"Well spotted. Keep an eye on her, let me know if she alters course." Biddlecomb hurried back to the quarterdeck.
Who would be sailing at this time of night? Biddlecomb had good reason, but this strange ship was on a heading bound for sea, so she could not be a smuggler. Could it be a British revenue vessel? A vessel sent to stop smuggling? That was most unlikely. There had not been a revenue vessel on Narragansett Bay in years. Besides, Biddlecomb had never seen a revenue vessel larger than a brig, and this was a ship, and a big one at that.
And then the answer came with a flash of light and the roar of a single gun erupting from the ship's side. The muzzle flash, blinding in the night, revealed a single row of gunports, each one open, each gun run out.
"God damn me to hell!" shouted Biddlecomb, his practiced composure quite gone under the novel threat of gunfire. "Clew up the courses! Clew them up!" he ordered, and he heard the men running for the gear.
The sails rose like curtains and now Biddlecomb was able to see in every direction. They were running down on Popasquash Point, would leave it just to larboard if they ran into Bristol Harbor. But there they would be trapped.
"Heave to! Heave to or we will fire into you!" a voice called across the water, metallic sounding through a speaking trumpet. Biddlecomb considered his options. Heaving to was out of the question. If they were boarded, they would be arrested for smuggling and found guilty. He would rot in prison and his men would be pressed into the British Navy, a miserable fate in either case.
The stranger fired again, the same gun, forwardmost on their larboard side. The Judea's fore topgallant stay parted, and the jib, robbed of its support, collapsed and blew forward in the quartering wind. Biddlecomb heard a sharp crack aloft and knew that the fore topgallant mast had snapped. Looking up, he could just see the tangle of wreckage high above the deck.
Several of the Judeas flung themselves into the fore rigging, racing aloft to secure the damage.
"Avast there! Belay that!" Biddlecomb shouted. It was senseless to try to save the topgallant gear at that point, and he did not want anyone aloft.
Once again the voice came from across the water, demanding that the Judea heave to. Biddlecomb considered the Judea"s guns and dismissed the thought. She carried six absurd little four-pounders. Even if they could have done this enemy any harm, there wasn't the time to clear away the gear that was piled on top of them and to locate where their attendant rammers and sponges had been stowed.
Biddlecomb looked at the strange ship, and at Popasquash Point, both of which were now considerably nearer. He could tack right now, spin on his heel, and race back to sea. But this stranger with his fast gun crews would cut them to ribbons before they were settled on the new tack. He would not subject his men to that danger.
If they ran into Bristol Harbor, they could sneak around Hog Island and then head for the sea. No they couldn't. Not in this wind. He would be stuck in the harbor, windbound, and the man-of-war would follow him right in. The man-of-war will follow us in regardless, he thought. His stomach clenched like a fist. They were trapped.
He saw the men standing nervously in the waist, waiting for orders, waiting for their captain to think of something.
"Lay aft!" he shouted. "Everyone lay aft here!" In that instant he had come to a decision and he felt the tension abate. The men hurried aft, stumbling up the steps onto the quarterdeck and hurrying to the stern, eager for salvation.
Biddlecomb grabbed a fistful of Rigney's coat and yanked him from the wheel, grabbing the king spoke as he did. "I'll take this, Rigney."
Suddenly the night was illuminated by the man-of-war's broadside, twelve guns firing as one. The roar and shock made the Judea shudder. The longboat was cut in half and a section of the larboard bulwark disappeared.
"What are we—" someone began to ask, and was cut short.
"Silence!" shouted Biddlecomb, and the men fell quiet, the sound of the water and wind lost to their ringing ears.
Biddlecomb glanced aft at the man-of-war, tensing as he waited for the next broadside. He could smell the thick forest smell from the land mixed with the odor of expended gunpowder.
"Everyone, grab hold of something!" he ordered. "Clap on to that taffrail there."
The men obeyed, grabbing anything solid within reach. Biddlecomb could hear the squeal of the man-of-war"s guns running out, a short pistol shot astern. He turned the wheel, three spokes to larboard. The rocky outcropping that made up the tip of Popasquash Point lay under their bow. It did not matter if the man-of-war fired now.
The Judea plowed into the rocks off Popasquash Point at a little over eight knots. The stem collapsed on impact, and the planks ten feet aft of the bow sprung or were crushed, allowing the water of Narragansett Bay to flood unimpeded into the hold. The crew were flung to the deck and lay there, hands held over their heads in a useless attempt to shield themselves from falling debris.
The foremast broke off at the partners and tumbled over the bow, dragging the main topgallant and the topmast down with it. The main shrouds, twelve in all, seven-and-three-quarter-inch hemp, parted like spunyarn. The mainmast shattered eight feet above the deck and followed the foremast over the bow. The main top, weighing three tons, stove in a ten-foot section of the deck. The mizzen topmast snapped off at the doubling and crashed down through the main hatch.
For nearly a minute they lay on the quarterdeck as five tons of spars, rigging, sails, and blocks collapsed into so much garbage. Then it was quiet again. Biddlecomb scrambled to his feet and looked along the deck. The destruction was complete, absolutely complete. Already he could feel the ship settling lower in the water. But his men were stirring around him, and none of the wreckage had landed on the quarterdeck.
"Come on! Get up! Get up! Follow me!" Biddlecomb shouted, racing toward the bow. He tripped and fell over what had once been the mizzen topsail yard, then picked himself up and continued forward, his crew following close behind. They climbed over the fallen mainmast, kicking aside the tangled running gear, and rushed to the bow.
The Judea's deck was steeply slanted, and Biddlecomb guessed that she was not afloat at all, simply resting on the rocky ledge. If that was the case, she could slip off at any moment. The base of the foremast lay ten feet inboard of the bow forming a bridge between the wrecked ship and the shore. Biddlecomb looked down at the sea and the rocks twenty feet below, and then along the smooth, round mast. The fresh oil on the wood shone in the moonlight, and Biddlecomb cursed himself for having had the men oil it not two days before. This type of balancing act was not at all to Biddlecomb's liking, and it was worse that he was expected to lead his far more nimble men across this makeshift bridge.
He mounted the horizontal mast and carefully stood, his arms stretched out at his side, and stepped out along its length, first over the deck, then over the beakhead, and at last over the rocks below. His pace quickened and he was practically running along the mast when he began to lose his balance. His arms flailed in the air as he tried to take the last two steps, and failing that, he lunged out and twisted his arms through the futtock shrouds still clinging to the shattered foretop. He hung there for a moment, breathing hard and fast.
"Beg pardon, sir," came a voice from behind, and Biddlecomb realized that the rest of the men were waiting, balanced on the spar, for him to continue. He pulled himself up and over the foretop, so familiar but for its odd angle, and stepped onto the doubling. From there it was a drop of five feet to the ground.