James L. Nelson
BY FORCE OF ARMS
(Revolution at Sea — 1)
About the Book
The first in the enthralling Revolution at Sea series
As the War of independence begins in earnest, American merchant seamen prepare to strike the first blows. None strikes more deftly than Isaac Biddlecomb, captain of the Judea, whose smuggling activities are making a mockery of His Majesty's Royal Navy. Pursued by HMS Rose, he sacrifices the ship he loved to the depth, together with the fortune he stood to gain, rather than surrender.
On the run from the enraged forces of King George, Isaac disguises himself as a merchant seaman. He is reunited with Ezra Rumstick, a comrade and fierce rebel, as the revolution gathers momentum. On a brig bound for Jamaica, and now serving as a lowly mate, fate tests Isaac's mettle as he is captured by the enemy and faces a life of servitude under the deranged captain and sadistic crew of the HMS Icarus...
About the Author
James Nelson has served as a seaman, rigger, boatswain, and officer on a number of sailing vessels. He is the author of the five books comprising his The Revolution at Sea saga and of The Brethren of the Coast trilogy. He lives with his wife and children in Maine.
His website can be found at www.jamesnelson.com
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Also by James Nelson
GLORY IN THE NAME
THIEVES OF MERCY
The Brethren of the Coast:
THE GUARDSHIP
THE BLACKBIRDER
THE PIRATE ROUND
The Revolution at Sea Saga:
BY FORCE OF ARMS
THE MADDEST IDEA
THE CONTINENTAL RISQUE
LORDS OF THE OCEAN
ALL THE BRAVE FELLOWS
Published by Corgi Books
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BY FORCE OF ARMS
Chapter 1.
Judea
CAPT. 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 had once 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 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 said, turning 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 mainsail, staring into the darkness ahead. At last he saw it, a thin gray 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," the helmsman 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 him 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 foresail.
"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 that 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 stoical, 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 seaman 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.