"Yes, that's fine, but the orders are to fetch dispatches from the flag and proceed to sea as soon as we are ready. What's our state of readiness, John?"
"Our wood and water is all laid in, and most of our food. We're waiting on powder and shot. Bleakney, who had the Icarus before you, seem to have found any excuse to fire off the great guns, and it has become a great nuisance. I'm surprised that he was made post, after such waste. Anyway, with some prodding of the navy yard we could sail on the morning tide."
Pendexter frowned. "This is damned inconvenient," he said at last. "Damned inconvenient. You see, I had planned a bit of party aboard for tomorrow night. I've invited some damned influential people, and some very eager young women. It would never do to cancel now."
Smeaton smiled. "I know just the thing that will answer. As I said, it's only with great prodding that we would be ready tomorrow. It's hardly our fault if the shipyard fails to respond to a standard request, and if we follow proper channels, it could take us a fortnight to get to sea. And none of the fault our own."
"Excellent. We'll have the chance to show off our brig after all. All the more reason why we must get into the city and secure some civilized furniture."
"I'll see the launch swayed over immediately," said Smeaton, stepping out the door.
"Very good. And pass the word to the carpenter that he is to break up this abominable furniture for kindling, and I don't give a damn if he made it himself."
Chapter 6.
Providence
BIDDLECOMB READ, WITH SOME DIFFICULTY, the weathered broadside. The wheat paste that made the sheet an almost permanent fixture on the wall to which it was plastered had preserved the paper, though it had been posted the better part of a year ago. Biddlecomb wondered if the patriots of Boston, Hancock and the rest, felt quite so brave and bold now, with their harbor sealed tight and their livelihoods dying of atrophy.
The packet Nancy had warped alongside the Providence waterfront on the first of the flood tide that morning after an uneventful run upriver. Biddlecomb had paid his respects to Captain Higgens and begun his search of the Providence waterfront for his old friend Ezra Rumstick. The activity that surrounded the merchant fleet of Providence flowed around him in a hundred different directions. The breeze carried with it the smell of tar and paint, and from aboard the ships came the shouts of mates and seamen and the groaning and creaking of blocks and tackle as cargo went on and off. The longshoremen added their voices to the confusion. as did the merchants, who kept watchful eyes on their interests. This was Biddlecomb's world; he loved it, and it gave him security and strength.
And Isaac looked as much a part of that world as he felt, dressed as he was in the most ubiquitous outfit on the waterfront. His clothes were those of a foremast jack: square-toed leather shoes, loose trousers liberally spotted with tar, a blue jacket trimmed out with brass buttons, and on his head a wide-brimmed tarpaulin hat, cocked just so to one side, a black ribbon trailing astern. The outfit had been provided by Captain Higgens from various articles that had made their way into Nancy's slop chest. It had been eight years, from the time he made third mate, since he had worn similar clothes.
Biddlecomb found no one along the waterfront who knew of Rumstick's whereabouts, but it was universally assumed that he was to be found at 'the hanging.' And though Biddlecomb had no knowledge of any hanging, it was clear from the hushed tones in which people spoke of the event that such ignorance was best kept secret. At last he managed to obtain directions, and he turned onto High Street and made his way up the street hill toward the center of town.
The farther he walked the more unlikely it seemed that the directions he had been given were correct. The neighborhoods, as Biddlecomb climbed, turned from respectable to affluent, from tradesman and artisan to wealthy merchant and government official. The attention paid to paint and windows and gardens of each house made them look as if they were all new built, and only the ivy climbing halfway up the brick walls bellied this impression. This was not where one would expect to see a public execution.
He was almost to the top of the hill when he became aware of the noise. At first it sounded like a rustling, like wind in the leaves or the rush of water. He walked on, and soon it was clear to him that the sound was voices, perhaps hundreds of voices. They rose and fell together, stimulated by some unseen occurrence, and the distance and the buildings made them sound as one. A smell was in the air as well, a familiar smell but one that was out of place among the odors of cooking and horses and of the marshy tidal flats. And though he was certain that the sounds came from a mob of people, Biddlecomb was still surprised when he rounded the corner and stepped into the public square.
Perhaps four hundred people were in the square, which was of no great size. There seems to be no uniformity in the crowd; Biddlecomb could see sailors and cobblers and men and even women whose clothes indicated wealth. The rich merchants stood shoulder to shoulder with apprentices and laborers, and all were lending their voices to the din. Several people held flaming torches aloft, and muskets as well were in evidence. Biddlecomb turned to look in the direction that the mob was facing, and his eyes opened wide and he gasped at the grisly sight that confronted him.
The body that hung from the tree was well dressed in immaculate white breeches and a green coat trimmed out in gold. It hung with its back to the crowd, and Biddlecomb could see the expensive, coiffured wig that crowned the head. In a circle around the body stood a groop of men. They each held long cudgels, and as Biddlecomb watched, they alternately struck the hung victim. The body jerked and twisted under the blows, and Biddlecomb wondered whether the unfortunate wretch was dead. Then the body swung round and Biddlecomb started at the grotesque canvas head and painted face and realized, to his relief, that it was an effigy that hung from the tree and not a man at all.
One of the men circling the straw victim stepped forward and delivered it a terrible blow. The body jerked and a cloud of powder exploded from the wig. The delighted crowd roared again, and Biddlecomb smiled as he recognized the man who had delivered the blow. It was Ezra Rumstick.
Biddlecomb wondered that he had not noticed him immediately. Rumstick stood six feet two inches tall and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. He towered over the men around him. He wound up with his cudgel and struck again, this time ripping the canvas head half off the shoulders. Biddlecomb was not at all surprised to find his friend at the center of this action. Rumstick was a natural leader, and Biddlecomb had been listening to his cries for independence for five years and more.
A sailor standing beside Biddlecomb began to shout. "Burn him! Burn the rascal!" he yelled, and the rest of the mob took up the cry. Rumstick looked up at the crowd, gesturing to the torchbearers, and looked Biddlecomb square in the face. His expression turned to surprise and recognition and his great face split in a grin. He raised his arm to beckon Biddlecomb over, but the torchbearers were on him, igniting the effigy. The dry straw that filled the dummy caught quickly and the body erupted in flames, which climbed up the halter and threatened the tree above. The crowd went wild, screaming and throwing clods of dirt and rocks at the burning corpse. Biddlecomb looked for his friend again and saw that he had withdrawn from the flames and stood by a knot of men well back from the crowd, clustered around an older man who wore only his smallclothes and an expression of anger and embarrassment. His hair was sticking out in every direction, and the clothes that he retained were torn and dirty. Biddlecomb guessed that he was the original owner of the fine clothing that was now burning on the back of the straw man, and that the straw man was meant to represent him. Biddlecomb wondered what offense he might have given to warrant such a display.