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The year 1777 is bleak indeed for the cause of American Independence, with the British army twice defeating Washington and taking the capital city of Philadelphia, and the Royal navy sweeping aside the defenses of the Delaware Bay.
And for Captain Isaac Biddlecomb and the men of the half-built frigate Falmouth things are more dire still. After managing to slip through a British blockade they find themselves trapped in a desolate harbor on the New Jersey coast and menaced not by the British but by the outlaw bands that terrorize the countryside and see Falmouth as a potentially valuable prize. Biddlecomb’s most potent weapon, the captured British sloop Sparrowhawk, is gone, stolen by the deserter Angus McGinty, and Biddlecomb is left to face the ruthless Pine Robbers on his own, with only his diminished crew and the near-useless local militia to help. Meanwhile, Virginia Biddlecomb, trapped in occupied Philadelphia, sees her chance to play a clandestine role in the fight. In the course of her activities, however, she lets slip information that will put her husband, his ship and crew in mortal danger, leading to a desperate race get the unwieldy Falmouth to a place beyond the reach of the Royal Navy. |
The Falmouth Frigate
Chapter One
They came down the long pier extending out over the tidal mudflats on the edge of Great Egg Harbor. They came on horseback and on foot, their way lit by a smattering of lanterns held aloft. In that uncertain light Biddlecomb could not see how many there were, nor could he get any sense for their purpose in approaching his ship.
“Seen ‘em in town. Their lanterns, anyway,” Ezra Rumstick said. They were standing by the gangway amidships. From there a gangplank ran down from the ship’s deck to the end of the pier to which she was tied. “Didn’t think much of it, until they started heading this way.”
Biddlecomb nodded. He could hear a bustle from down below, voices calling, soft but urgent. Ezra had sent Midshipman Gerrish to the great cabin to alert Biddlecomb to the strangers’ approach, but he had also ordered the other men to arms, and told Lt. Faircloth to turn out the marines. Rumstick was not the indecisive type, not the sort who shirked responsibility. And, after all their time together, the thousands of miles under the keel, the many treacherous and bloody encounters, he could well anticipate what orders Biddlecomb was likely to give.
It was a cold night, with October ready to yield to November. The air was crisp and it carried the scent of wood smoke and salt-water marsh. Biddlecomb buttoned his coat as he watched the people approach. Half a dozen horses, by Biddlecomb’s count, and a dozen men. No…more than that. A score of men? He could see light glinting off steel, the barrels of muskets, he guessed.
“What do you reckon?” Rumstick asked.
“Don’t know,” Biddlecomb said. “But armed men approaching at night…not generally a good thing.” He turned to Rumstick and gave him a bit of a smile. “We best go see what they want,” he said.
Biddlecomb stepped up onto the gangway and headed down, Rumstick behind him. The tide was near its height and the gangway was steep and Biddlecomb descended with caution. He did not care to go galley-west down the gangplank under the gaze of whoever was approaching. First impressions and all that.
He stepped onto the pier as the riders at the front of the untidy column pulled their horses to a stop and dismounted. Two of the riders stepped forward, and from behind them two of the men on foot hurried to join them. The men on foot Biddlecomb knew. The older of the two, a man somewhere in his forties, was Col. Richard Somers, commander of the local defense, the Gloucester County Militia. The younger, in his mid-twenty, was his captain, Noah Mitnick.
It was these men, Somers and his militia, who had come to Biddlecomb’s aide on that nightmare day when he had been forced to beach his beloved Charlemagne on the barrier island that formed Great Egg Harbor. They had secured wagons for the wounded, escorted the survivors to the ferry that bought them to the town of Egg Harbor, such that it was, and seen them ensconced safe in the town’s one tavern. It was because of that help that Biddlecomb hit on the idea of bringing Falmouth there. It seemed a place where he could get the protection and assistance he needed.
That, and because it was the only deep harbor he knew of near the mouth of the Delaware Bay.
