"Give me a piece of that spunyarn, Isaac," said Rumstick, standing on the crosstrees opposite Biddlecomb. "You remember how to seize on these ratlines here, or are your hands too soft to tug that small stuff?" It was the closest to a joke that Rumstick had come in two weeks, and Biddlecomb was encouraged.
"You're some chipper for a seaman on this bucket."
"And why not? Ain't this the day that Glacous rescues us?"
The two men turned and looked out at Barbados. The island was less than ten miles away, a brilliant green mass in the blue sea and the blue sky. Biddlecomb could see the headlands that delineated Carlisle Bay, a great indentation in the lush coast. With the Icarus to leeward of the island they could pick up the scents of land, the smells of dirt and vegetation. There is little smell at sea, rarely even a salt smell, and the perfume of the island stood out like a tar stain on a white sail.
"Yes, this is the day that Glacous will rescue us. If he gets my letter, and if he's on the island."
"You don't sound too sure now. A few days ago you said we'd be off of here and no two ways about it." Rumstick sounded worried.
"We'll get off," said Biddlecomb, smiling. He glanced down at the deck, a habit by now, to make certain that neither McDuff nor Longbottom was watching, then turned his attention back to Barbados.
The landfall was like a homecoming to him, so often had he entered that wide harbor over the past decade and a half. It had been eight years at least since he had seen it from a masthead, having been, since that time, either the first mate on the foredeck supervising the preparation of the anchor or the master on the quarterdeck, conning the ship. But this was fine. Barbados was always beautiful, and with even a little luck he would never again see it from aloft on a man-of-war.
Half an hour later Biddlecomb stood in the fore top, now crowded with Harland, Wilson, and the other foretopmen, standing ready to get their sail in quick, while on the deck below the Icaruses prepared the brig for anchoring. The atmosphere was tense, volatile, even beyond the general air of tension that hung like a cloud over the vessel. Not even McDuff and Longbottom were immune, and they beat with particular malevolence those men they deemed lax.
The steep, jungle-shrouded hills rose out of the sea just half a mile to starboard. The warm-earthly smell was all around them now, and the men in the fore top breathed deep, enjoying the luxurious scent.
Biddlecomb was startled by a new sound, a low rumbling. He looked down to the deck. On the starboard side the guns had been cast off and gun crews were rolling their charges back. The ship's boys stood at a distance, the black, cylindrical containers for powder cartridges in their hands.
"Are we loading the guns? Might there be trouble?" Biddlecomb asked Wilson, who stood behind him.
"There'd be some bloody trouble if we didn't give the admiral his salute, mate," he said, smiling.
"Oh, the salute, of course," Biddlecomb said, watching with interest the loading of the guns. It occured to him that this was the first time that he had seen the guns being used. "Say, I'm supposed to handle the rammer and sponge on number-five gun. Shouldn't I be there?"
"That's at quarters," Wilson whispered. "We're at stations for anchoring now."
"Oh."
Wilson and Biddlecomb and the other foretopmen waited in silence as the brig raced through the approaches to the harbor. The wind was still brisk,and the tide was ebbing fast; Biddlecomb could see eddies around the rocks near the shore. He worked out in his mind where and how he would approach the anchorage. It would be tricky under these conditions. He wondered how good a ship handler Pendexter was.
Israel Barrett clambered up onto the fore top and began to unhook the stay tackle. His expression was grim.
"A bit early for the boat tackle, isn't it?" Biddlecomb asked.
"Pendexter's coming it the showman. He's going to fire the salute, round up, and drop in the smoke," Barrett said ominously.
"What do you mean by that?" Biddlecomb asked.
"Means we sail up to the anchorage, fire and salute as we round up, then drop anchor and clew up and get the boat over the side before the smoke from the guns has cleared."
"So when the smoke clears, they find us anchored and secure with the boat in the water. Like a curtain lifting on a stage."
"Yeah, like that."
Biddlecomb considered the maneuver. It would be a pretty thing if brought off well, and it would make Pendexter look like quite the ship handler to the admiral and the others watching from shore. "Can Pendexter pull it off?"
"Dunno. I ain't seen him try before." Barrett eased the stay tackle away to a man standing in the longboat. Mr Midshipman Appleby, who was apparently charged with seeing the boat launched, was issuing superfluous orders in his high-pitched voice.
Biddlecomb turned his attention back to the island. They were inside the harbor now, but there was no shelter from the wind that funneled over the land. The Icarus was sailing close-hauled toward the island, straight into the wind and the current. Once Pendexter rounded the brig up into the wind to anchor, they would start making sternway fast. Biddlecomb considered the problem of anchoring in the strong breeze and the ebbing tide. They would have to be certain nothing was downwind of them when they dropped the hook. Then he reminded himself that these were not his problems.
In the distance he could see the town of Bridgetown like a rocky white outcropping in the jungle. It seemed unchanged from the first time he had seen it, fifteen years ago. The anchorage was not crowded, not as it had been in years past. In the roadstead by the town lay the ships of His Majesty's navy, a larger force than Biddlecomb was accustomed to seeing there. There were three 74s, one with its rig sent down to a gantline, but the other two appearing ready for sea. There were two frigates as well, and a variety of sloops, brigs, and schooners. At the other end of the harbor lay the merchantmen, British, French, Dutch, and American. The world was at peace, albeit an an uneasy peace, and all maritime nations came to Barbados to trade. Biddlecomb looked longingly at the Americans. One ship he thought to be John Stanton, but he could not be certain.
"Take a good look," said Wilson. "This is the closest you'll get to them Yankee ships."
"Then you don't think we'll get a run ashore?"
"I don't think we will. I know you won't. They don't give leave to pressed men. You can guess why that is."
Biddlecomb could indeed guess why he would not be allowed off the ship.
Wilson continued to voice Biddlecomb's thoughts. "Bet you wish you was aboard one of them," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the American ships.
"Yes, I do."
Wilson was quiet for a moment. "There are times I wish I was aboard one of them too."
The bow of the Icarus swung more northerly, and above and below the fore top the foreyards were braced around. They were on a beam reach now, running down on the anchorage at six knots at least, but there was no knowing for certain what the fast ebb would do. If I were in command, Biddlecomb mused, I would be damned nervous about all this.
He looked down to the deck below. The stay tackles and yard tackles were rigged to the boat and well manned, and Mr Appleby was pacing the gangway, apparently anxious for the moment that he would play his part. The gunner walked down the length of the guns, now loaded and run out. Biddlecomb realized that he would be leaving the Icarus without ever having drilled with the great guns, and he was almost sorry to miss the experience.
Biddlecomb moved his attention outboard. He knelt and looked under the foot of the fore topsail and was startled to see one of His Majesty's achooners anchored two cables lengths ahead, directly upwind and directly in the brig's path.