he watched the dark shape of Dyer Island slip astern, then shifted his gaze north along the shoreline, pausing as he caught yet another shape that stood out from the land.
"Rumstick, what do you suppose—"
The night exploded in a broadside, twelve heavy guns going off as one, the noise and flash staggering. Biddlecomb was thrown to the deck by the impact of the metal. He heard men scream. Overhead a spar cracked and broke.
"Isaac! Isaac, are you hurt?" Rumstick was above him, lifting his head.
"No, no, I'm fine." Biddlecomb's mind was focused on the image he had seen in the muzzle flash, a fraction of a second frozen in his mind like a painting: a full-rigged ship, illuminated by the light of her broadside. "It's the Rose, Ezra. It's that goddamned frigate Rose!"
Biddlecomb pulled himself to his feet and stumbled aft, Rumstick at his heels. "Larboard guns, fire at will!"
The first of the Icarus's guns went off just as Biddlecomb regained the quarterdeck, and it was followed by another and another as the men fell to loading and firing as quickly as they could. Biddlecomb looked aloft. The main yard was shattered in its slings, the thousand pounds of wood held up by the lifts and main topsail, but Biddlecomb knew that it would not hold for long.
"Rumstick, send some men aloft there, just lash that yard up it so it doesn't come down and knock us on our heads!" he shouted, and Rumstick nodded and headed forward.
The last of the Icarus's guns fired fired just as the Rose unleashed her terrible broadside again. Number-seven gun unpended and crashed to the deck, its crew scattering, barely avoiding the falling barrel. Round shot hit the foremast, tearing a section away.
The Rose was underway now, abeam of the Icarus and gathering speed. She would be much faster than the brig; Wallace could remain alongside and batter them to kindling if he chose. Biddlecomb knew that he had to shake the frigate off, but he was in a channel, with Prudence Island to larboard and Rhode Island to starboard. There was no place that he could run that the frigate could not follow.
The Rose fired again, her broadside increasingly ragged but her accuracy not diminishing. The binnacle box exploaded and Biddlecomb was knocked to the deck again by a fragment of wood. He pulled himself back up. The helmsman was dead, his neck torn open by splinters. The tiller lolled over to larboard and Biddlecomb could feel the brig turning.He jumped to the tiller, slipping in the helmsman's blood, then grabbed the wooden shaft and pushed it amidships.
Barrett appeared at his side, blood streaming down his face. "Let me take the helm, sir."
"You're wounded, Israel."
"It ain't nothing," Barrett took the tiller and Biddlecomb stepped forward.
The larboard section of the main yard broke free and came crashing down, swinging on the lift that remained attached at the yardarm, and inflicted as much damage as the Rose's broadside. Two guns in the larboard battery lay on their sides, and a five-foot section of deck was stove in. The yard swung back inboard, crushing the quarterdeck rail.
Biddlecomb opened his mouth to shout orders, but Rumstick was already there, racing aft, a cutlass held over his head. He hacked at the lift and it parted, and the yard crashed down on the edge of the hole it had created, widening it, then toppled over and splashed into the bay. The main topsail flapped uselessly, like wash on a line.
Biddlecomb looked down the length of the deck and past the bowsprit. The Rose was crossing in front of them, from starboard to larboard, and as her forwardmost gun came to bear, it fired, and then the next and the next, and so on down the line, a rippling broadside, the shot flying the full length of the Icarus's deck.
The destruction was horrible, ghastly. The crew of number-one gun was killed to a man, grapeshot tearing through the close-packed, toiling men and tossing them aside like bloody rags.
The Rose had crossed their bow and Wilson was leading the men to the larboard battery in hopes of getting a gun to bear.
Biddlecomb looked toward the land on either side. He could turn and try to run into Mount Hope Bay. "Barrett!" Biddlecomb shouted aft, but before he could give the order the Rose fired again. The hull shuddered, a deep, profound shudder, and above the sound of the guns came the rendering, cracking sound of splitting wood.
Biddlecomb turned and looked toward the bow. The jibboom was gone and the bowsprit shattered. The foremast swayed drunkenly, shot clean through at the fife rail, supported only by the rigging.
"Rumstick, get the sail off her!" Biddlecomb shouted. "Cut the aheets, cut them away!"
Rumstick pulled his cutlass and slashed at the sheets, but it was too late. The mast leaned to larboard, farther and farther, until the starboard shrouds could bear no more but parted, one after another, and the hundred-foot foremast plunged over the side, still bound to the brig by the maze of rigging. The fife rails and bulwarks were crushed, and the foresail blanketed half the deck. Blocks and lines and sections of shattered spars rained down on the men, who ran in all directions to escape.
Then the main topgallantmast and yard plunged to the deck. Biddlecomb saw the yard crushed a man's skull, then break into fragments. He felt his stomach tightened and was afraid that he would be sick. It seemed incredible to him that he was still alive.
In the unnatural empty space left where the foremaat had stood, Biddlecomb could see the Rose, two cables ahead, putting her helm up and wearing round to deliver another broadside, crossing their bow again, now from larboard to starboard. The Icarus was slewing around to starboard, pivoting on the foremast that dragged alongside, all steerage gone.
"Barrett, come here," Biddlecomb yelled. Barrett abandoned the useless tiller and stepped over to him. "Wilson, Rumstick, lay aft!" Biddlecomb shouted, and as he did, he realized that he did not know if his friends were alive or dead.
Wallace watched the brig's foremast lean forward and collapsed, surprised that it had lasted that long. But the main would shortly follow; once one mast was gone, the other was never far behind. The Rose's guns, now firing more or less at will, continued to reduce the brig to flotsam. The slaughter they were visiting on the Americans had a cathartic effect on him; he felt relieved and even a bit euphoric as more and more of the fury that had been building for the past six months was released with every lethal shot from the Rose's great guns.
"Mr Leighton, I am not at all satisfied with the performance of number-five gun. Please make a note for the gunner," he called out across the deck.
"Aye, sir," replied Leighton, and Wallace could hear his footsteps as he crossed over the quarterdeck. "Sir?" the first officer asked in a voice as low as could be heard over the din. "Sir, shall I ask them is they strike? They've no hope now, and they must know it."
"No," said Wallce, and his tone did not invite questions of any kind.
"Aye, sir," said Leighton, retreating back to the leeward side.
They would love the chance to strike, Wallace thought. But surrender meant prisoners and trials, public outcry, and treasonous editorials in the colonial papers. It meant soft, stupid judges who could be influenced by the mob, and military decisions made for political expedience. It meant more of the wrongheaded action that had already let the rebellion get this far. It meant a chance for escape, like that damned Biddlecomb had escaped. "Mr Leighton," he called, and the lieutenant stepped over to him once again. "Send word to the gundeck that their rate of fire has dropped below what is acceptable."