlecomb could see Rigney's face and he did not look happy. "Aye, sir," was all he said.

The tip of Beaver Neck was now well astern and the Judea was charging down on Castle Hill. Biddlecomb drew a deep breath of the cold December air and grabbed hold of the mizzen topmast backstay. The rigging was hard as an iron bar and Biddlecomb could feel it quiver under his hand, eight thousand square feet of canvas driving three hundred tons of ship and cargo. It was exhilarating and it made Biddlecomb deeply happy.

The ship raced through the short chop of Narragansett Bay, driven by the fresh southwesterly gale. The sails were full and hard; in the moonlight they looked as if they were carved out of marble. Considering how foul the Judea's bottom was from the two months she had just spent in the Caribbean, Biddlecomb knew that no amount of additional canvas would make her go faster than she was at that moment.

He looked past the starboard leech of the mainsail. Castle Hill was bearing three points forward of the starboard beam and a quarter mile off.

"Bear up, Rigney!" Biddlecomb ordered. "Right up to the breakers, head right for the breakers. I want to be in the shadow of the land. We don't need any prying eyes tonight."

"Aye sir," said Rigney, grim faced, as he eased the wheel to starboard, turning until the Judea was sailing straight at the murderous rocks.

Biddlecomb kept his eyes fixed on Castle Hill. The rocks, black patches in the night highlighted by the white breakers beneath, appeared just at the edge of the fore sail.

"Good. Steady as she goes. Hold her there."

The Judea rushed down toward the rocks, one hundred yards, fifty yards. Biddlecomb gripped the backstay until his hand ached. He felt his stomach tighten, felt the soles of his feet tingling, like a limb which one has slept on wrong, his well recognized signs of fear and exhilaration. In contrast to his churning innards and his tingling soles, his face was passive, his expression one of a man only vaguely interested in his surroundings. It was a trick he had learned from the better captains under whom he had served. As a young seamen he had thought them utterly fearless, as a mate he had discovered that they were simply good at hiding their anxiety. That was important.

The Judea charged down on the rocks, like something out of control. Biddlecomb recalled the chart in his mind's eye; he knew every ledge, every sounding by heart, and he knew that there was deep water there. But looking at a chart was one thing, driving the ship he loved down on the rocks at night was quite another.

And suddenly the ledge was abeam, the breakers so close that the spray dashed Biddlecomb in the face where he stood on the quarterdeck. He heard Rigney suck in his breath. They hurtled past, the closest outcropping not fifteen feet away. And then the rocks were gone, and the East Passage of Narragansett Bay opened up before them.

"Good," said Biddlecomb. "Steady as she goes."

It was worth the trouble to make certain that no one witnessed their landfall. Biddlecomb knew he was being cautious, perhaps overly cautions, sneaking into the Bay at night and keeping in the shadow of the land, but it was the cautious ones who grew old and rich, and he intended to do both. The chances of encountering a British revenue vessel were slight; in the two and a half years since the revenue schooner Gaspee had been run aground and burned by angry Rhode Islanders the British had never seriously attempted to collect the import duties that they had imposed.

Still, Biddlecomb felt compelled to defend against the slightest possibility of the Judea's being boarded and searched, as every corner of his ship was crammed with molasses smuggled from Barbados and destined for the distilleries of New England. As one fifth owner of the Judea he would have made a handsome profit even if he had paid the duty. By ignoring the British tax his profit would far exceed `handsome'.

In the lee of Castle Hill the wind fell off and the Judea came down on a more even keel. Biddlecomb pulled his hat from the binnacle box and pushed it back into shape, then jammed it down on his head. He walked forward along the quarterdeck and stepped down into the waist of the ship. The watch on deck was standing by the leeward rail, talking softly, the men busy at various tasks. Biddlecomb's eyes moved automatically around the deck, noting everything. He was pleased with what he saw; Judea was a good ship with a good company. And that was what he had come to expect. In five years as a ship's captain Biddlecomb had acquired such a reputation as a savvy business man, a fair captain and a hard driving sailor that more often than not he had to turn good men away.

"Where's the watch on deck?" Biddlecomb called out in the dark.

"Here, sir," a voice called out.

"Take another pull in the weather main sheet. The sail looks like a fishmonger's clothesline."

"Aye, sir," the seaman replied, but Biddlecomb was already past the foremast.