Somers and the rest had been surprised by the return of Isaac Biddlecomb, this time with a half-finished frigate, no less. Not pleased, just surprised.
“Colonel Somers, good evening,” Biddlecomb said. “Captain Mitnick. To what do I owe this honor?” He addressed Somers, though it was clear that the man who had come mounted, and not the militia colonel, was playing the lead role in whatever drama was being staged.
The man had a rough look about him, to be sure. He wore a cocked hat, battered and scuffed, with some sort of cockade holding up one side. His coat was equally worn, dark blue with facings of a lighter color, a coat that might or might not be regimental dress. White breeches and white waistcoat, the dirt and stains visible even in the light of the few lanterns that illuminated the scene. A sword hung at his side, a sea-service pistol clipped to his belt. He was three days at least in want of a shave.
“Captain Biddlecomb, good evening,” Somers said. He was a polite man, a cautious man, and despite his position in command of the Gloucester County Militia he was not a military man, per se. He was a fisherman and cooper by trade, and seemed content with soldiering as long as the war was being fought on the far side of his state or beyond. And that, Biddlecomb guessed, was why he was not pleased by the arrival of Falmouth, which had brought the war to him.
“This gentleman here,” Somers continued, nodding toward the man in the blue coat, “is Colonel Shadrach Barnett.” If Somers meant to say more he did not get the chance. Barnett stepped forward as if the militia colonel was not even there.
“Captain…Biddlecomb, is it?” Barnett asked. “A pleasure.” His voice was course, like a saw through wood, and his tone was that of a man trying to not project aggression. Trying, but not succeeding entirely.
“Captain Biddlecomb, yes,” Biddlecomb said. “Continental Navy. My first officer, Lieutenant Ezra Rumstick.” Biddlecomb nodded toward the imposing figure of Rumstick who stood to his right. Barnett looked up at Rumstick and nodded, but showed no hint of expression on his face.
“Colonel Barnett…you would be a colonel of…what?” Biddlecomb asked.
Barnett frowned. “Detached unit,” he said. “Headquarters.”
Biddlecomb nodded. “I see,” he said, though what he saw was likely not what Barnett wanted him to see. Not that Barnett was putting much effort into his subterfuge.
Some of the other men, those who had dismounted and those on foot, had shuffled a bit closer and Biddlecomb could see more of them in the light of the lanterns. They were in civilian clothes for the most part, though some, like Barnett, wore clothing that might have once been part of some military unit. They carried muskets of various models; some French, some English, some locally made. Cartridge boxes of all sorts, and the occasional powder horn. Some had pistols, some had canteens, some had bedrolls slung over their shoulders. They might have been militia, but they did not look much like any militia Biddlecomb had ever seen.
Some of the others Biddlecomb recognized as Somers’s men, and they did look like what Biddlecomb had come to expect of citizen soldiers. They were mostly farmers and fishermen, dressed in simple, rough, but clean clothing, working clothing, slop trousers or breeches and wool stockings and homespun coats. They carried uniform muskets and uniform cartridge boxes that has been issued from the local armory. They were tough-looking, not in the way of outlaws but in the way of working men. There were only half a dozen of them, and they did not look terribly pleased to be there. Nor did Somers or Mitnick, for that matter.
“Colonel Somers, you are acquainted with Colonel Barnett, I trust? Sure you gentlemen have met before.”
“No, Captain, no, in truth we have not,” Somers said, making little effort to hide his discomfort. “The colonel here, he says he’s just down from headquarters, you see, and he and his men just arrived and made their introductions.”
“That’s the right of it, Captain,” Barnett said. “Just arrived here. From headquarters.”
“I see,” Biddlecomb said. “And…just who’s headquarters, exactly?”
“Why, General Washington,” Barnett said. “Who’d you think?”
“I had no notion,” Biddlecomb said. “I’m surprised to hear General Washington even knows we’re here.”
Barnett looked at him for a long moment, then said, “You might be surprised to learn what General Washington knows.”
