"Well, Isaac, perhaps we'll be killed in a fight today," said Rumstick, who had joined Biddlecomb's gun crew, "and that'll be an end to it."
Biddlecomb was happy to hear Rumstick talking again, as morbid as his words might be. "A fight would be a welcome change. One can strike back, at least," said Biddlecomb.
"Aye. And if we get into it, like hand to hand, I'm looking for my chance to get that fucking bosun and his mate."
"Please don't do anything stupid."
"Whatever I do, you can be certain that that bastard Longbottom comes with me. Look, here's the chase." Rumstick leaned low and peered out of the gunport, as did Biddlecomb and the rest of the brig's company along the starboard side. The strange vessel, which only fifteen minutes earlier had not been visible from the deck, was now almost hull up as its course converged with that of the Icarus.
"Schooner, looks like," said Biddlecomb. "Yankee built, I'd venture."
"She's a right tub. You must be right," said Harland, who was filling out the crew on number-three gun.
"Tub, my arse. She's a Yankee to be sure, look how she flies," observed Rumstick, sounding happier than he had been since coming aboard the Icarus. It was as if he were getting a glimpse of home.
"Well, wherever she was built, she ain't no Yankee no more," Harland continued. "No Yankee would run down on a British man-of-war like that."
Harland's point was valid and was at the heart of the speculation that ran the length of the Icarus's weather deck. The schooner was on a course to intercept the brig. It made no sense for any vessel to do that, unless the schooner was also a vessel of the British navy wishing to communicate, which the older man-of-war's men asserted it was not. What then was the schooner's intent?
The two vessels were closing fast, with all of their plain sail spread to the trade winds. The schooner was less than a mile away, her course not altered a degree, her wake stretching out in a long straight line behind her.
"What in hell is she about?" muttered a man who held the handspike to Biddlecomb's left.
"I know this schooner, Isaac," said Rumstick. "I'm certain I know this schooner. She's the Elizabeth out of Falmouth. Joseph Page's ship. You remember Joe, I'll warrant."
"Joseph Page. Certainly, I remember him."
"He bought the Elizabeth two years ago."
"But what in hell is he doing?"
"Ensign's going up," observed Harland. The others crouched and peered through the gunport. A flag was breaking out at the schooner's gaff, but over the distance they could not identify it.
Biddlecomb glanced back at the quarterdeck. Pendexter and Smeaton were back and Dibdin had moved aft, looking as if he were trying to put as much space as the small quarterdeck would allow between himself and the lieutenants.
A signal flag fluttered from the gaff and another from the main truck, and Biddlecomb imagined they must be orders for the schooner to heave to. He had seen those flags before, from the deck of the William B. Adams. But the flags were a naval code and Biddlecomb wondered if Pendexter knew that they were meaningless to a merchant captain.
Pendexter stood alone, as was now his habit, at the quarterdeck's weather rail, his telescope trained at the schooner. He took the glass from hia eye and beckoned to the officers behind him. Smeaton and Dibdin stepped across the deck, and the three officers together brought their telescopes to their eyes. They stood for a moment, swaying to the rhythm of the ship, then as one they lowered their telescopes again. Each spoke in turn, and though Biddlecomb could not hear their words, he could see them shake their heads. Apparently the telescopes were no help in identifying the strange ensign.
Pendexter waved his arm again and Appleby hurried to his side. Pendexter pointed to the bow and spoke a few words, which sent Appleby racing off the quarterdeck and down the weather side. He rushed past Biddlecomb and Rumstick and up to the number-three gun, where that gun's captain stood with his foot on the cascabel.
"Please, sir, the captain says, 'Would you be so good as to put a shot across her bows?' " Appleby blurted out. The gun captain nodded and crouched over the gun, signalling with his hands to the handspike men.
The schooner had closed to half a mile, and Biddlecomb could see the trace of a smile on Rumstick's lips. "Well, Ezra, who is she? What is that ensign?" Biddlecomb asked.
Rumstick jerked his head and stepped away from the others, and Biddlecomb followed. "She is the Elizabeth, like I thought. She's flying a new ensign. An American privateer's ensign. I heard tell of it, but I didn't know anyone was using it. Page might be the first."
Biddlecomb was struck dumb, and before he was able to speak again number-three gun roared out and leapt back against its breeches. "The American privateer's ensign?" Biddlecomb asked when his ears had recovered sufficiently for him to hear his own whispered voice. "Since when does America have "privateers"? Who in America has the authority to issue a letter of marque?"
"Well, they ain't exactly issuing letters of marque just yet. There's talk the governor of Massachusetts will soon. Some of the boys are just starting a bit early."
"Starting early? This is piracy, and nothing less. How can you call yourself a privateer if there is no war on?"
"Look around you, Isaac. Look where you are. You still say there's no war?"
Biddlecomb was struck with a thought that made him grin. "I believe, Ezra, that you are right, and it's high time I joined in the fight for liberty."
"Good Christ!" Harland shouted before Rumstick could reply. The two men crouched and peered out of the gunport. The Elizabeth was lost in a cloud of smoke. A flat rumble rolled down on the brig, and thirty-six pounds of American iron crashed into the Icarus's hull.
Chapter 18.
Chase to Weather
"GOD DAMN IT!" PENDEXTER SHOUTED as a section of the quarterdeck caprail shattered and oak splinters whistled past his head.
Biddlecomb crouched down and peered through the gunport. The Elizabeth was still wreathed in smoke, though most of it had been carried away by the wind, and Biddlecomb was surprised to see that she was now on a taut bowline, moving away from the Icarus. She must have fired her broadside and put her helm up at the same time. A neat trick.
"She's smartly handled," he commented.
Rumstick was grinning broadly. "Spun her like a top in her own gun smoke! And every shot told, it seems."
"God damn your eyes, fire! Fire!" Pendexter's voice, high-pitched with tension, cut through the chatter of the waiting men.
"Fire! Fire when you bear!" Smeaton shouted, and Appleby took up the cry, screeching with excitement. Gun captains leaned over their charges and waved their crews out of the way. Some called for handspikes to train the guns fore or aft, but most just looked down the length of the barrel, stepped back, and drove the slow match into the touchhole.
The broadside was ragged at best, with nearly a minute elapsing between the first gun and the last. Biddlecomb stood back and peered over the bulwark. Within a half-mile radius of the schooner the sea was marked with spouts of water where the shot fell, but as far as he could tell, the Elizabeth was unscathed.
"Not even close!" Rumstick said, too loud for Biddlecomb's comfort.
"Ezra, shut up, please. it'll go hard on you if they hear you celebrating our failure."
"Sorry. I'll keep quiet."