It was six bells in the afternoon watch before Biddlecomb and the rest were allowed below to eat supper and fetch their oilskins. Peabody was still standing the watches down, allowing the men their four hours below as was the routine, but Biddlecomb guessed that this would end with the worsening weather. He would be surprised if all hands were not required on deck for the entire night.
"My apologies for the grub, Captain Biddlecomb," said Hezekiah Harted as he ladled out a cold stew, the fat lying in a congealed solid on the surface. "Captain Peabody says no galley fires, on account of the weather."
Biddlecomb looked into the man's wild eyes, and then down at the filthy apron and equally filthy trousers, neither of which, he knew for a fact, had been removed since the onset of the voyage or, he imagined, for some time before that. He had given up on asking Harted to please not address him as Captain Biddlecomb.
"That's all right, Hezekiah," Biddlecomb said, trying to escape before the man engaged him in conversation. Biddlecomb preferred a cook who did not physically revolt him, though he had rarely encountered one.
"You got your secret place yet, Captain?"
"Not yet, Hezekiah," said Biddlecomb, backing away and fighting to maintain balance on the heaving deck. The ship groaned in her twisting agony, and the swinging lanterns threw wild, dancing shadows that made the cook appear even more macabre.
"Well, you best hurry. We could meet them any day."
Biddlecomb nodded and smiled and hurried into the forecastle and away from Harted. He elbowed a seat at the long table and began to shovel the noxious stew into his mouth.
"He's right, you know, Isaac," said Haliburton, whose behavior often approached sociable when Rumstick was not around. The carpenter stepped into the forecastle and settled down with his own cold stew. "You better find your place, and soon."
"What place?" asked Biddlecomb through a mouthful of stew. "I thought he was just loony."
"He means a place to hide. Some good place in case we get boarded by an English press gang."
"A press gang! On the high seas? Why in the hell would we be boarded by a press gang?"
"English man-of-war needs men, they board any merchantman they come across and take who they need. English, American, it don't matter to them."
"It's illegal to press Americans!"
"They still do it."
Biddlecomb was stunned. He had heard rumors of British impressment on the high seas, but he had never given them any credence, and he had never taken any kind of preparations aboard his own ships. Had he just been lucky all this time?
"Do you yourself know anyone, personally, who has been pressed that way?" Biddlecomb probed.
Haliburton was silent as he chewed and swallowed a stubborn piece of meat. "Sure," he said at last. "My last ship, the Salem out of New York. They stopped us and took three men."
"Why didn't they take you?"
"Couldn't find me. I was the ship's carpenter. I had a good place."
Haliburton turned his attention back to his stew while Biddlecomb pushed a piece of meat around his plate with the point of his sheath knife. He turned this new information over in his mind. A new line of questioning occured to him.
"But, John, you're a loyalist, and a vocal one of that. Why did you hide from the English?"
Haliburton snorted and shook his head. "You stupid? You think just 'cause I believe Americans is British subjects I want to serve in the damn navy? You think in London they don't hide from the rutting press? Lousy rations, bloody hard work, and flogging all the time, little pay, and you're lucky if you gets that, and never let off the ship 'cause a pressed man will run every chance he gets. That life ain't for me. I got a wife and four kids in Providence."
Haliburton waved his sheath knife at Biddlecomb for emphasis and continued, "And unless it sounds good to you, you best see me after this blow about setting you up with some place." He scooped up a knifeful of stew and shoveled it in his mouth. At last, with a reluctant tone he added, "I'll set Rumstick up with a place too, but don't you go telling him I said that. That son of a bitch has been fighting against the British for five years and more, now. Fighting for American independence. You can forget independence if you're pressed; you're no better than a slave. Rumstick'd lose what little mind he's got if he were pressed. Reckon I would too."
The sound of the storm, muffled in the warm forecastle, suddenly came shrieking down into the tween decks with the opening of the scuttle, and with it came a frigid blast of air. Biddlecomb heard Rumstick shouting over the wind.
"All hands on deck! Tumble out! Tumble out! All hands on deck!" The men in the forecastle shoveled the last of their dinner into the mouths and reached for their oilskins and southwesters.
Biddlecomb had anticipated the weather worsening, but he was surprised, as he emerged from the shelter of the lower deck, at just how far the weather had deteriorated in the past hour.
It was black night now, though the sun was an hour from setting. The wind was like a solid thing that struck Biddlecomb and sent him reeling from from unexpected blow. He grabbed the main fife rail to steady himself and hung on as he regained his bearings.
Under close-reefed topsails, fore and main staysails, and a deep-reefed mizzen, the William B. Adams was plunging through the night. The seas had built to well over thirty feet, towering over the Adams's bow, flashing white from their crests as they rolled down on the little ship. The Adams came down, down, into the troughs as the black sea reared up ahead, then lifted and rose to the wave, up until it seemed that the sea would hurl the ship into space. Then the water passed under the keel and the ship sank, sickeningly, in the trough again. The scene was illuminated, frosen like a painting, in the many flashes of lightning, and the roar of the wind was joined by an almost continuous rolling thunder. The wind drove the rain and spray horizontally over the deck, and every breath brought with it equal parts air and water.
Biddlecomb saw that the watch had rigged lifelines down the length of the deck to which one could cling when moving fore or aft. We'll need those, he thought, and as if to prove the point a boarding sea crashed over the bow and water ran waist deep down the length of the ship. Biddlecomb felt something slam against his legs. He plunged his hand down and grabbed a fistful of cloth and hung tight as the water receded and revealed the Adams's apprentice, Eliphalet Fox, spitting and sputtering on the wet deck. Biddlecomb dragged him to his feet and placed his hand on a secure handhold.
"Watch out for green water coming aboard!" Biddlecomb shouted his advice over the wind. "When you see it, clap hold of something or you'll be swept away! Wrap your arms around the standing rigging if you can!" The boy nodded, but he appeared half-dazed and Biddlecomb wondered if he really understood.
"Come with me! We'll lay aft and see what the mate needs done!" he shouted again, and half-dragged the boy across the deck to the lifeline. He placed Fox's hand on the stout line, and Fox, understanding its function, nodded and entwined his arm around the rope. Biddlecomb nodded back and they began to work their way aft.
Rumstick was two yards in front of them, staggering forward, before Biddlecomb saw him. Rumstick put his face to Biddlecomb's ear and shouted.
"Peabody wants you aft on the wheel! But I need your help first! Best bower's about to carry away!"
The loss of the best bower, the ship's primary anchor, would be unfortunate, but the greater threat was of the anchor's doing extraordinary damage as it flailed about prior to carrying away. Biddlecomb nodded. "We best bring him with us!" he shouted, jerking his thumb toward Fox.