“I reckon I would,” Biddlecomb said. He heard movement on the ship behind him, footsteps on the planks. Barnett looked up but Biddlecomb resisted the urge. He had a pretty good idea of who it was: Mr. Gerrish, most likely, getting the men along the rail in a show of force. Gerrish would know to make it a casual display, nothing too forward. No reason to stoke any flames. What’s more, Falmouth did not have very many men to defend her, and that was not a fact that Biddlecomb wished to show off.
Barnett gave the activity on Falmouth’s deck a few second’s glance, no more, and then his eyes were back on Biddlecomb, his face still devoid of expression. “Sergeant Wilcox, get them men up here, pray,” he said. From back in the shadows someone — Sergeant Wilcox, presumably — gave a sharp order and a dozen men stepped forward, not the Gloucester militia but the hard-looking men who had come with Barnett.
And He will separate them one from another, as a shepherd divides his sheep from the goats… Biddlecomb thought.
“Thing of it is,” Barnett said, “General Washington, he knows what he knows on account of men like us, who keep our eyes and ears open for him. He’s expecting a report on the ship here, the…what’s she called, now?”
“She’s a ship,” Biddlecomb said. “General Washington will know which one.”
Barnett nodded. “Reckon so. But he’ll want to know more. He’s like that. So by your leave we’ll go aboard and have a look about. So we can tell the general.”
“No,” Biddlecomb said. “No, I think not.”
Barnett nodded again and for a moment he and Biddlecomb just looked at one another. Then Barnett moved his eyes up to the ship’s rail, a slow and deliberate motion, as if to make clear to Biddlecomb that he could see what force Biddlecomb had and he was none to impressed by it. He looked down again and the men behind him took another step forward.
“General’s orders, Captain,” Barnett said.
“I don’t answer to the General, Colonel,” Biddlecomb said. “I answer to the Marine Committee. And they say no.”
Silence again, two men in a stand-off. One would yield, or there would be blood. Those were the possibilities, the only possibilities.
Then more sounds from behind, from Falmouth’s deck. More shoes on planks, but sharper now, the slap of disciplined feet moving with purpose.
Damn… Biddlecomb thought. He knew what would happen next. He heard feet coming down the gangplank, pair after pair. Barnett’s eyes flicked over and up, then came back to Biddlecomb just as quickly. Biddlecomb resisted the urge to look, but he did not have to, really.
Lieutenant Faircloth appeared on the edge of his sight, his green regimental coat looking black in the dark. Behind him his Continental Marines moved in a short column along the pier, not quite marching but not merely walking either. They fell in parallel to Falmouth’s side, muskets on shoulders, bayonets fixed, eyes straight ahead. Their perfectly uniform clothing was in bold contrast to the civilian garb of the Gloucester Militia, and even more so to that worn by Barnett’s followers. Faircloth was a wealthy man, and he saw to it that his marines were well fitted out.
Biddlecomb’s eyes never left Barnett’s face. He saw the man glance over once again at Faircloth’s marines, saw the flicker of a smile cross his lips. There were nine marines who had survived the fighting on the beach when they had grounded Charlemagne, and survived the fighting on Delaware Bay and the defense of the Falmouth. They were well-armed, well-equipped, and well trained. Disciplined men. But there were only nine of them, and they did not frighten Colonel Shadrach Barnett.
The colonel, or whatever he was in truth, looked back at Biddlecomb. “Ship seems to enjoy some good protection,” he said. “This all the men you have? All the marines on board? General’ll want to know.”
Biddlecomb raised his hands in a noncommittal gesture. Faircloth’s instincts were good, but he would have done better to just post a couple of marines at the base of the gangway, let Barnett guess at how many more were aboard. With the men lined up thus it was pretty clear that those were all there were.
“Marines, sailors, it takes a host of men to man and sail and fight a ship such as this,” Biddlecomb said.
