"Ezra, please. I was breaking the law. I was smuggling. I'll own up to that. Wallace was simply doing his duty."
Rumstick took a long pull on his sling. "Those days are long over, Isaac, the days of flitting around the British law like some French dancing master. We can't live like that, the country can't. There'll come a time, and soon, when everyone will have to take a side." He paused and looked Biddlecomb in the eye, his countenance more serious than was his custom. "Having the British in our country's like... like having a mad dog around the house, and everyone just trying to avoid it and hope it'll be good or go away. But that don't work. You have to shoot the dog." He took another pull on his sling. "Sometimes you have to put personal interest aside and fight for what's right."
"That's how my father felt. He died at Quebec in '59, fighting for what was right."
"I didn't know that. I have no doubt he died proud, fighting for what he believed."
"I can't speak to that. He didn't seem too proud to me, lying in my arms, blood everywhere. I had come with him to Quebec, you see, after my mother died. I ran away that night and went to sea. That's how I ended up as a sailorman."
"I'm sorry..."
"It doesn't matter now. He was trying to keep from thinking on my mother's passing as much as fighting for any cause. In faith I owe more to William Stanton for my upbringing, wretched thou my state might be at this moment. But listen, I must beg your assistance."
"You need only ask, my friend. Any assistance I can provide, humble man that I am, is yours."
"Humble indeed. As humble as... never mind. I must leave Rhode Island for a while."
"Yes, so I understand. Captain Wallace isn't taking things lying down as the others did. It may happen that his Rose goes the way of the Gaspee."
"Unless you're planning on putting the frigate to the torch tonight, I think it would be best if I were to leave the country for a while. I'm looking for a berth before the mast."
"Ah! I was wondering why you was dressed like Jolly Jack Tar himself. Why are you shipping before the mast?"
"I couldn't find a mate or master's berth quick enough, and even if I could, word would get out. I think I could disappear in a forecastle easier than a quarterdeck.
"But do you remember what ropes to pull on, or how to use a paintbrush? It's been a long time since you've done an honest day's work. Aren't your hands too soft now to sweat a line or fist a sail?" Runstick was enjoying himself.
"I was hoping that you could teach me," said Biddlecomb dryly.
"Your luck still holds. It happens that I'm shipping as boatswain on the William B. Adams, and we're short an able-bodied seaman, which I imagine you could still pass for. The cargo is aboard and stowed down, so there's no fear that you might blister your lily-white hands, and we've already warped out and lay at anchor waiting the morning tide. And the Adams is as sweet and fine a ship as one could ask."
"The William B. Adams? Not that great slab-sided apple crate with a bow and stern nailed in place that I saw half-sunk in the tideway?
"One and the same. The finest little merchantman out of Rhode Island. The mate is a whore's son bastard, an infernal tool of the British, but the old man is a fine gentleman, Abraham Peabody. Do you know him?"
"No, which under the circumstances is for the best."
"I have no doubt that he will be glad to sign you aboard. We are bound for Jamaica. General cargo, beef, rum, barrel hoops, the usual lot."
"This is perfect, Ezra, thank you. I was afraid that you had swallowed the anchor."
"This'll be my last trip for some time. In fact, if I weren't beholden to Peabody for this voyage, I would be staying ashore. The time has come for my brothers and I to be taking up arms."
"I wish you the best of luck in your good fight... One other thing. I think it would be best if I were to sign aboard under a false name. It seems I've become somewhat famous over these past days, and masters and mates don't take too kindly to a foremast jack who has sailed as master of his own vessel. You understand, afraid a former master will be second-guessing them, criticizing each order."
"As indeed you would do, you arrogant rascal. But to be perfectly honest I believe you are a better master than Peabody, and that's no criticism of Peabody."
Biddlecomb smiled, embarrassed by the offhand compliment.
"But I agree with you," Rumstick continued. "So tomorrow you shall be, say, Jack Nastyface.
"There's a name they'll certainly believe I was born with. Please be serious, Rumstick."
"Fine, fine. You'll be Jack Woodhead."
Biddlecomb snorted. "Fine, I'll be Jack Woodhead, before you think of something worse."
"Good. Then you'll buy me another sling or two and then we go aboard the ship."
The din in the tavern did not lessen with the opening of the door, and the raucous shouting continued until the first of the red-uniformed marines stepped inside, musket at bayonet charge, a file of marines following him in. In a wave the tavern fell silent, all eyes on the soldiers. At the head of the band stood a dark-haired man in the uniforn of an officer of the Royal Navy. Biddlecomb shuffled across the bench and pressed himself against the wall, peering around Rumstick. The officer searched the room, his face expressionless, his eyes searching the crowd. Biddlecomb stared at the impassive face, unable to accept his cursed luck. It was Lieutenant Norton.
Norton's search turned to the end of the room where Rumstick and Biddlecomb sat. Rumstick was turned in his seat, staring at the lieutenant. Their eyes met and Norton stepped across the room, the marines never more than a few feet behind.
"Ezra Rumstick, in the name of King George the Third I am placing you under arrest for your part in the cowardly destruction of His Majesty's revenue schooner Gaspee. Sergeant..." he began, and his eyes moved across the table. He hesitated and then broke into grin. "And Capt. Isaac Biddlecomb! It appears that this is my lucky day!"
Chapter 7.
Orders to Sail
IT WAS MIDMORNING on the intended day of the party that Pendexter felt his first pangs of terror. The ship's company was scouring the berthing deck, trying to remove the smell that inevitably accompanies close-packed men. Pendexter stood on the quarterdeck, looking down along the line of guns to the bow. He pictured eighty or so Boston's elite parading around the deck and realized that there were no room to parade. The cramped deck space only accentuated the insignificance of his command.
Everything else was in perfect readiness. His foray ashore to furnish and provision the great cabin had been entirely successful, though the British blockade of Boston harbor had adversely affected the selection at the local wine merchants and he had been forced to visit four shops before he was able to procure the quality and quantity he needed. In the end there had even been time to purchase, on Smeaton's advice, a red silk dress that might be used to win the favors of some reluctant girl on the West Indian station.
He was at least gratified to see, upon his return to the Icarus, that McDuff and Longbottom were still hard at it, driving the crew to clean and paint the brig to a perfection not previously known. It was almost midnight when sailmaker and dozen hands, working by lantern light, finished stretching the new-built awning over the waist and quarterdeck.
But that was last night. Pendexter knew that decisive action was needed now to avoid the humiliation of having his guests tripping over themselves on the crowded deck. If only there was still time.
"Pass the word for the bosun," he said to Midshipman Appleby, who stood on the leeward side. As Appleby ran forward, Pendexter resolved to be firm. He would give his orders and take no back talk. \McDuff stepped up to the quarterdeck, knuckling his forehead.