To: Lt James Pendexter, commanding HM brig Icarus
From: Admiral Graves, commander in chief, North American Station
Sir:
Your orders, given you Thursday last, were quite clear regarding the need for haste in carrying dispatches and letters to the West Indian Station. Yet I find that three days later I must send the dispatches to you as you are still at anchor. Please take the mail, which the midshipman has delivered, and proceed to sea at once, in keeping with your written orders. If there is some reason that this is not possible, please send an explanation back with the midshipman.
Your obedient, humble servant,
Adm. S. Graves, R.N.
Pendexter folded the letter and tucked it in his coat. He could feel his face burning from the rebuke and hoped that he was not blushing. He looked out to windward, feigning great interest in the weather. When he felt composed again, he turned to the master and Smeaton.
"Please prepare to get underway. It seems we are called on urgent business. Bosun! Prepare to weigh anchor!" Pendexter waited for the ship to burst into activity, but no one moved. Rather, they stared at him in disbelief.
"Weigh anchor? Now?" asked Dibdin.
"Yes, Mr Dibdin, damn it! It is traditional in the navy to go to sea on occasion!"
"Lieutenant?" Thornbird called from the waist.
"I have nothing to send to the admiral, so please go back to the flagship. We have enough to do here without tripping over you," Pendexter said, trying to antagonize the midshipman, but Thornbird's expression had undertones of smug amusement. Pendexter wanted to strike him.
"Very good, Lieutenant. Good day," he said with a quick salute. Thornbird was back in the Preston's boat before Pendexter realized that the midshipman had twice addressed him as Lieutenant.
"But we've only a third of our water!" Dibdin continued once he again had Pendexter's attention. "Thirteen of the liberty men are still ashore! So is the purser! Surely the admiral did not mean to weigh this instant? We should have a bit more notice than this!"
"I will not discuss the admiral's orders! They are for my eyes alone! Damn the liberty men, we shall have to leave them!"
"Sir," called McDuff, "shall we weigh or set the guns to rights first?"
"Weigh anchor, I said, now!"
"Sir, I can't give the admiral his proper salute with the guns we got on deck now!" whined the gunner, and Pendexter was about to answer when a voice hailed from the foretop.
"Water hoy putting off, sir!"
"We haven't time for that. We shall have to make do with water we have," said Pendexter.
"The purser will have to reimbursed for his stores. Do you wish to act as purser in his absence, sir?" asked Dibdin.
"No, I do not! Hoist the recall and... Gunner! Fire a gun to leeward. If that don't get them, they will remain behind."
"Purser's over in Charlestown, I believe, sir. I don't know how you'll work his reimbursement with the Admiralty."
"Do you still want the longboat over the side, sir?" asked McDuff, and that, for Pendexter, was the end.
"Damn the longboat, damn the liberty men, damn the purser, just get the damned brig under way and do it now, you Billingsgate bastards, or I shall break you all!" and with that he stamped below, shouting, "Call me when we're at short peak," through the scuttle as he pulled open the door to the great cabin, ripping it from its hinges in his fury.
Chapter 8.
Prisoners of the Crown
BIDDLECOMB AND RUMSTICK stared at the lieutenant but did not move. A low murmur ran through the tavern, and men began to shift restlessly. The marines leveled their muskets, stiletto bayonets sweeping back and forth, and the cocks of twelve flintlocks clicked into the firing position.
"Sergeant, place these men in handcuffs," said Norton.
The sergeant of marines, nearly as big as Rumstick and certainly as powerful, moved to the lieutenant's side. "I only got one pair, sir."
"Very well. Place them on Rumstick there. If Captain Biddlecomb gives us any grief, then just shoot him."
The sergeant grabbed Rumstick by the collar of his coat and pulled him to his feet. Biddlecomb hoped that Rumstick would not fight, it was easy to see the carnage that would result if a riot broke out. But Rumstick was still and sullen as the sergeant placed the handcuffs on his wrists.
"Right. Get up, you," the sergeant said to Biddlecomb. Biddlecomb slid across the bench and stood beside Rumstick. He felt light-headed, like in a dream, the kind from which you can usually force yourself awake. It was impossible that his luck could be so miserable. He struggled to maintain his superficial calm.
Lieutenant Norton stepped to one side, and behind him the file of marines stepped apart, six right and six left, leaving an aisle between them that stretched to the door.
"You seem to have a great deal of experience extracting citizens from taverns," Biddlecomb observed.
"March," said Norton, giving him a shove from behind. Biddlecomb walked down the corridor of soldiers, and he heard Rumstick's heavy read behind him. The eyes of the young marines moved constantly, searching the crowd, while the points of their bayonets described little circles in the air.
The two men emerged onto the cold, black street and stood in the light cast from Sabine's windows. Biddlecomb heard the sergeant and Norton step behind them, and then the rasp of the marines' boots as they withdrew from the tavern.
"To the waterfront. You know the way," came Norton's voice from the dark. Biddlecomb and Rumstick began walking, and the footfalls of the soldiers soon became the ordered clash of practiced march. Biddlecomb heard the sound of steel sliding on steel and knew that Norton and the sergeant had drawn their swords.
There were other sounds as well, other footsteps. The tavern had emptied onto the street, the drunk and excited mob following the procession to the waterfront. From the commotion, there seemed to be at least a hundred men. They had been moved to violence already that day, before this outrage, before they had begun to drink. Biddlecomb half-turned again, trying to see how many Americans were following the cavalcade down to the harbor. Biddlecomb could hear their pace increase as they grew bolder. He half-turned once more, trying to judge the emotions of the crowd, and received a painful jab in the side.
"Eyes front, Brother Jonathan!" said Norton, prodding Biddlecomb again with his sword. Biddlecomb turned and faced forward.
The party was moving quickly down the hill. Biddlecomb could smell the water. The street was quiet save for the marching soldiers and increasingly vocal crowd.
"Let them go!" shouted someone in the crowd, and other voices joined in.
"You've no right, you British bastard! It's agin the law!" another shouted. Biddlecomb heard a rock skip across the cobblestones, and another bounce off a storefront. Behind him a marine grunted and stumbled, and the dull thud of rocks striking the soldiers' heavy coat became more frequent.
He heard a rock strike just behind him, heard the sergeant stumble and curse.
"Marines, quick steps!" the sergeant ordered, and together the marines began to advance at a jog. Biddlecomb felt himself pushed from behind and saw the sergeant shoving Rumstick ahead. The two men began to jog as the crowd behind them became more vocal still.
"You best run, you rascals!"
"Let them go, you bloody-backs! You sons of bitches!"
The party reached the bottom of the hill. Two cables away, across the wide street that bordered the waterfront, Biddlecomb could see the HMS Rose's longboat bobbing next to the quay, the blue-jacketed crew resting easy at their oars. Beside the port stood a midshipman. The prisoners and their escorts jogged faster. Biddlecomb's breath was coming in gasps, and beside and behind him he heard the others breathing hard as well.