“And you have a host of men?” Barnett asked.
“We sailed her here,” Biddlecomb said. “And we can fight her.”
Barnett nodded. He looked back at Faircloth’s marines then up at the men along the ship’s rail. He was not intimidated by what he saw, that was clear, but neither was he in a hurry to send his makeshift company against Faircloth’s bayonets. And they did not look to be in a hurry to go.
He turned back to Biddlecomb and once again the two men regarded one another, silent and unmoving.
“Very well, then, Captain,” Barnett said at last. “I reckon you decide who comes aboard your ship and who don’t.”
“I reckon,” Biddlecomb said. “But pray, give General Washington my regards.”
Barnett nodded again. “That I will, Captain.”
“So,” Somers broke in, relief in his voice. “Back to headquarters with you, Colonel?”
“No,” Barnett said. “My boys are pretty well played out just now. Seemed there was a tavern in town, that we seen. I reckon we’ll bed down there for the night. Maybe stay in the neighborhood, see how we might help the cause. You know. Independency.”
“Not sure the tavern has room for so many,” Captain Mitnick offered, sounding a bit too helpful and apologetic to be genuine. “I fear you and you’re men would be none too comfortable there.”
Barnett smiled at that. “Oh, don’t you worry, Captain. We don’t require anything too fancy. A roof over our heads, a warm meal. Cup of rum. That should do us fine.” He turned his back on Biddlecomb and Rumstick and called to his men, “Mount up! Sergeant Wilcox, get the men ready to move!” He turned back to Biddlecomb. “Good night to you, sir. I trust we’ll meet again soon.”
“I suspect we will,” Biddlecomb said.
With that Barnett strode back to his horse and swung himself up in the saddle. He took one last, long look around, then tugged his horse’s reins and headed back along the heavy wooden planks of the pier, his mounted troops and his foot soldiers falling in behind.
Biddlecomb, Rumstick, Somers and the others watched in silence as they walked off into the dark, until there was nothing to be seen of them but the pinpoints of light from their lanterns.
Somers coughed and spit on the ground. “Sons of bitches,” he said “Whore’s sons, sons of bitches.”
“I take it, Colonel, that you don’t reckon they’re really from Washington’s headquarters?” Biddlecomb asked.
“Ha! No, I reckon not,” Somers said.
“Pack of Loyalist dogs,” Rumstick suggested.
“Maybe,” Somers said. “The state’s getting more lawless by the day. Law, government, it’s what any bastard says it is. You got Loyalist gangs terrorizing folks, pretending to be King’s men and legal for that reason. You got supposed Patriots preying on whoever they wish, figuring no one will object to them plundering King’s men. But these bastards? I reckon they’re just banditti. Pine Robbers. There’s a plague of ‘em, living in the Pine Barrens here, robbing anyone. Like we ain’t got trouble enough.”
Biddlecomb nodded. “They probably figure the ship and whatever’s aboard is the richest prize they’re like to find.”
“Well, damn it all, Captain!” Somers said. “Do you see? You shouldn’t have come here, and this is why. Ship like this, it attracts all sorts of attention. And we don’t need attention here, not from the British, not from Loyalists, and sure as hell not from banditti.”
“Look, Colonel,” Rumstick said, his tone every bit as annoyed as Somers’s, “Fact is, you just might have to face some trouble, even here in Fragile as an Egg Harbor. Might be you’ll even have to do some fighting. You know, like the rest of us.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Colonel,” Biddlecomb said, putting a stop to that altercation before it could gain any more momentum. “We can go fight them now, if you think it’s wise. My men, your militia, we march right to the tavern and shoo them off. I’m sure we can be persuasive.”
Somers was scowling, either from Rumstick’s words or Biddlecomb’s, or more likely both. “We don’t need to start our own war here with them bastards,” he said. “We got war enough. And I’m not concerned about this so-called colonel. I reckon he got an eye-full of your marines. He’ll light off in the morning, him and his men. I’m just afraid of what comes next, and your ship drawing this vermin here.”