In the bow, with the courses no longer obstructing his view, Biddlecomb could just discern Bull Point and Point Adams in the moonlight. It was all so familiar to him, like the rooms of a house in which one has grown up.

Once past Point Adams the Judea skirted the entrance to Brenton Cove and Newport, hugging Goat Island and making careful use of the deep water that ran right up to the rocks. Biddlecomb conned the small ship through the shoals that littered the passage between Rose Island and the mainland. They continued northerly as their course wound its way through Narragansett Bay, quickly closing the distance to Bristol and safety.

Mr. Sanders, the first mate, stepped aft.

"Happy New Year to you, sir," said Sanders, and in response to Biddlecomb's confused look added, "It's past eight bells, ain't it?"

"Yes, of course!" said Biddlecomb. In their effort to remain unnoticed they had not been striking bells, and with all hands employed for the last few hours of the voyage and no change of watch Biddlecomb had entirely overlooked the passing of midnight. "Welcome to 1775, Mr. Sanders. We will toast it proper when we're safely in Bristol."

"I look forward to it, and I'll wish that 1775 is as kind to us as 1774 was."

The mate turned and looked at the shoreline gliding past. "We've knocked out what shoring that we can, and once we're abeam Prudence Island I'll break open hatches," he said.

"Very good. We'll warp alongside tonight and if we can get the help 'longshore we'll start off-loading molasses. If we have a someone aboard sober enough to be trusted we'll send them to roust out some hands."

Sanders cleared his throat. "Sir, can I ask what kind of profit we'll realize this trip?"

"Fairly handsome, I should think. I bought the molasses from Glacous at eighteen sous per gallon."

"Eighteen sous per gallon? From that thief? Sweet Jesus, sir, but how'd you manage that?" asked Sanders with undisguised incredulity.

"By convincing him I could buy molasses elsewhere for nineteen sous per gallon, rather than the twenty five he was holding out for. Didn't you wonder why we spent that second day loading barrels of seawater?"

"Bless you, sir, I long since give up trying to figure what you're up to," Sanders said.

"That might be best. Anyway, Glacous saw us loading barrels and he fairly panicked. I knew he hadn't any other buyers, so he sold to me at eighteen."

"Eighteen sous per gallon! Sweet Jesus..."

The two men stood in silence watching the shore slip past and the water streaming down the hull. In the moonlight Biddlecomb could just see the bouy that marked Halfway Rock, lurking just below the surface. Sanders followed Biddlecomb's gaze.

"You were aboard the Nightingale weren't you, when she went up on the rock?" he asked.

"I was. I was third mate then. I was down in the hold breaking out shoring when she hit," Biddlecomb looked out in the direction of the submerged rock and thought back to that night, the men in the black hold knocked about by the rush of water, the sea rising above his chest as he drove the last frightened man up the ladder. It was one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. "Stove in the whole starboard bow. The old man was drunk," he added.

Prudence Island was now visible on the larboard beam, a mile distant. "I'll start breaking open the hatches," said Sanders.

"Very good," said Biddlecomb and the mate started forward.

Biddlecomb stared out toward Prudence Island and thought about how he would spend the profits from this voyage. He would buy a house, to be certain, and buy a greater share of the Judea. At this rate it would be less then five years before he would be complete owner of his beloved Judea, the finest vessel he had ever sailed. She would be the foundation of the fleet of merchant ships he intended to build.

From there his thoughts turned to Virginia Stanton. She was the daughter of William Stanton, the man who owned the major share of the Judea and the man who had practically raised Biddlecomb after his parents were gone. Biddlecomb had been shipping out on Stanton's ships since he was a boy, and between voyages he had stayed at Stanton House, where William had educated him, introduced him to the classics, to poetry and Shakespeare, had taught him navigation and taught him how to fence.

It was just in the past year that Biddlecomb had noticed that Virginia, William's scrawny, annoying daughter was scrawny and annoying no more. She was seventeen now, lovely and exciting and Biddlecomb found his thoughts turning to her more and more. He wanted to court her, though his much vaunted nerve and eloquence often failed him in her company. That in itself was annoying; he had always had great success with women in the various seaports all over the Atlantic, but something about Virginia put him off his guard.

He couldn't imagine how William would react, but he was resolved this time to find out. He had made the same resolve before, he reminded himself.

