"Good," said Biddlecomb. "Steady as she goes."
It was worth the trouble to make certain that no one witnessed their landfall. Biddlecomb knew he was being cautious, perhaps overly cautious, sneaking into the bay at night and keeping in the shadow of the land, but it was the cautious ones who grew old and rich, and he intended to do both. The chances of encountering a British revenue vessel were slight; in the two and a half years since the revenue schooner Gaspee had been run aground and burned by angry Rhode Islanders, the British had never seriously attempted to collect the import duties that they had imposed.
Still, Biddlecomb felt compelled to defend against the slightest possibility of the Judea's being boarded and searched, as every corner of his ship was crammed with molasses smuggled from Barbados and destined for the distilleries of New England. As one-fifth owner of the Judea he would have made a handsome profit even if he had paid the duty. By ignoring the British tax his profit would far exceed handsome .
In the lee of Castle Hill the wind fell off and the Judea came down on a more even keel. Biddlecomb pulled his hat from the binnacle box and pushed it back into shape, then jammed it down on his head. He walked forward along the quarterdeck and stepped down into the waist of the ship. The watch on deck was standing by the leeward rail, talking softly, the men busy at various tasks. Biddlecomb's eyes moved automatically around the deck, noting everything. He was pleased with what he saw; Judea was a good ship with a good company. And that was what he had come to expect. In five years as a ship's captain Biddlecomb had acquired such a reputation as a savvy businessman, a fair captain, and a hard-driving sailor that more often than not he had to turn good men away.
"Where's the watch on deck?" he called out in the dark.
"Here, sir," a voice called out.
"Take another pull in the weather mainsheet. The sail looks like a fishmonger's clothesline."
"Aye, sir," the seaman replied, but Biddlecomb was already past the foremast.
In the bow, with the courses no longer obstructing his view, Biddlecomb could just discern Bull Point and Point Adams in the moonlight. It was all so familiar to him, like the rooms of a house in which one has grown up.
Once past Point Adams the Judea skirted the entrance to Brenton Cove and Newport, hugging Goat Island and making careful use of the deep water that ran right up to the rocks. Biddlecomb conned the small ship through the shoals that littered the passage between Rose Island and the mainland. They continued northerly as their course wound its way through Narragansett Bay, quickly closing the distance to Bristol and safety.
Mr Sanders, the first mate, stepped aft.
"Happy New Year to you, sir," said Sanders, and in response to Biddlecomb's confused look added, "It's past eight bells, ain't it?"
"Yes, of course!" In their effort to remain unnoticed they had not been striking bells, and with all hands employed for the last few hours of the voyage and no change of watch, Biddlecomb had entirely overlooked the passing of midnight. "Welcome to 1775, Mr Sanders. We will toast it proper when we're safely in Bristol."
"I look forward to it, and I'll wish that 1775 is as kind to us as 1774 was."
The mate turned and looked at the shoreline gliding past. "We've knocked out what shoring that we can, and once we're abeam Prudence Island, I'll break open hatches," he said.
"Very good. We'll warp alongside tonight, and if we can get the help 'longshore, we'll start off-loading molasses. If we have someone aboard sober enough to be trusted, we'll send them to roust out some hands."
Sanders cleared his throat. "Sir, can I ask what kind of profit we'll realize this trip?"
"Fairly handsome, I should think. I bought the molasses from Glacous at eighteen sous per gallon."
"Eighteen sous per gallon? From that thief? Sweet Jesus, sir, but how'd you manage that?" asked Sanders with undisguised incredulity.
"By convincing him I could buy molasses elsewhere for nineteen sous per gallon, rather than the twenty-five he was holding out for. Didn't you wonder why we spent that second day loading barrels of seawater?"
"Bless you, sir, I long since give up trying to figure what you're up to."
"That might be best. Anyway, Glacous saw us loading barrels and he fairly panicked. I knew he hadn't any other buyers, so he sold to me at eighteen."
"Eighteen sous per gallon! Sweet Jesus…"
The two men stood in silence watching the shore slip past and the water streaming down the hull. In the moonlight Biddlecomb could just see the buoy that marked Halfway Rock, lurking just below the surface. Sanders followed Biddlecomb's gaze.
"You were aboard the Nightingale, weren't you, when she went up on the rock?" Sanders asked.
"I was. I was third mate then. I was down in the hold breaking out shoring when she hit." Biddlecomb looked out in the direction of the submerged rock and thought back to that night, the men in the black hold knocked about by the rush of water, the sea rising above his chest as he drove the last frightened man up the ladder. It was one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. "Stove in the whole starboard bow. The old man was drunk."
Prudence Island was now visible on the larboard beam, a mile distant. "I'll start breaking open the hatches," said Sanders.
"Very good," said Biddlecomb, and the mate started forward.
Biddlecomb stared out toward Prudence Island and thought about how he would spend the profits from this voyage. He would buy a house, to be certain, and buy a greater share of the Judea. At this rate it would be less than five years before he would be complete owner of his beloved ship, the finest vessel he had ever sailed. She would be the foundation of the fleet of merchant ships he intended to build.
From there his thoughts turned to Virginia Stanton. She was the daughter of William Stanton, the man who owned the major share of the Judea and the man who had practically raised Biddlecomb after his parents were gone. Biddlecomb had been shipping out on Stanton's ships since he was a boy, and between voyages he had stayed at Stanton House, where William had educated him, introduced him to the classics, to poetry and Shakespeare, had taught him navigation and taught him how to fence.
It was just in the past year that Biddlecomb had noticed that Virginia, William's scrawny, annoying daughter, was scrawny and annoying no more. She was seventeen now, lovely and exciting, and Biddlecomb found his thoughts turning to her more and more. He wanted to court her, though his much vaunted nerve and eloquence often failed him in her company. That in itself was annoying; he had always had great success with women in the various seaports all over the Atlantic, but something about Virginia put him off his guard.
He couldn't imagine how William would react, but he was resolved this time to find out. He had made the same resolve before, he reminded himself.
Footsteps on the quarterdeck shook him from his dreams. He looked up, expecting to see Sanders coming aft to report some problem, but it was only the lookout.
"What is it?"
"I don't know, sir. Might be a ship. A big one. It's hard to see."
"Show me," said Biddlecomb, leading the seaman to the bow.
The lookout pointed into the gloom toward a spot just beyond Popasquash Neck. Biddlecomb saw it immediately, a dark shape moving against the darker background. It was a ship under two topsails moving slowly down the bay, close-hauled. On this heading it would pass well astern of the Judea. Biddlecomb looked forward past the Judea's bowsprit. Popasquash Point was a mile away. They would close with it in less than ten minutes, and ten minutes after that they would drop the anchor in Bristol Harbor. He looked back at the strange ship. Who could it be?