Biddlecomb watched the magnificent man-of-war glide past, silent but for the man in the fore-chains. Then suddenly, and with no orders that Biddlecomb could hear, the ship's company flew into activity. Her bow swung away from the waterfront, up into the gentle wind, and her fore and main topsails came flying down the masts as the mizzen came aback and checked her headway. She hung motionless for a moment, then gathered sternway and and the anchor plunged into the blue water. The topmen were already stationed in the tops, and as the yards settled in their lifts and the topsails were clewed up. Biddlecomb strained to hear the shouted order from the deck that would send the men out along the yards to stow. No order came that Biddlecomb could hear, but nonetheless the topmen raced out along the yards and began to fist the canvas, like a flock of birds taking flight, and somehow knowing without being told when it was time to go.
Capt. James Wallace of His Majesty's frigate Rose stood by the taffrail, hands clenched behind his back, and observed the town of Bristol. It was charming, as so many of the small New England towns were, with its evergreens and ruddy brick buildings and smoke wafting from chimneys hidden among the trees. A part of his mind acknowledged this charm, while another part, the more active part, considered the strategic aspects of the town and the Rose's position relative to it.
He felt the ship snub up against the anchor cable and ease to a stop, so gently that it would have been missed by one not so intimate with the ways of his vessel. They had finished stowing topsails, he knew that as well, for he could feel the vibrations of the shrouds in the taffrail as the topmen raced back to the deck, and he could hear the heavy footfalls of Lieutenant Leighton, the first officer, coming aft to report. No orders had been shouted, no conversations of any kind had taken place since the Rose had first raised the entrance to Bristol Harbor. That was how evolutions were done aboard a taut ship, and Wallace ran a very taut ship. He turned and faced Leighton just as the lieutenant was opening his mouth for a "Beg pardon, sir."
"All sails stowed, sir, and the anchor is holding in four fathoms of water," Leighton reported.
"Very well." Wallace held Leighton in his stare, watching him fidget as he considered the orders he would give next. Wallace was young for his rank, well shy of thirty, but his taciturn manner and granite expression made him appear much older. His officers were unnerved by his frequent silences, those moments that he gave himself to consider a situation. He knew that, and he did not care. Careful consideration led to good decision making, and that in turn had led to his achieving post rank at his age.
"I want to rig a spring," Wallace began at last, "larboard side so that we may bring the starboard battery to bear. There some fools behind that stone wall near the quay, and I believe they have some sort of fieldpiece. Let's hope for their own sake they are not foolish enough to use it."
"Indeed, sir. I'll set Norton to work on the spring and—"
"No, not Norton. I have need of him. Set Michaelson to work on the spring. I want you to take command of the starboard battery. I'll send a midshipman with my orders. Now, please pass the word for Norton." Saying that, Wallace turned his back on the first officer, indicating that interview was over.
It took Michaelson and the men under him less than fifteen minutes to wrestle the spring line, five tons of unwieldy cordage, out of the cable tier, across the deck, and out an after gunport. From there the bitter end was carried by boat to the anchor cable, where it was seized in place, while at the same time the end still on board the ship was made fast to the capstan. It was an impressive display, but Wallace expected impressive displays, and he ignored the work going on around him, focusing instead on the preparations taking place behind the low stone wall.
Idiots, he thought, but no more idiots than the Admiralty, who refused to deal with this treason in an appropriate manner. His presence on Narragansett Bay was meant to be a show of force, he knew that, but he knew as well that any overt use of force would be frowned upon. If these colonials wish a war, we should damn well give them a war, he thought, not for the first time. But he knew that he would order Leighton to fire at the rooftops. Initially, at least.
He heard the squeal of blocks and the stamping of feet and knew that the longboat was going over the side. He turned and looked down the length of the deck. The boat's crew was waiting in their clean, matching outfits for the boat to settle in the water. Lieutenant Norton stepped aft and gave Wallace a formal salute.
"Here is the letter, Mr Norton," he said, handing the lieutenant a sealed note. It is a formality, nothing more. Keep your eyes open, learn what you can about this Biddlecomb. I want him, but if he is there, don't try to apprehend him in the face of a mob. We shall bring the persuasive powers of the ship and the marines to bear."
Wallace was being more loquacious than was his custom, but he liked Norton and saw in him the makings of a good officer. "Carry on," he said, and Norton saluted again and hurried forward. Wallace turned to a midshipman at the larboard rail. "Once the longboat is clear, please pass the word to Mr Michaelson to take up on the spring. I want the starboard battery to bear on the town. When it does, you may tell Mr Leighton to load and run out."
Chapter 4.
HMS Rose
BIDDLECOMB WATCHED AS the officer — a lieutenant, he believed — clambered down the frigate's side and settled in the stern sheets of the longboat. The bowman pushed off with his hook and the two banks of oars came down as one, and the longboat turned and headed for the quay.
The moment the boat left the frigate's side, the steady clack clack clack of the capstan's pawls drifted across the water, and the spring line rose dripping from the harbor and stretched out until it was nearly straight. The frigate seemed to hesitate, hanging between the pressures of the wind and the spring, then it yielded to the increased pull of the hawser, and slowly, silently, the stern swung away from the watching Americans and the long yellow side and the terrible gunports came to bear on the stone wall and the town beyond. Before the ship had come to rest again, twelve gunports opened together and twelve heavy guns were run out.
"Your Wallace is quite the showman," commented Biddlecomb wryly.
The militia was so transfixed by the sight, so silent and ominous, that they failed to notice the longboat until it ground up against the stone quay and the bowman leapt ashore, the painter in his hand. Then the spell was broken, and with a shout the Americans leapt over the stone wall and marched in a ragged mob toward the quay.
"Come, Isaac!" said Stanton, dismounting. "We must see that they don't do anything untoward." Biddlecomb swung his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground, then hobbled toward the stone wall, his sinews protesting the unnatural shape forced on them by the horse. He hopped over the wall and raced to catch up with Stanton, who was pushing his way through to the front of the militiamen.
Stanton at last managed to halt the rush of the mob. Biddlecomb pushed his way through the crowd to Stanton's side, and together they stared at the British ten yards away. Blue-jacketed, pigtailed seamen held the bow and stern lines of the longboat. The lieutenant, already ashore, stood facing the militiamen. He was not a big man, but well proportioned, and Biddlecomb guessed that they were about the same age. His expression was all business and he seemed not the least disconcerted by the presence of an armed and angry mob.
He stood on the quay and glanced around, then stepped towards the crowd of Americans. Biddlecomb heard a low murmur, a restless shifting from the militia.