“The thing of it is, Colonel,” Biddlecomb said, “we don’t much want to be here, either. No hope of getting the ship fitted out here, and totally vulnerable to the likes of Barnett and his pack of dogs.”
“So…what will you do?”
“We’ll get underway just as soon as we can,” Biddlecomb said. “And the more help we get from you and your men, the sooner that will be.”
Somers made a grunting noise. “Very well, Captain,” he said. “You’ll get every bit of help we can give, I promise.”
Biddlecomb nodded. He did not doubt Somers’s sincerity, because he did not doubt Somers’s great desire to see Falmouth — and all the trouble she brought — well over the horizon.
“Seen ‘em in town. Their lanterns, anyway,” Ezra Rumstick said. They were standing by the gangway amidships. From there a gangplank ran down from the ship’s deck to the end of the pier to which she was tied. “Didn’t think much of it, until they started heading this way.”
Biddlecomb nodded. He could hear a bustle from down below, voices calling, soft but urgent. Ezra had sent Midshipman Gerrish to the great cabin to alert Biddlecomb to the strangers’ approach, but he had also ordered the other men to arms, and told Lt. Faircloth to turn out the marines. Rumstick was not the indecisive type, not the sort who shirked responsibility. And, after all their time together, the thousands of miles under the keel, the many treacherous and bloody encounters, he could well anticipate what orders Biddlecomb was likely to give.
It was a cold night, with October ready to yield to November. The air was crisp and it carried the scent of wood smoke and salt-water marsh. Biddlecomb buttoned his coat as he watched the people approach. Half a dozen horses, by Biddlecomb’s count, and a dozen men. No…more than that. A score of men? He could see light glinting off steel, the barrels of muskets, he guessed.
“What do you reckon?” Rumstick asked.
“Don’t know,” Biddlecomb said. “But armed men approaching at night…not generally a good thing.” He turned to Rumstick and gave him a bit of a smile. “We best go see what they want,” he said.
Biddlecomb stepped up onto the gangway and headed down, Rumstick behind him. The tide was near its height and the gangway was steep and Biddlecomb descended with caution. He did not care to go galley-west down the gangplank under the gaze of whoever was approaching. First impressions and all that.
He stepped onto the pier as the riders at the front of the untidy column pulled their horses to a stop and dismounted. Two of the riders stepped forward, and from behind them two of the men on foot hurried to join them. The men on foot Biddlecomb knew. The older of the two, a man somewhere in his forties, was Col. Richard Somers, commander of the local defense, the Gloucester County Militia. The younger, in his mid-twenty, was his captain, Noah Mitnick.
It was these men, Somers and his militia, who had come to Biddlecomb’s aide on that nightmare day when he had been forced to beach his beloved Charlemagne on the barrier island that formed Great Egg Harbor. They had secured wagons for the wounded, escorted the survivors to the ferry that bought them to the town of Egg Harbor, such that it was, and seen them ensconced safe in the town’s one tavern. It was because of that help that Biddlecomb hit on the idea of bringing Falmouth there. It seemed a place where he could get the protection and assistance he needed.
That, and because it was the only deep harbor he knew of near the mouth of the Delaware Bay.
Somers and the rest had been surprised by the return of Isaac Biddlecomb, this time with a half-finished frigate, no less. Not pleased, just surprised.
“Colonel Somers, good evening,” Biddlecomb said. “Captain Mitnick. To what do I owe this honor?” He addressed Somers, though it was clear that the man who had come mounted, and not the militia colonel, was playing the lead role in whatever drama was being staged.
The man had a rough look about him, to be sure. He wore a cocked hat, battered and scuffed, with some sort of cockade holding up one side. His coat was equally worn, dark blue with facings of a lighter color, a coat that might or might not be regimental dress. White breeches and white waistcoat, the dirt and stains visible even in the light of the few lanterns that illuminated the scene. A sword hung at his side, a sea-service pistol clipped to his belt. He was three days at least in want of a shave.
