It seems to Biddlecomb that these elaborate precautions were created to defend against the possibility of a sailor in the Royal Navy starving to death for want of a little prompting.
The chief thought on Biddlecomb's mind, since he and Rumstick were first taken from the hold of the Adams, was how they would escape from the British. That was still first in his thoughts, but he needed time to survey the situation, to plan. He knew well enough that the best way to appear innocuous on shipboard was to do your duty well enough to avoid reprimand, but not so well as to attract attention. That was his goal.
Biddlecomb had spent more of his adolescence and adulthood at sea than he had on land, but he was a merchant seaman, and for all his experience he was quite ignorant of the ways of the navy. He was forced now to learn new ways of doing familiar things, and that order, repetition, and ritual were integral to every aspect of navy life, from eating to sail evolutions. He was rated as foretopman and instructed that the larboard side of the fore topsail yard (and nowhere else) was his position when setting, stowing, or reefing sail. If, however, they were tacking or wearing, he was responsible for hauling the starboard fore clew garnet on rise tacks and sheets or assisting with the main brass if the foresail was not set. Such regimentation was unheard of in the merchant service, where ten men would sail a ship the size of the Icarus. But Biddlecomb was willing to concede that he had never taken a ship into battle, and he imagined that the seventy-five men aboard a brig would come in handy in that circumstance.
The sail evolutions that they did — tacking, wearing, setting and stowing sail — were poorly coordinated and clumsy. Biddlecomb imagined that this was due to a lack of experienced hands, and a lack of energy on the part of the first officer, though the boatswain more than compensated, at least where discipline was concerned. Sloppiness was not a characteristic of the British navy. He had seen enough well-handled ships to know that much.
It was on the morning of his fourth day aboard that Biddlecomb first felt the bosun's starter. He was at his station for tacking, manning the clew garnet, when he saw the fore topsail gear fetch up tight and heard the popping of the cordage under a great strain. The lines had been made off too tight, a common mistake but one that could tear things up aloft, and Biddlecomb raced forward to loosen them off.
And then something cracked across his back. He staggered forward and gasped with pain and surprise.
He turned, certain that something had fallen from the rig and struck him. McDuff stood behind him, his starter raised to strike again.
"Your station's the clew garnet, Brother Jonathan." McDuff jerked his starter back and Biddlecomb flinched.
"This gear was made off too tight—"
"Don't you give me lip, you whore's son bastard, or I'll give you worse than you got now, Jonathan!" McDuff shouted in his substantial voice. Biddlecomb edged back to the clew garnet, never turning his back, never taking his eyes off McDuff. He felt like a cornered animal. He vowed that from then on, until he escaped this cursed brig, he would never again act on an independent thought.
Added to Biddlecomb's torment was his increasing concern for Rumstick. He watched his friend closely, hoping to see him adapting, or making an attempt, hoping to catch a glimpse of his former joviality. But Rumstick was sullen and uttered not a word to anyone but Biddlecomb, and even those words were terse and few.
The other men avoided him, Biddlecomb could see that, and he could see how the bosun was infuriated by Rumstick's sullen attitude. Push him as hard as he could, beat him and scream at him, McDuff could not raise a flicker of reaction from the morose Yankee. Rumstick did his work silently, competently, like a machine, giving McDuff no concrete basis for his anger, and that made him angrier still. And Longbottom, the bosun's mate, followed McDuff's lead. It was clear for Biddlecomb that Longbottom was afraid of a man like Rumstick, a man who could crush him like a bug, and enjoyed beating him when he could do so safely.
McDuff was kind to no one, but he singled Rumstick out for special treatment, driving him toward a confrontation. Biddlecomb heard whispers among the men, incredulous discussions of how much abuse Rumstick tolerated. But he knew that Rumstick was not made of marble, as much as he might now appear to be, and it was only a matter of time before Rumstick broke and lashed out.
"I been fighting these bastards for ten years and more," Rumstick had whispered one morning when he and Biddlecomb found themselves side by side, holystoning the deck. "I won't work their ship, and I sure as hell won't fight for them," he said, but his tone was more desperation than defiance. "I'm sailing by the lee here, Isaac."
Biddlecomb could see the storm gathering within his friend, and he knew it would soon break. And when it did, Biddlecomb knew that men would be killed, and doubtless Rumstick would be killed with them. Biddlecomb was desperate to find some escape for them before that happened. He knew it would happen soon.
By the end of his first week aboard, Biddlecomb felt that he had learned all there was to learn about sailing as a foremast jack on a British man-of-war, so he was much surprised at the faux pas he commited while shaking out a reef in the fore topsail at first light, after the Icarus had reduced sail for the knight.
"I thought only merchantmen snugged down at night," Biddlecomb said in a whisper to Bloody Wilson, who stood beside him on the footrope. "I thought men-of-war carried all she'd bear all night."
"Most do," said Wilson, tugging at a recalcitrant reef point. "Them what has a proper captain, and a first officer who cares about the ship." Wilson jerked the knot free. "Them what ain't afraid," he added, almost to himself.
Biddlecomb could see that Wilson did not wish to discuss the subject further. He thought of another question, one that would have seemed obvious, but had not occurred to him until that moment.
"Where are we bound for?"
"West Indies Station. Barbados."
The words were like a magic incantation, come trippingly off the tongue of the foretopman, and Biddlecomb could have kissed him, could have sung for joy! Barbados! After Bristol it was the one spot on earth he would call home. He was well known in Barbados, and well respected.
Wilson looked at Biddlecomb, his expression uneasy. "Keep shaking this reef out, mate, and don't let McDuff see you daydreaming," he whispered.
Biddlecomb forced his attention back to the fore topsail. "On deck!" he cried. "Give us some slack in this inner buntline, about a fathom or two!"
It was then that Biddlecomb learned that calling out from aloft was one of the great violation of naval protocol. But neither Wilson's urgent whispers nor the horrified looks of his shipmates nor the quite shocking stream of oaths that McDuff directed at him could dampen the complete relief that Biddlecomb felt about his pending salvation.
"We are going to Barbados, don't you see?" Biddlecomb asked Rumstick, who was seated beside him in the main top, overhauling studdingsail gear. He hoped the news would draw the big man out. He had earlier snuckdown into the cockpit where Haliburton was still recovering from his flogging and told the carpenter the good news. He had seen hope in the man's eyes, not much, but enough to buoy Biddlecomb's spirits.
"Yes, you said that," Rumstick said, "but I'll own I don't see how that helps us. We're still in the goddamned brig." Those were the most words he had spoken at one time in a week.
"Glacous lives in Basbados. He has more authorities there than the governor, certainly more than any admiral. I'll send word to him, and as easy as kiss my hand, he'll have us off this wretched brig and safe and warm in his plantation house, a glass of port in our hands."