"It occurs to me, as I tell you this, that I've been quite ill-used by the British navy," Biddlecomb said.
"Bah!" replied Dibdin. "Every damned sailor thinks his lot is the hardest. I've known men would beg to have it as easy as you've had it."
The sound of footsteps coming aft woke Biddlecomb from his reveries. "Beg pardon, sir." The seaman who had been standing lookout at the bow was standing before him and saluting. "I sees the loom of land, broad on the larboard bow."
"Thank you. That was well seen," said Biddlecomb by way of encouragement, though he himself had spotted Point Yudith ten minutes before. "Pass the word for Mr Wilson."
Wilson appeared on the quarterdeck a minute later. "Mr Wilson, we'll clear for action, but quietly, no yelling. Pass the word to the men," Biddlecomb instructed.
"Aye, sir." Wilson disappeared forward, and less than a minute later the men poured up through the hatches and cleared the brig for action. The evolution had an unreal quality as the men moved quietly about, whispering orders and laying their tools down softly and easing the guns inboard with a minimum of sound.
Twelve minutes later Barrett stepped up to the quarterdeck. "Cleared for action, sir. It took a bit longer, on account of our having to be quiet."
"That's fine, Mr Barrett." Biddlecomb stepped up to the larboard rail and leaned low to peer under the foresail. Point Yudith was clearly visible off the larboard beam, and ahead and to starboard he could see the rugged shore of Rhode Island standing out against the stars. He looked down at the water rushing along the ship's side. They were making a good eight knots. He relished the brig's speed and her handiness. "Make your head north by east," he said to the helmsman.
Point Yudith passed astern and the Icarus ran across the entrance to the West Passage. Biddlecomb peered under the foresail again, past the starboard bow, allowing his eyes to relax and scan the dark shore. He saw a flash, he was certain, a line of gray in the blackness, the sea breaking along Brenton Reef and Castle Hill. "You see those breakers?" Biddlecomb asked the helmsman.
"Aye," the helmsman replied, a note of uncertainty in his voice.
"Steer to leave them to starboard, but just to starboard. Stand in as close as ever you can. There's plenty of water there, so don't be afraid."
It was all so familiar; the breakers at Castle Hill, dimly seen in the dark, the spray swept back over the deck, the familiar entrance to Narragansett Bay. And it was all so different; the line of guns down either side of the deck, the crowd of men standing anxiously beside them.
Then Biddlecomb felt the anger well up in him again and bury him like a breaking wave rolling over him in the dark. Rhode Island was his home, and yet he had to come crawling back in the night, like some low thing, terrified of his master's hand. For five years he had been doing this, and at last he was sick of it. The British had taken from him his ship and his fortune, and now they had taken his home. Neither Narragansett Bay nor any other port in America would be safe for him until the British were forcibly driven from the water. He realized that, and he was ready to start driving.
"God damn them all to hell!" he said out loud as the anger washed him away. He slammed his fist down on the caprail. The pain was good, the sensation of striking something when he could not strike the enemy. But anger alone would not drive the British out, and anger would not get the men of the Icarus to safety.
He looked over at Mr Appleby. The midshipman was staring at him, wide-eyed, as were the helmsmen. Biddlecomb smiled despite himself, realizing that he must looked quite the lunatic, cursing and beating the rail with no apparent provocation.
Conanicut Island was just visible in the moonlight on the larboard side, the trees standing out against the sky and the rocks shining wet along the shore as Biddlecomb turned the Icarus north. On the starboard side and two miles distant, Newport Harbor opened up, revealing the constellation of lights on the anchored ships and in the town beyond.
And then the lights were lost from sight, one by one, as Goat Island and Rose Island came between the brig and the shore, and it was dark and quiet again. It was a beautiful night, and running before the wind made it seem less cold. Biddlecomb's thoughts began to wander to Bristol, and William Stanton, and Virginia Stanton. He thought of the way she looked, handing them the pistols from beneath her cloak, that glimpse of bare ankle as she stormed out of the sitting room, clad only in her nightgown.
He shook his head and admonished himself for his dreaming. We're not in Providence yet, not even close, he thought, and forced himself to consider the next question: whether to pass Prudence Island to the east or west.
He looked over to Gould Island, now less than half a mile away. They were right in the middle of the channel, in good, deep water, with Conanicut Island passing down their larboard side and Gould Island to starboard.
The western side of Prudence Island was a maze of shallows. It was true that the British were less likely to be there, for good reason, but there was also the greater likelihood of running the Icarus hard aground. Biddlecomb pictured the brig stranded high on a falling tide, the launch and the gig gone, surrounded at first light by boatloads of marines. No, he would take the longer but deeper east side. That course allowed them more routes of escape if the Rose was spotted. The only real danger lay in becoming trapped in the relatively narrow passage between Prudence Island and Rhode Island. If they could make it through there, then they would be all right.
Biddlecomb stared at Gould Island slipping past the starboard side. He could make out the individual trees, straight as ship's masts, their tops swaying in the wind. They moved together, rhythmically, like dancers. Except...
Biddlecomb looked again, straining his eyes.
"Sir?" Wilson was beside him with a question, but Biddlecomb held up his hand for silence. There it was again. It wasn't a tree at all. It moved, rather than swayed, gliding past the tall pines, disappearing and reappearing again.
"There's a ship on the other side of the island," Biddlecomb said softly.
"Are you certain?" Wilson asked, peering into the dark.
"Yes. It's sailing nearly the same course as we are. We'll meet as we pass the island. Please clew up the foresail and have the men stand in readiness at the starboard guns. And quietly as you can."
Wilson nodded and hurried forward, giving orders in a harsh whisper, and Biddlecomb considered the strange sail. It could, of course, be anything, even a smuggler such as he once was. If it was the case, then the stranger would be anxious to avoid any contact, particularly with a vessel that was ostensibly a British man-of-war. Biddlecomb looked forward. They would pass the far end of Gould Island in just a few moments. Then they would know. He felt the telltale signs of fear and excitement in his stomach and his feet.
And then they were past and Biddlecomb could see the strange vessel clearly as it too moved beyond the shelter of the land. It was ship-rigged, but small. If it was a naval vessel, Biddlecomb imagined it would be what they called a sloop of war. It was sailing under topsails and foresail, and moving fast even with that reduced canvas.
"You were right," said Wilson, returning to the quarterdeck. "Do you think they've seen us yet?"
"I do not know."