“Captain Biddlecomb, good evening,” Somers said. He was a polite man, a cautious man, and despite his position in command of the Gloucester County Militia he was not a military man, per se. He was a fisherman and cooper by trade, and seemed content with soldiering as long as the war was being fought on the far side of his state or beyond. And that, Biddlecomb guessed, was why he was not pleased by the arrival of Falmouth, which had brought the war to him.
“This gentleman here,” Somers continued, nodding toward the man in the blue coat, “is Colonel Shadrach Barnett.” If Somers meant to say more he did not get the chance. Barnett stepped forward as if the militia colonel was not even there.
“Captain…Biddlecomb, is it?” Barnett asked. “A pleasure.” His voice was course, like a saw through wood, and his tone was that of a man trying to not project aggression. Trying, but not succeeding entirely.
“Captain Biddlecomb, yes,” Biddlecomb said. “Continental Navy. My first officer, Lieutenant Ezra Rumstick.” Biddlecomb nodded toward the imposing figure of Rumstick who stood to his right. Barnett looked up at Rumstick and nodded, but showed no hint of expression on his face.
“Colonel Barnett…you would be a colonel of…what?” Biddlecomb asked.
Barnett frowned. “Detached unit,” he said. “Headquarters.”
Biddlecomb nodded. “I see,” he said, though what he saw was likely not what Barnett wanted him to see. Not that Barnett was putting much effort into his subterfuge.
Some of the other men, those who had dismounted and those on foot, had shuffled a bit closer and Biddlecomb could see more of them in the light of the lanterns. They were in civilian clothes for the most part, though some, like Barnett, wore clothing that might have once been part of some military unit. They carried muskets of various models; some French, some English, some locally made. Cartridge boxes of all sorts, and the occasional powder horn. Some had pistols, some had canteens, some had bedrolls slung over their shoulders. They might have been militia, but they did not look much like any militia Biddlecomb had ever seen.
Some of the others Biddlecomb recognized as Somers’s men, and they did look like what Biddlecomb had come to expect of citizen soldiers. They were mostly farmers and fishermen, dressed in simple, rough, but clean clothing, working clothing, slop trousers or breeches and wool stockings and homespun coats. They carried uniform muskets and uniform cartridge boxes that has been issued from the local armory. They were tough-looking, not in the way of outlaws but in the way of working men. There were only half a dozen of them, and they did not look terribly pleased to be there. Nor did Somers or Mitnick, for that matter.
“Colonel Somers, you are acquainted with Colonel Barnett, I trust? Sure you gentlemen have met before.”
“No, Captain, no, in truth we have not,” Somers said, making little effort to hide his discomfort. “The colonel here, he says he’s just down from headquarters, you see, and he and his men just arrived and made their introductions.”
“That’s the right of it, Captain,” Barnett said. “Just arrived here. From headquarters.”
“I see,” Biddlecomb said. “And…just who’s headquarters, exactly?”
“Why, General Washington,” Barnett said. “Who’d you think?”
“I had no notion,” Biddlecomb said. “I’m surprised to hear General Washington even knows we’re here.”
Barnett looked at him for a long moment, then said, “You might be surprised to learn what General Washington knows.”
“I reckon I would,” Biddlecomb said. He heard movement on the ship behind him, footsteps on the planks. Barnett looked up but Biddlecomb resisted the urge. He had a pretty good idea of who it was: Mr. Gerrish, most likely, getting the men along the rail in a show of force. Gerrish would know to make it a casual display, nothing too forward. No reason to stoke any flames. What’s more, Falmouth did not have very many men to defend her, and that was not a fact that Biddlecomb wished to show off.
Barnett gave the activity on Falmouth’s deck a few second’s glance, no more, and then his eyes were back on Biddlecomb, his face still devoid of expression. “Sergeant Wilcox, get them men up here, pray,” he said. From back in the shadows someone — Sergeant Wilcox, presumably — gave a sharp order and a dozen men stepped forward, not the Gloucester militia but the hard-looking men who had come with Barnett.
