"Rogers" — Stanton turned to the manservant — "have the boy saddle the mounts, my horse, and we'll take Tempest and Pallada as well. You'll prepare the saddlebags?"
"Of course, sir." Rogers turned and disappeared down the hall.
Stanton turned to Biddlecomb. "Isaac, I think it would be a good idea if you remained here."
"If they're coming for me, which I still insist they're not, then I certainly don't care to cower here while others fight for me."
"You could be in great danger. This Wallace, the Rose's captain, is a very determined fellow. I'd rather you remained behind."
"Then pray why did you tell Rogers to prepare three horses? But really I've seen the Royal Navy operate in every port in America, and I know that they're not in the habit of landing marines and making war on Americans. You'll see. There's nothing in this.
"Very well," Stanton said at last. "I'll go and shift my clothes," and with that he turned and ascended the wide stairs that led to the second floor.
Biddlecomb returned to the sitting room, anxious to study the model of the Virginia Stanton that stood on the sideboard. She was a beautiful ship, certainly equal to her name, thou he might recommend another fathom be added to the lower masts and the topsail yards be lengthened a bit. The mizzenmast could be stepped a bit further aft as well.
He got down on his knees beside the model and sighted down her keel, trying to assess the qualities of her underwater shape. So engrossed was he by the curve of the hull that he was not aware that the ship's namesake was standing in the door, and he was startled when she spoke.
"She's a fine ship, Isaac, to be sure, but I hardly think you should worship her."
Biddlecomb looked up. Virginia was wearing a simple muslin dress, which she had apparently put on in a great hurry. Her hair was even more mussed than before.
"I was just studying the shape of her bottom," he said, wearing his deadpan quarterdeck expression as he regained his feet.
"Indeed?" Virginia smiled and then her expression turned serious. "Honestly, though, I'm happy to hear you're uninjured. It's criminal how you've been treated.
"How in the devil did you hear about the Judea so fast?
Virginia smiled again. "The men here are kept well-informed, with father as captain of the militia, and I see to it that Rogers keeps me informed as well."
"And that's another matter." The past twelve hours had been among the strangest in Biddlecomb's life. "What's this militia that everyone's talking about?"
"They're local men, farmers and shopkeepers mostly, that have been training for war. Thre's a militia in Providence and Newport, and trains of artillery as well. All over New England, I understand."
Biddlecomb was intrigued. He had no knowledge of any of this, so much of the past five years he had been at sea, and he wanted to question her further. But their conversation was interrupted by Stanton's coming back down the stairs, his arrival heralded by the thumping of his boots, loud on the hardwood stairs. He was not dressed in the clothes that he normally wore since quitting the sea, the elegant silks and linens and fine-tailored clothes that befitted a wealthy merchant. Rather, he wore wool stockings and a rough, homespun coat over leather breeches and a plain wool shirt. On his had was a battered cocked hat. In each hand he carried a musket, and over each shoulder was slung a cartridge box.
"I've never seen you looking so rustic, William," Biddlecomb said.
"The business that we'll be conducting is unlike my usual run-of-the-mill, and I'm afraid we're not yet so organized as to have uniforms, unlike some of our brothers in arms." Stanton handed one of the muskets to Biddlecomb. "Come, let's go to the stables. Good-by, my dear," he said, offering a cheek to Virginia.
"Good-by, Father." She kissed the proffered cheek. "Please be careful. And you, Captain," she said, smiling at Biddlecomb.
"Thank you, Virginia. Good-by."
The two men made their way through the back of the house, through the dining-room, and onto the covered walk that led to the kitchen. Leaving the walkway, they headed across the lawn and towards the stables, their boots crunching on the brown, frozen grass.
The morning was cold and the men's breath preceded them in gray puffs. The bare trees and dead grass and high, brown reeds along the water gave a gloomy cast to the scene, despite the red glow of the sun in the clear winter sky. The commanding house, white clapboard, the picked fence, and the stables were amber in the light. Rogers emerged from the stables leading a saddled horse, and behind him the stableboy led two others.
Stanton slung his musket over his shoulder and took the reins from Rogers. He rubbed the horse's neck and then with practiced ease flung himself into the saddle.
Biddlecomb knew little about horses and cared even less. The two beasts being led by the stableboy seemed of very different temperaments. The chestnut brown horse flung its head from side to side, whipping its black mane across its shoulders. Its breath shot from flaring nostrils in gray clouds. The other horse stood docile, following the stableboy's lead with not even a tug on the reins. Biddlecomb did not know if he was supposed to choose. His choice would have been to walk the mile to Bristol.
Rogers stepped up to the docile creature and took the reins from the stableboy, to Biddlecomb's chagrin, though he imagined that the feisty horse would have been preferred by any experienced horseman. He stepped over the chestnut horse, reaching a tentative hand for the reins.
"No, no, Rogers," said Stanton. "We'll give old Pallada to Captain Biddlecomb. You may ride Tempest." There was mirth in Stanton's voice, but Biddlecomb was too relieved to care about any slight.
It was an easy ride to Bristol, and Pallada was as well behaved as one could wish a horse to be, but remaining seated and keeping pace with Stanton and Rogers called for all of Biddlecomb's concentration. Once during the ride Stanton turned to Rogers to explain Biddlecomb's discomfiture. "You must realize, Rogers," he said overly loud, "that Captain Biddlecomb can maneuver a five-hundred-ton-ship like it was a toy, but a half a ton of horse quite taxes him."
"Indeed, sir," said Rogers, and the two men turned back to grin at Biddlecomb.
They slowed the horses to a walk, much to Biddlecomb's relief, as they approached the outskirts of the town of Bristol. Here the hard-packed dirt road grew wider, and the houses grew more numerous, here and there interrupted by a blacksmith's shop or a cooperage. Biddlecomb had not been back to his hometown for two months, but it appeared to him that nothing had changed. Except perhaps that the streets were deserted. Even at that early hour the citizens of Bristol were usually up and abouts.
They rode on, and the houses and buildings grew thicker and the dirt road became Hope Street? and above them the brown, square tower o St. Michael's rose above the spindly trees. As Biddlecomb looked around, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle, he became aware of another sound that had joined the thumping of their horses' hooves. He listened and soon realized that the sound came from a crowd of men, and with it a squeaking and groaning, like an overloaded wagon.
They rode on towards the center of town, towards the intersection of Hope Street and Union.
And suddenly, stepping into the intersection from Union Street, the militia appeared. They were about thirty in all, dressed more or less the same in their rough breeches, coats, and cocked hats. Each carried a musket as well, not elegant hunting pieces like those carried by Biddlecomb and Stanton and Rogers, but the crude, dependable muskets found in every farmhouse in America.
Biddlecomb watched the men march forward in a ragged semblance of a file, and behind them came a horse, an enormous draft animal straining at its harness. It pressed on, pulling behind it a caisson and limber mounting a six-pound fieldpiece. On either side of the cannon, and behind it, the gun crew marched as if lovingly protecting their charge.