The first of the Rose's guns fired and Biddlecomb turned and looked at the town behind him. With each gun he could see wood and brick fly from various rooftops.The British were firing high, and Biddlecomb hoped that they would continue to do so.
"Run up!" shouted Martin, and again the old fieldpiece was pushed to the wall. Martin squinted over the barrel and, satisfied, stepped back and fired.
The gun leapt back, and this time the crew could see splinters flying from the frigate's bullwark, but the activity of loading and the steady fire from the ship had sobered them and they fell to reloading without so much as a cheer.
Biddlecomb brought the glass to his eye again to inspect the damage to the frigate. There was a piece taken out of the bulwark, though that amounted to an afternoon's work for the ship's carpenter, no more.
He moved the glass to the quarterdeck and saw the captain turn towards the officers behind him. A midshipman scurried across the deck and the captain addressed him, pointing towards the stone wall, seeming, to Biddlecomb, to be pointing right on him. The midshipman nodded and raced forward, disappearing down the scuttle.
Biddlecomb could guess what orders the midshipman was carrying to the gunnery officer below. He moved his glass down to gaze at the empty gunports. Number-three gun was being run out, and number five following quickly. Biddlecomb waited for the shot, but it did not come, and he imagined that the gun crews were receiving new instructions. The rate of fire would slow, of course, as the gun crews tired, but Biddlecomb suspected that the Rose would always maintain an impressive level of gunnery. And they had twenty-four guns to the Americans' one.
He whipped the telescope up to his eye again. Nearly all of the great guns were run out, and it seemed to Biddlecomb as if he were peering straight down each of the gaping muzzles.
"Get down!" he yelled to the surprised patriots. "Get down, all of you! Biddlecomb leapt for cover behind the stone wall and the others followed.
Another broadside exploded from the frigate's side, and the air was filled with the deafening sound of grape and round shot passing scant feet above their heads. The stone wall shuddered with the impact of iron, and stone chips, as lethal as grapeshot, flew in all directions.
And then it was quiet again and the Americans leapt to their feet, the artillerymen running the fieldpiece up to the wall and the militiamen continuing their hail of musket balls.
Martin sighted down the barrel of the gun. He jammed the quoin further in, lowering the elevation, and called for the handspike to train the gun around.
The gun's crew leapt clear as Martin brought the slow match down on the touchhole. The gun went off and Biddlecomb saw a section of the quarterdeck rail crumple and noted with satisfaction that Wallace jumped clean off the deck with surprise. He swept the glass over the officers, but no one on the quarterdeck seemed to have been injured, either by the ball or the splinters from the rail.
Then Biddlecomb heard another sound and realized it was a man sobbing in agony. An artilleryman was lying on the ground, hands pressed to his face. Blood was already seeping through his fingers. The others stood looking at the man, unsure what to do.
"What happened here?" demanded Biddlecomb.
"I think a stone chip got him," one of the other men offered.
"Here, you two, help me move him aside," Biddlecomb ordered, getting hold of the man under his arms. The two others grabbed his legs and they dragged the wounded soldier as gently as they could to one side. The man screamed in renewed agony at the handling.
"Get back to the gun. I'll take care of him," said Biddlecomb. He knelt by the man's head and slowly began to pry his fingers away from his face. In sixteen years at sea Biddlecomb had seen his share of horrible accidents, and he had learned a great deal about treating them. He pulled one hand back, gently, like taking a dangerous object from a baby's grasp, uttering soothing words as he did. He could see torn skin under the mass of blood, and the gleam of white bone.
And then he stopped, seized by panic. When had the frigate fired last?
He grabbed the telescope and was halfway to his feet when the broadside shattered the morning, grape and round shot sweeping through the standing knot of soldiers and tearing a bloody path. Three feet away, Biddlecomb saw a man lifted off his feet and flung to the cobblestone road, torn to bloody ribbons. The man holding the rammer dropped the tool and grabbed at his face, screaming, blood spurting from between his fingers.
Stanton! Biddlecomb whirled around. The neat line of militia were now a shambles. Five men lay dead or dying. The others attended them, their muskets discarded on the road. At the far side of the ruined square, Stanton lay prone on the cobblestones, another man flung across him.
"William!" Biddlecomb cried, racing to his friend, pushing others aside. The man that lay across Stanton was dead, his chest torn apart. Biddlecomb pulled the corpse aside. Stanton lay motionless, covered in blood.
"William!" Biddlecomb cried again.
Stanton stirred and open his eyes. "Isaac, are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. I thought you were dead.
"No," said Stanton, struggling to sit up. "I'm unhurt. This poor fellow took the shot for me, dear soul," he said, indicating the broken body at his side.
"But, the blood..."
"It's his. How are our losses?"
"Bad, I fear." And then Biddlecomb remembered the Rose. He peered over the wall, bringing the glass to his eye.
The first of the great guns was emerging from the depth of the gundeck, and he could see the others following close behind. "Get down, they're firing again!" he shouted, and stunned though they were, the Americans crouched in the shelter of the wall.
The sound of the iron flying overhead and slamming into the wall was joined by another sound, iron striking iron, a dull ringing like a broken bell. The ancient six-pounder lifted up and spun in the air, seeming to hang there, and then crashed to the ground ten feet from its shattered carriage. The muzzle was splayed open and the barrel cracked clear back to the trunnions.
The gun's kneeling crew stared at their ruined charge. No one spoke.
Biddlecomb peered over the wall at the anchored ship. The frigate's launch was lifting off the booms once again. It swung outboard and settled in the water, and the boat crew swarmed over the side. Biddlecomb could see cutlasses dangling from their waists and the occasional pistol shoved in the belt. He held the glass to his eye and swept the deck. In a row stood the marines, their scarlet coats and white crossbelts seemed to glow in the morning sun. They began to climb down the side, encumbered by their gear and awkward in comparison to the nimble sailors.
"They are sending a party of marines!" Biddlecomb shouted. He turned and looked anxiously at Stanton.
"We can't fight the marines," Stanton concluded.
"We most certainly cannot," agreed Biddlecomb. He swallowed hard, then forced the nrxt sentence out. "I'll surrender myself while you and your men fall back."
"A noble gesture, but a wasted one. I won't let you do that. Besides, they're no longer interested in you alone. I imagine they've not taken kindly to the way we've used them." Stanton turned his head to address the soldiers crouching behind the wall. "All right, you men. Get the wounded up, those that can walk with help. Carry the others. The dead as well. We're falling back to the prison yard. Let's move!" Stanton bellowed orders with the authority he had learned on a quarterdeck years before, and the militia hurried to obey.
Biddlecomb peered over the stone wall. The launch was shoving off from the Rose. Once again the banks of oars came down in perfect unison.