Captain Fry stood on the weather side of the quarterdeck of the William B. Adams and stared absently out to sea. In the waist Rumstick was telling off the work parties, giving job to the off watch that would set the ship back to her original state.
In less than an hour the foredeck was transformed into a makeshift rigging loft and sparmaker's shop and the larbowlines set to reconstructing the ruined gear of the spritsail yard. Cordage was heaved out on the stretch, wormed, parceled and served, and liberally coated with warm Stockholm tar. The men worked steadily at their stations, and Rumstick took full advantage of his captive audience to expound on his political doctrine. The end of the storm marked as well an end to the truce between the ship's political factions, and Haliburton and his crew set the spar stock from which they were fashioning the new spritsail yard directly to windward in order to rain wood shavings down on the bosun and his freshly tarred rigging.
In the great tracks of the North Atlantic, in a world generally at peace, there was little to threaten a merchant ship at sea beyond the sea itself. For this reason most merchantmen, including the Adams, kept, at best, an indifferent lookout when sailing on the deep water. The brig was almost hull up from the deck before she was sighted.
"Sail, ho!" cried Eliphalet Fox from the bow as he squinted over the water.
"I'm pleased, Fox, that you managed to spot the vessel before it ran into us," Captain Fry replied in the ironic tone in which he couched a majority of his remarks. He stood on the weather side of the quarterdeck, a telescope pressed to his eye.
The tasks of the rigging and sparmaking gangs were quite forgotten as the men crowded the rail, staring at the strange sail. It was the first that they had seen in a week. Rumstick, whose duty it was to drive the hands back to work, skipped up into the shrouds to get a better look.
The brig, which had been on an opposite tack from that of the Adams, was coming about. The Adams's men watched the sails flog as the yards were braced around, and then the brig settled on the new tack, on a course to intercept the Adams. Biddlecomb swung himself into the shrouds and climbed up beside Rumstick.
"What do you make of her, Isaac?" asked Rumstick in a low voice.
Biddlecomb squinted over the bright water, running his eye over the rig, noting the loftiness, the cut of the sails, the length of the spars, the rake of the masts. It was the sails that troubled him.
"Look at those topsails, Ezra. And the topgallant. No roach at all, cut real flat."
"What are you thinking?"
"They're man-of-war sails."
"Could be Dutch, or a Frenchman."
"Or a Don," said Biddlecomb.
"Or a Don."
The two men continued to stare at the brig as it charged down on them. A fluke in the wind heeled her over, and from around the big gaff-headed mainsail the ensign snapped straight out, broadside to the Adams, and then streamed forward again. There was no mistaking it. It was the ensign of the Royal Navy.
"Oh, sweet son of a bitch," Rumstick muttered, and there was an edge of panic in his voice.
"Deck, there!" cried Appleby from the main crosstrees as the Icarus settled onto the new tack. "She's a Yankee, sir, Yankee colors. On starboard tack, running to the northward!"
Pendexter stared out over the starboard rail, out at the ship with which they were rapidly closing. Finally he turned and addressed the master. "Mr Dibdin, we shall run down on the Yankee and order her to heave to. Mr Smeaton, you shall organize a boarding party. I want at least three prime seamen from that ship to make up for the loss that we suffered in Boston."
Dibdin's mouth hung open. "You don't mean to press men out of the Yankee, do you?"
"I most certainly do... Mr Hickman!" Pendexter called out to the gunner. "A shot across her bow, please. Pray try not to hit her."
Pendexter turner back to Dibdin and continued, "Brother Jonathan is a subject of the Crown whether he believes it or not. I never hear these Yankees complain when the Royal Navy protects them from the French, or from pirates. Now they can bloody well serve in His Majesty's Navy."
"But the courts have ruled that Americans are not liable to impressment."
"I do not see any courts out here, Mr Dibdin. Out here I am the law, and I will not kowtow like some weak-kneed magistrate who is afraid of the rabble. I intend to replace those men that deserted in Boston, whom, I might add, you were partially responsible for. If you are afraid, sir, you may go below."
Pendexter could see Dibdin's hands twisting behind his back. The muscles in his jaw stood out. Then he spun on his heel and stamped up to the break of the quarterdeck.
"Clear away the longboat!" There was nothing else that he could say.
Chapter 13.
A Place to Hide
IF ANY QUESTION REMAINED in the minds of the Adams's men concerning the brig's intentions, the round shot fired from her bow chaser answered it. The Adams's forestay parted and the outer jib collapsed and fell into the sea, wrapping itself around the ship's cutwater. The crew of the William B. Adams paused, just for a second, then turned as one and bolted for the scuttle, streaming around Biddlecomb and Rumstick.
" 'Vast! 'Vast running!" shouted Fry. "Hands to the braces! Stand by to heave to, mainsails aback! Rise tacks and sheets!" The men reluctantly abandoned their retreat and moved to the pinrails, and five minutes later the Adams lay hove to on the confused sea.
Biddlecomb turned and looked over the windward rail, across the water to the brig. It was a hull up now, and even without a glass Biddlecomb could discern the long man-of-war's pennant snapping out of her masthead like a serpent's tongue. Her buff hull was set off by black stripes at the gunwale and waterline that ran from the stem aft to the small quarter galleries. The bulwark was pierced by gunports, the guns run out. The brig turned and rounded up into the wind, her mainsails swinging around as she hove to.
There was no more time to watch.
Biddlecomb turned to ask the help of his shipmates and to his surprise found that the deck was practically deserted. The running rigging, usually coiled and hung neatly on the pins, was left in heaps on the deck. The leeward braces had not even belayed, and the lines swayed and undulated with the roll of the ship. Larson remained on deck, as did Hezekiah Harted and Eliphalet Fox. The rest were gone.
"You better hide yourself, Isaac. You too, Ezra," said Larson.
"We will," said Biddlecomb. "But what about you, and those two?"
"I'm safe if I just jabber away in Swedish when them bastards come aboard, make like I don't speak English. They won't take me. They won't take Eliphalet, they are looking for prime seamen. And Hezekiah's too loony, even for the Royal Navy."
"Where should we hide ourselves?" asked Rumstick. His usual calm was deserting him with the prospect of years of involuntary servitude to King George.
"The hold would be best," Larson supplied. "Right forward, where the casks go from four deep to three, I bet you could squeeze in, right agin the ceiling."
Biddlecomb considered this. It was a good hiding place. Only a very determined search would find them there.
"You had best hurry." This time it was Fry supplying the advice. Biddlecomb and Rumstick turned. The new captain was standing above them on the raised quarterdeck.
Fry nodded his head toward the brig. The British longboat was in the water and manned and the boat crew was casting off the yard tackles.
"Come, Ezra, let's get the hell out of here," said Biddlecomb, hurrying, nearly running, toward the scuttle.