"I am Lieutenant Norton, third officer of His Majesty's frigate Rose."
"God save the king! yelled a voice from the crowd, and the Americans laughed, a bit louder than was necessary. Norton stood expressionless until the laughter subsided.
"I am carrying a letter from Captain Wallace—"
"Stick it in your arse!" another voice called, and again the Americans roared/ Stanton held up his hand and the laughter died away.
"I am carrying a letter from Captain Wallace," Norton began again, "to Mr Isaac Biddlecomb, late of the merchant ship Judea. I would like to know his whereabouts."
"You go to hell, you..." began a man in the crowd, but Biddlecomb cut him off by stepping forward. He glanced towards the longboat, wondering if the seamen might be readying for a fight. The boat's crew were grinning broadly, evidently enjoying the abuse being hurled at their superior officer.
"I am Captain Biddlecomb."
Norton looked surprised, just for an instant, and then the stolid expression returned to his face. "Good day to you, sir. This letter is for you." He handed the folded and sealed paper to Biddlecomb and bent stiffly at the waist. Biddlecomb took the letter with a nod of his head.
"Read the letter, Isaac!" someone shouted. Biddlecomb tore open the seal and unfolded the paper. The writing was cramped but neat.
His Majesty's Ship Rose
Rhode Island
January 1, 1775
Sir:
On the morning of January one my frigate did run the merchant vessel Judea aground on popasquash Point, of which ship you were in command.
Biddlecomb read aloud. Behind him the militia was quiet.
As an investigation of the wreckage revealed that the cargo consisted of contraband items, you are hereby requested and required to accompany the officer bearing this note aboard His Majesty's frigate Rose and account for your action of the night above.
I am, sir, your most humble and most obedient servant.
Jas. Wallace
Biddlecomb looked up at Lieutenant Norton, but the man's face was still without expression, as if he were still waiting for Biddlecomb to read the letter.
"You cannot possibly go aboard the frigate, Isaac, it would be the last we ever hear of you," said Stanton, just loud enough to be heard above the howling patriots.
"Of course you're right, William," Biddlecomb muttered. He felt stunned, as if he had been hit on the head. The Rose had come for him. Addressing himself to Lieutenant Norton, he said, "I'm sorry, sir. Please express my apologies to Captain Wallace, but I feel it would be... healthier... if I were to forgo his kind offer."
Norton considered this for a moment. "Be aware, sir, that Captain Wallace is prepared to take extraordinary measures to see his wishes complied with."
"And so we are, sir," interrupted Stanton. "Do not for one moment doubt that."
Behind them, the militiamen began to raise loud questions concerning the virtue of Norton's mother, though the lieutenant seemed to take no notice.
"I am sorry that this is your decision, sir," he said at last. "Captain Wallace will be most put out."
The frigate's first broadside came even before the longboat had settled back on the booms. The black and yellow hull disappeared in a gray cloud of its own smoke, and the thunder of the great guns was joined with the sound of over one hundred pounds of iron striking the town of Bristol. Three jagged holes appeared in the brick tower of St Michael's three blocks inland from the quay. A chimney on the blacksmith's shop disappeared, and the storefront of Webster & White, ship's chandlers, was reduced to wreckage.
The minutemen, those few who had not leapt for cover behind the stone wall, stood gaping at the frigate. Biddlecomb imagined that none of them, farmers and shopkeepers all, had ever seen a man-of-war firing her broadside, and it was a terrible and frightening sight. Stanton was the first to recover his wits.
"Gun's crew! Load and fire at will! Captain Martin, please see to your gun's crew! Militiamen! To me! Form up!" The minutemen broke into a disorderly run, each man racing to his assigned position. Powder, wadding, and shot were handed along to the loaders and rammers, who forced the charges down the barrel of the ancient gun. To his left Biddlecomb saw the militia form up in reasonable lines, the front row of men on bent knee, the back row erect, each feverishly loading their weapons.
The still air exploded with another broadside, and several men jumped with surprise. Round shot screamed overhead, followed instantly by the crushing and shattering sounds of the fusillade striking the town.
"Front ranks, fire!" Stanton called, and the crouching men fired, but the muskets seemed pathetic and insubstantial after the broadside of the ship. Biddlecomb watched Captain Martin thrust the priming wire down the touchhole and, satisfied that the cartridge was broken, withdraw the wire and pour loose powder down the hole. The Rose will get nearly three broadsides to our one shot, thought Biddlecomb, wishing that the gun's crew could move faster and with greater coordination.
"Run up!" shouted Martin, and the gun was pushed by the grunting artillerymen up to the stone wall.
"Back rank, fire!" ordered Stanton.
Martin sighted down the length of the barrel. "Handspikes here!" he shouted and the spikemen trained the gun around. Martin twirled the linstock in his hand and the slow match glowed brighter. The gun's crew stepped back and Martin shoved the slow match into the powder in the touchhole. There was a flash and the gun went off with a terrific roar, leaping back eight feet with the recoil. Biddlecomb kept his eyes on the frigate, as did the others. The aftermost deadeye on the main channel exploded into slivers, and the topgallant backstay swung loose.
"We hit her! We hit her!" cried Martin, capering, as the others took up the cheer. The Rose fired again, her broadside more ragged as some guns were worked faster than others, but the artillerymen did not seem to notice, and Biddlecomb could not see where the shots had struck.
Biddlecomb turned to Stanton. The minutemen fired continuously, though small arms at that range would be of questionable effect.
At last the gun's crew left off their cheering and turned to reloading. Biddlecomb watched as they swarmed over the gun. @For God's sake, stop your vent! he shouted as the enthusiastic swabber began to shove his dripping sponge down the barrel. The force of the sponge would blow any burning embers out of the touchhole, then suck them in again when the sponge was withdrawn, possibly igniting the cartridge while the gun was being loaded. Biddlecomb knew little about artillery, but he knew that much. He had once seen a man's arm blown off at the shoulder that way. Captain Martin placed his thumb over the touchhole and the sponge was rammed down the barrel again.
"Would you like the glass, sir?" asked Rogers, who appeared at Biddlecomb's side, the telescope in his hand.
"Indeed I would, thank you, Rogers." Biddlecomb took the glass and brought it to his eye. The frigate swam in the lens. On the quarterdeck the captain, Wallace, stood in solitude on the starboard side. On the larboard side stood the other officers, lining the rail. All faces were turned towards Bristol. He moved the telescope down and swept along the side of the ship. The better-served guns were beginning to emerge from the dark gundeck, their muzzles gleaming in the sun as they came like dragons from their caves.