At the head of this band a gray-haired man walked beside the boy leading the horse. He was dressed much as the others, save for his brown coat, which, with its fed facing and cuffs and single gold epaulet on the left shoulder, Biddlecomb took to be some sort of uniform. His hat was unlike any Biddlecomb had seen before. It was made of leather and fit neatly over his head with a small red tuft on the top. A frontpiece was attached, a flat piece of leather shaped like a cresting wave with an anchor painted on it. The man glanced over at the mounted party and his face lit with recognition. "William!" he said, breaking stride with the others and hurring over to Stanton's horse. "Thank heaven you received my word. I'm betting we need you today, no lie."
"Thank you, Captain Martin. I see the militia and the train of artillery has done itself credit in turning out right away. May I introduce—"
"Captain Biddlecomb! You are Captain Biddlecomb, ain't you?" asked Martin enthusiastically. Biddlecomb saw that above the anchor on Martin's cap were the words For Our Country. He could smell the rum on the artillery officer's breath.
"Aye, I'm Biddlecomb. I am certainly sorry about all of this."
"Damn me!" said Martin. "You sure taught old John Bull a famous lesson last night! No one tries to stop an American ship! And now we'll finish your good work!" He grinned broadly.
"Aye, I guess I showed him," agreed Biddlecomb without enthusiasm.
With the grin still planted on his face Martin took his leave of the three men and hurried back to his place with the gun crew. Biddlecomb, Rogers, and Stanton wheeled their horses in behind the shuffling minutemen and followed them through the town.
The armed band marched through the center of Bristol, past the merchants' offices, the bank, and the chandlery and towards the waterfront with with its stone quays and warehouses. The sun was well up by now, revealing a brilliant blue sky. The wind was light from the northwest, the usual morning offshore breeze.
A low stone wall ran along the waterfront separating the docks and quays from the heavy traffic of Thames Street. The minutemen clustered around the wall, military discipline quite forgotten as they chattered and pointed out towards the water.
From his vantage point high on the horse Biddlecomb looked over the men's heads and beyond Bristol Harbor. A mile and a half distant, looking like an intricate toy and fairly glowing in the morning light, was the HMS Rose, standing towards Popasquash Point. Just at the moment that Biddlecomb thought they might go aground, he saw the frigate's bowsprit begin to swing, her sails begin to flutter, as she came about for the long tack that would take her into Bristol Harbor. She turned smartly, despite the light airs, and hauled her mainsails at the same moment that Biddlecomb, watching the evolution, mouthed to himself the words mainsail haul. She hung there, like a crippled bird, then continued to turn, her main and mizzen sails filling and her foreyards bracing around, and she became a thing of perfection once again, gathering momentum as she headed into Bristol Harbor, her jibboom pointing straight at the gawking militia.
Biddlecomb was impressed and he doubted that he himself had ever tacked a ship as quickly, though he reminded himself that the Rose must have over one hundred and fifty men aboard, while he had never had a crew number above twenty-three. Still it had been well done, and Wallace was displaying some nerve standing into an unfamiliar harbor with courses, topsails, and topgallant sails set. Biddlecomb hoped for a moment that the frigate might run aground on the muddy shallows that extended far out from Hog Island. He looked over at the island, and its position relative to the Rose's course, and realized with disappointment that they would be well clear of the mud. He saw a figure crawl out in the frigate's fore-chains to heave the lead. The fore and main courses flogged and were clewed up, and like magic men appeared on the yards to stow the sails.
"You know, Isaac," said Stanton, who had watched the evolutions with Biddlecomb's appreciation and expert eye, "there's some talk, mostly out of Providence, of starting a navy of our own. But I must admit that seeing the Rose put through her paces disheartens me a bit."
"She's well handled," admitted Biddlecomb, never taking his eyes off the ship. The topgallant sails came down on the run and they too were swiftly furled, and the frigate stood on under fore and main and mizzen topsails, fore topmast staysail, and mizzen. "I don't see how Rhode Island, or any colony, could build or man anything as powerful. And to the British she's nothing, a sixth rate, the smallest ship in their navy to warrant a captain in command."
"Do you know the Katey?" Stanton asked. "John Brown's sloop Katey?"
"Yes, I do. A fine little sloop. He's using her to hunt whale, is he not?"
"He is. There's some talk of buying her and arming her for war."
At that Biddlecomb took his eyes off the frigate and locked at Stanton. "What in the world do they think a sloop could accomplish?"
Stanton shifted uncomfortably. "She could harry shipping. She could take prizes, force the British to use their frigates to convoy merchantmen," he said in a defensive tone.
Biddlecomb considered the argument. "She could do that. It would be David and Goliath."
"Let's hope," said Stanton, and the two men turned their attention back to the Rose.
The frigate was well into the inner harbor by now, not more than a quarter mile distant. She was magnificent in the morning light. Her hull was a deep yellowish brown, a black stripe at the gunwale and another just above the waterline. Her masts were buff up to the tops, and the standing rigging and yards gleamed black. There was about her an ominous and beautiful symmetry.
Biddlecomb's gaze was drawn to the crowd of men on her foredeck, and he imagined that they must be clearing away the anchor. He caught a motion out of the corner of his eye, and turning, he saw Stanton raising a telescope to his eye. He wanted desperately to borrow it.
"Rogers packed the glasses," Stanton said, never taking his eye from the telescope. "Bloody man never forgets a thing. If he ever leaves me, I shall be quite lost as I have forgotten how to remember anything. There is a telescope in your saddlebag as well, I fancy."
Biddlecomb twisted in the saddle and dug through the saddlebag, found the telescope, and brought it to his eye. Now he could see every detail of the activity on the frigate's deck. The forecastle men were indeed clearing away the anchor, and as Biddlecomb watched, the best bower swung out and hung from the cathead, ready to be let go. In the fore-chains the leadsman continued to sound the depth. Biddlecomb knew that there was a steady three and a half fathoms but of course Wallace did not.
"Captain Martin," Stanton called out, lowering his glass. "Perhaps it would be best to prepare the fieldpiece now, while there's time."
Martin, who had been standing with the gun crew and staring at the frigate, readily agreed and began issuing orders for the deployment of the gun.
"Gun crew!" he shouted with military bearing. "Lay out your gear! Balls and cartridges!" The gun crew broke from their reverie and swarmed around the caisson and limber like ants on an overturned anthill. Biddlecomb turned his attention back to the Rose.
The frigate was far up the harbor now. She must let go, or sure she'll be aground, he thought. He could hear the splash of the lead as it hit the water, could hear the monotonous chant of the leadsman: "And three and a half, and three and a half..."