Footsteps on the quarterdeck shook him from his dreams. He looked up, expecting to see Sanders coming aft to report some problem, but it was only the lookout.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I don't know, sir. Might be a ship. A big one. It's hard to see."

"Show me," said Biddlecomb, leading the seaman to the bow.

The lookout pointed into the gloom toward a spot just beyond Popasquash Neck. Biddlecomb saw it immediately, a dark shape moving against the darker background. It was a ship under two topsails moving slowly down the bay, close-hauled. On this heading it would pass well astern of the Judea. Biddlecomb looked forward past the Judea's bowsprit. Popasquash Point was a mile away. They would close with it in less then ten minutes, and ten minutes after that they would drop the anchor in Bristol Harbor. He looked back at the strange ship. Who could it be?

"Well spotted. Keep an eye on her, let me know if she alters course." Biddlecomb hurried back to the quarterdeck.

Who would be sailing at this time of night? Biddlecomb had good reason, but this strange ship was on a heading bound for sea, so she could not be a smuggler. Could it be a British revenue vessel? A vessel sent to stop smuggling? That was most unlikely. There had not been a revenue vessel on Narragansett Bay in years. Beside, Biddlecomb had never seen a revenue vessel larger than a brig, and this was a ship, and big one at that.

And then the answer came with a flash of light and the roar of a single gun erupting from the ship's side. The muzzle flash, blinding in the night, revealed a single row of gunports, each one open, each gun run out.

"God damn me to Hell!" shouted Biddlecomb, his practiced composure quite gone under the novel threat of gunfire. "Clew up the courses! Clew them up!" he ordered and he heard the men running for the gear.

The sails rose like curtains and now Biddlecomb was able to see in every direction. They were running down on Popasquash Point, would leave it just to larboard if they ran into Bristol Harbor. But there they would be trapped.

"Heave to! Heave to or we will fire into you!" a voice called across the water, metallic sounding through a speaking trumpet. Biddlecomb considered his options. Heaving to was out of the question. If they were boarded they would be arrested for smuggling and found guilty. He would rot in prison and his men would be pressed into the British Navy, a miserable fate in either case.

The stranger fired again, the same gun, forward most on their larboard side. The Judea's fore topgallant stay parted and the jib, robbed of its support, collapsed and blew forward in the quartering wind. Biddlecomb heard a sharp crack aloft and knew that the fore topgallant mast had snapped. Looking up he could just see the tangle of wreckage high above the deck.

Several of the Judeas flung themselves into the fore rigging, racing aloft to secure the damage.

"Avast there! Belay that!" Biddlecomb shouted. It was senseless to try and save the topgallant gear at that point and he did not want anyone aloft.

Once again the voice came from across the water, demanding that the Judea heave to. Biddlecomb considered the Judea's guns and dismissed the thought. The Judea carried six absurd little four pounders. Even if they could have done this enemy any harm there wasn't the time to clear away the gear that was piled on top of them and to locate where their attendant rammers and sponges had been stowed.

Biddlecomb looked at the strange ship, and at Popasquash Point, both of which were considerably nearer. He could tack right now, spin on his heel and race back to sea. But this stranger with his fast gun crews would cut them to ribbons before they were settled on the new tack. He would not subject his men to that danger.

If they ran into Bristol Harbor they could sneak around Hog Island and then head for the sea. No they couldn't. Not in this wind. He would be stuck in the harbor, wind-bound, and the man-of-war would follow him right in. The man-of-war will follow us in regardless, he thought. Biddlecomb stomach clenched like a fist. They were trapped.

He saw the men standing nervously in the waist, waiting for orders, waiting for their captain to think of something. "Lay aft!" Biddlecomb shouted. "Everyone lay aft here!" In that instance he had come to a decision and he felt the tension abate. The men hurried aft, stumbling up the step onto the quarter deck and hurrying to the stern, eager for salvation. Biddlecomb grabbed a fistful of Rigney's coat and yanked him from the wheel, grabbing the king spoke as he did.

"I'll take this, Rigney," he said.

Suddenly the night was illuminated by the man-of-wars broadside, twelve guns firing as one. The roar and shock made the Judea shudder. The longboat was cut in half and a section of the larboard bulwark disappeared.