And He will separate them one from another, as a shepherd divides his sheep from the goats… Biddlecomb thought.
“Thing of it is,” Barnett said, “General Washington, he knows what he knows on account of men like us, who keep our eyes and ears open for him. He’s expecting a report on the ship here, the…what’s she called, now?”
“She’s a ship,” Biddlecomb said. “General Washington will know which one.”
Barnett nodded. “Reckon so. But he’ll want to know more. He’s like that. So by your leave we’ll go aboard and have a look about. So we can tell the general.”
“No,” Biddlecomb said. “No, I think not.”
Barnett nodded again and for a moment he and Biddlecomb just looked at one another. Then Barnett moved his eyes up to the ship’s rail, a slow and deliberate motion, as if to make clear to Biddlecomb that he could see what force Biddlecomb had and he was none to impressed by it. He looked down again and the men behind him took another step forward.
“General’s orders, Captain,” Barnett said.
“I don’t answer to the General, Colonel,” Biddlecomb said. “I answer to the Marine Committee. And they say no.”
Silence again, two men in a stand-off. One would yield, or there would be blood. Those were the possibilities, the only possibilities.
Then more sounds from behind, from Falmouth’s deck. More shoes on planks, but sharper now, the slap of disciplined feet moving with purpose.
Damn… Biddlecomb thought. He knew what would happen next. He heard feet coming down the gangplank, pair after pair. Barnett’s eyes flicked over and up, then came back to Biddlecomb just as quickly. Biddlecomb resisted the urge to look, but he did not have to, really.
Lieutenant Faircloth appeared on the edge of his sight, his green regimental coat looking black in the dark. Behind him his Continental Marines moved in a short column along the pier, not quite marching but not merely walking either. They fell in parallel to Falmouth’s side, muskets on shoulders, bayonets fixed, eyes straight ahead. Their perfectly uniform clothing was in bold contrast to the civilian garb of the Gloucester Militia, and even more so to that worn by Barnett’s followers. Faircloth was a wealthy man, and he saw to it that his marines were well fitted out.
Biddlecomb’s eyes never left Barnett’s face. He saw the man glance over once again at Faircloth’s marines, saw the flicker of a smile cross his lips. There were nine marines who had survived the fighting on the beach when they had grounded Charlemagne, and survived the fighting on Delaware Bay and the defense of the Falmouth. They were well-armed, well-equipped, and well trained. Disciplined men. But there were only nine of them, and they did not frighten Colonel Shadrach Barnett.
The colonel, or whatever he was in truth, looked back at Biddlecomb. “Ship seems to enjoy some good protection,” he said. “This all the men you have? All the marines on board? General’ll want to know.”
Biddlecomb raised his hands in a noncommittal gesture. Faircloth’s instincts were good, but he would have done better to just post a couple of marines at the base of the gangway, let Barnett guess at how many more were aboard. With the men lined up thus it was pretty clear that those were all there were.
“Marines, sailors, it takes a host of men to man and sail and fight a ship such as this,” Biddlecomb said.
“And you have a host of men?” Barnett asked.
“We sailed her here,” Biddlecomb said. “And we can fight her.”
Barnett nodded. He looked back at Faircloth’s marines then up at the men along the ship’s rail. He was not intimidated by what he saw, that was clear, but neither was he in a hurry to send his makeshift company against Faircloth’s bayonets. And they did not look to be in a hurry to go.
He turned back to Biddlecomb and once again the two men regarded one another, silent and unmoving.
“Very well, then, Captain,” Barnett said at last. “I reckon you decide who comes aboard your ship and who don’t.”
“I reckon,” Biddlecomb said. “But pray, give General Washington my regards.”
Barnett nodded again. “That I will, Captain.”
