Rumstick regarded him with suspicion. "This is the same Glacous you was bragging to me you tricked into selling you molasses at nineteen sous a gallon. 'Practically stole it from him' was your words."
"It was eighteen sous a gallon, but that's business. Glacous knows it. I'll send him a note and he'll dispatch a coach and four to the landing to pick us up. Never doubt it."
Rumstick was quiet for a moment. "I hope you're right." He glanced around. "We got to get off this brig, Isaac. That bosun and his mate have it in for me. They use me awful hard. One of these days I'm going to break both their necks, I know it."
"Hold your temper, brother, I beg you. I don't know what the punishment is for striking a... what is a bosun, an officer?—"
"A warrant officer."
"—striking a warrant officer, but I bet it ain't pleasant. Flogging at least."
"It's death, and no two ways about it."
"Just hold your temper for a few more days. Then we'll be in Barbados and this nightmare will be over."
Biddlecomb had only to write a note, he knew, and see that it was sent ashore, and Glacous would deliver them from the Royal Navy. He had intended to buy paper from the purser, but on finding that the purser was still in Boston, he approached the captain's servant, a hunched man named Bolton, who sold him the paper and the use of a pen and ink for two shillings.
During his watch below he crept into the hold and wrote by the light of a glim, wording the note with care and taking his time with the pen as he could not afford much paper at the going rate. At last it was done, and he folded the note carefully and tucked it in his shirt. He would pass it to Bolton the next day.
It was just past seven bells in the forenoon watch when the men were piped below for dinner. Bolton, as usual, stood to one side of the galley ovens waiting for the captain's dish to be cooked. From the smell, distinct from the odor of salt pork eaten by the lower deck, Biddlecomb guessed that it was lamb. He approached Bolton, pulling the note from his shirt.
"How are you today, Bolton?" he asked in a cheery voice.
"Fair, fair."
"Tell me, are all meals like this aboard the man-of-war?"
"Like what?"
"Quiet. There doesn't seem to be much talk. That's strange for sailors at mealtime, isn't it?" This was something that Biddlecomb had wondered at since first coming aboard. The quiet was unnatural.
Bolton shrugged his shoulders and glanced around the deck. "This lot's worse than most. Discontent, sullen buggers. Say, ain't you got a letter you wants me to send ashore?"
"Yes. Here it is. It's imperative that it get ashore in Barbados, as soon as we arrive."
Bolton let out a low whistle. "That ain't so easy, mate. I'll have to sneak it into the captain's mailbag; could get me flogged, you know."
"Two shillings?" asked Biddlecomb, producing the money from his shirt.
"That's the price."
Biddlecomb handed Bolton the money. It was a bad precedent, but he needed Bolton's full cooperation, and soon he would be gone.
"That note doesn't get read, you understand?"
"You can count on me, mate," said Bolton, tucking the note away and feigning a sudden interest in the steep tubs.
Hunched over and pushing his way across the crowded deck, Biddlecomb made his way back to mess table six. Wilson was mess cook, and he was just laying the steaming, foul-smelling food on the table when Biddlecomb arrived. The low murmured conversation stopped, and all eyes were on him.
"Why was you talking to Bolton?" asked Bloody Wilson. "What do you want with the likes of him?"
"Who, the captain's steward?" asked Biddlecomb, helping himself to the largest piece of salt pork. "We were just talking. Why?"
"You give him something, I saw you," said Harland. There was accusation and threat in his voice.
"Yes. A note. He said he could get it posted in Barbados. Is that all right?"
"You gave him a note? You give him money?" asked Wilson. "Maybe. Biddlecomb did not like this line of questioning.
Israel Barrett spoke. "He tell you he'd have to put it in the captain's mailbag? Cost you a half bob?"
"Cost me two shillings."
Suddenly the tension broke and the men at mess six smiled. "God, you're a dumb bastard!" said Wilson. "I thought you had more sence than that!"
"What's wrong with Bolton?"
"He's a bloody pigeon, a Billingsgate villain," said Barrett.
"That's no surprise, but I didn't see what else I could do. I figure the captain's steward could get a note ashore. He will send the note, won't he?"
This prompted some discussion among the mess.
"Yeah, I guess he'll send it," said Wilson at last. "I just hope there ain't anything in it you don't want old Pendexter to read.
The discussion continued with stories of past captains' stewards, but Biddlecomb did not join in. He felt his stomach seize up with anxiety. He stared down at the boiled salt pork and the biscuit. A weevil crawled out of the bread, and Biddlecomb was once again afraid he would be sick.
Capt. James Pendexter was anxious as well, though no one before the mast would have suspected it. He sat behind his elegant desk, his feet splayed out across the Oriental rug, swirling the wine around in his glass and considering the papers piled before him and spilling onto the deck. On the quarterdeck above his head Smeaton's pistols went pop, and Pendexter ground his teeth and squeezed his glass tighter. He wished that his first officer were more industrious and would do something other than fire his pistols all day. It was bad enough that he did not have a purser, but now he barely had a first officer, and Dibdin, who grew more sullen, and McDuff, who grew more brutal and capricious by the day, were having to take on a disproportionate amount of the work.
The thought of the absent purser brought Pendexter back to the problem at hand. He shuffled through the pile to his left, under which he was certain lay the records for purchase and consumption of beef, but before he located them his mind had drifted back to thoughts of the boatswain.
He would be lost without McDuff. McDuff did the work of three men. He drove the men the way they needed to be driven. McDuff had been right about discipline, Pendexter could see that now. The lazy foremast sods would always try to get out of one thing, shirk another. They had to be watched.
He would speak with Smeaton. A few tactful words, things will be fine, he thought. After all, this is his first go at being a first lieutenant. He'll do his share of the work like a good chap, not stand there all day long shooting at those damned bottles and relying on McDuff to keep the ship neat.
He set down his wineglass and picked up the purser's log once again. He was beginning to understand. The purser, it seemed, was writing down provisions before they actually arrived, which, as far as Pendexter could tell, accounted for the log's claiming far more in store than there actually was. Unless, of course, he was reading the log incorrectly.
He would have been able to match his own records with what was left in the hold, he reminded himself, if he had kept records as he had intended, but now there was no way of knowing how much had been consumed. He tried to form a mental picture of the number of casks he had witnessed being broached, but soon abandoned that attempt. He would have to reimburse the purser for the entire ship's stores, that was the only way. And as that was the case, then technically he owned all of the stores aboard and could do as he wished, including abandoning record keeping. This gave him an enormous sense of relief, which was in turn swept away when he considered the difficulty of finding the purser to pay his debt.
Pop, pop. "I say, don't throw them so bloody far outboard!" Pendexter could hear Smeaton clearly through the skylight. As he dropped the purser's log and turned to yell back through the skylight, Bolton slipped in the great-cabin door.