"What are we..." someone began to ask and was cut short.

"Silence!" shouted Biddlecomb and the men fell silent, the sound of the water and wind lost to their ringing ears.

Biddlecomb glanced aft at the man-of-war, tensing as he waited for the next broadside. He could smell the thick forest smell from the land mixed with the odor of expended gunpowder.

"Everyone, grab hold of something!" he ordered. "Clap on to that taffrail there."

The men obeyed, grabbing anything solid within reach. Biddlecomb could hear the squeal of the man-of-war's guns running out, a short pistol shot astern. He turned the wheel, three spokes to larboard. The rocky outcropping that made up the tip of Popasquash Point lay under the Judea's bow. It did not matter if the man-of-war fired now.

The Judea plowed into the rocks off Popasquash Point at a little over eight knots. The stem collapsed on impact and the planks ten feet aft of the bow sprung or were crushed, allowing the water of Narragansett Bay to flood unimpeded into the hold. The crew were flung to the deck and lay there, hands held over their heads in a useless attempt to shield themselves from falling debris.

The foremast broke off at the partners and tumbled over the bow dragging the main topgallant and the topmast down with it. The main shrouds, twelve in all, seven and three quarter inches diameter hemp, parted like spunyarn. The main mast shattered eight feet above the deck and followed the foremast over the bow. The main top, weighing three tons, stove in a ten foot section of the deck. The mizzen topmast snapped off at the doubling and crashed down through the main hatch.

For nearly a minute they lay on the quarterdeck as five tons of spars, rigging, sails and blocks collapsed into so much garbage. Then it was quiet again. Biddlecomb scrambled to his feet and looked along the deck. The destruction was complete, absolutely complete. Already he could feel the ship settling lower in the water. But his men were stirring around him, and none of the wreckage had landed on the quarterdeck.

"Come on! Get up! Get up! Follow me!" Biddlecomb shouted, racing toward the bow. He tripped and fell over what had once been the mizzen topsail yard, then picked himself up and continued forward, his crew following close behind. They climbed over the fallen main mast, kicking aside the tangled running gear, and rushed to the bow.

The Judea's deck was steeply slanted, and Biddlecomb guessed that she was not afloat at all, simply resting on the rocky ledge. If that was the case she could slip off at any moment. The base of the foremast lay ten feet inboard of the bow forming a bridge between the wrecked ship and the shore. Biddlecomb looked down at the sea and the rocks twenty feet below, and then along the smooth round mast. The fresh oil on the wood shone in the moonlight, and Biddlecomb cursed himself for having had the men oil it not two days before. This type of balancing act was not at all to Biddlecomb's liking, and it was worse that he was expected to lead his far more nimble men across this makeshift bridge.

He mounted the horizontal mast and carefully stood, his arms stretched out at his side, and stepped out along it's length, first over the deck, then over the beakhead, and at last over the rocks below. His pace quickened and he was practically running along the mast when he began to lose his balance. His arms flailed in the air as he tried to take the last two steps, and, failing that, he lunged out and twisted his arms through the futtock shrouds still clinging to the shattered foretop. He hung there for a moment, breathing hard and fast.

"Beg pardon sir..." came a voice from behind and Biddlecomb realized that the rest of the men were waiting, balanced on the spar, for him to continue. He pulled himself up and over the foretop, so familiar but for its odd angle, and stepped on to the doubling. From there it was a drop of five feet to the ground.

Biddlecomb turned and looked at the shattered vessel as one by one the men leapt from the doubling and formed up behind him. With a groan the Judea, his beloved Judea, and all that he had in the world, settled lower in the water and then stopped, hung up on the ledge. Biddlecomb was overwhelmed with sadness, with loss and confusion. It was absurd, he knew, the Judea was just a ship, but he had not felt this way since he had watched them lower his mother's coffin into the frozen ground, seventeen years before.

Beyond the wreck of the Judea, just visible in the moonlight, Biddlecomb could see the man-of-war was hove to and lowering a boat. In a few minutes they would be swarming over the wreck, the bastards, going through the personal papers left in his cabin, examining his contraband cargo. His name was on every manifest, every bill of lading. There would be no doubt about who had been master of that vessel.

After a moment of silence Sanders touched his arm. "We best go, Isaac," he said. Biddlecomb took a last look, then turned and followed his men into the night.