“So,” Somers broke in, relief in his voice. “Back to headquarters with you, Colonel?”
“No,” Barnett said. “My boys are pretty well played out just now. Seemed there was a tavern in town, that we seen. I reckon we’ll bed down there for the night. Maybe stay in the neighborhood, see how we might help the cause. You know. Independency.”
“Not sure the tavern has room for so many,” Captain Mitnick offered, sounding a bit too helpful and apologetic to be genuine. “I fear you and you’re men would be none too comfortable there.”
Barnett smiled at that. “Oh, don’t you worry, Captain. We don’t require anything too fancy. A roof over our heads, a warm meal. Cup of rum. That should do us fine.” He turned his back on Biddlecomb and Rumstick and called to his men, “Mount up! Sergeant Wilcox, get the men ready to move!” He turned back to Biddlecomb. “Good night to you, sir. I trust we’ll meet again soon.”
“I suspect we will,” Biddlecomb said.
With that Barnett strode back to his horse and swung himself up in the saddle. He took one last, long look around, then tugged his horse’s reins and headed back along the heavy wooden planks of the pier, his mounted troops and his foot soldiers falling in behind.
Biddlecomb, Rumstick, Somers and the others watched in silence as they walked off into the dark, until there was nothing to be seen of them but the pinpoints of light from their lanterns.
Somers coughed and spit on the ground. “Sons of bitches,” he said “Whore’s sons, sons of bitches.”
“I take it, Colonel, that you don’t reckon they’re really from Washington’s headquarters?” Biddlecomb asked.
“Ha! No, I reckon not,” Somers said.
“Pack of Loyalist dogs,” Rumstick suggested.
“Maybe,” Somers said. “The state’s getting more lawless by the day. Law, government, it’s what any bastard says it is. You got Loyalist gangs terrorizing folks, pretending to be King’s men and legal for that reason. You got supposed Patriots preying on whoever they wish, figuring no one will object to them plundering King’s men. But these bastards? I reckon they’re just banditti. Pine Robbers. There’s a plague of ‘em, living in the Pine Barrens here, robbing anyone. Like we ain’t got trouble enough.”
Biddlecomb nodded. “They probably figure the ship and whatever’s aboard is the richest prize they’re like to find.”
“Well, damn it all, Captain!” Somers said. “Do you see? You shouldn’t have come here, and this is why. Ship like this, it attracts all sorts of attention. And we don’t need attention here, not from the British, not from Loyalists, and sure as hell not from banditti.”
“Look, Colonel,” Rumstick said, his tone every bit as annoyed as Somers’s, “Fact is, you just might have to face some trouble, even here in Fragile as an Egg Harbor. Might be you’ll even have to do some fighting. You know, like the rest of us.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Colonel,” Biddlecomb said, putting a stop to that altercation before it could gain any more momentum. “We can go fight them now, if you think it’s wise. My men, your militia, we march right to the tavern and shoo them off. I’m sure we can be persuasive.”
Somers was scowling, either from Rumstick’s words or Biddlecomb’s, or more likely both. “We don’t need to start our own war here with them bastards,” he said. “We got war enough. And I’m not concerned about this so-called colonel. I reckon he got an eye-full of your marines. He’ll light off in the morning, him and his men. I’m just afraid of what comes next, and your ship drawing this vermin here.”
“The thing of it is, Colonel,” Biddlecomb said, “we don’t much want to be here, either. No hope of getting the ship fitted out here, and totally vulnerable to the likes of Barnett and his pack of dogs.”
“So…what will you do?”
“We’ll get underway just as soon as we can,” Biddlecomb said. “And the more help we get from you and your men, the sooner that will be.”
Somers made a grunting noise. “Very well, Captain,” he said. “You’ll get every bit of help we can give, I promise.”
Biddlecomb nodded. He did not doubt Somers’s sincerity, because he did not doubt Somers’s great desire to see Falmouth — and all the trouble she brought — well over the horizon.
