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ToNathanielJames

Nelson,

mysonofwhomIam

soproud.

Ipasstheliterary

torchtoyou.

Acknowledgments

As with any literaryendeavor, there are manypeople to thank, some whomightnotevenbeaware thattheir support has been a

critical part of the writingprocess, a very complicatedand all-consuming process,indeed. Long overdue thanksto Joe Donovick for all hishelp and support over theyears (and for teaching mykids to shoot safely!) and toDan Lessard and his family,oldfriendswhohavesooftenand so generously allowedme to crash at their home

when research has calledmesouth. Thanks to all thepeople at Maine MaritimeMuseumwithwhomIhadthegreat privilege to work thesepastsevenyears,inparticularJasonMorin,AmyLent,KurtSpiridakis,BarryCraig,MattWilliams, Christine Titcomb,Joy Wiley, Rebecca Roche,JaniceKauer,NathanLipfert,Chris Hall, Teresa Gandler,

KellyPage,SueSteer,andallthe gift shop folks; KathyPerkins, Sandy Lederman,Liz von Huene, GayLauderback,CynthiaDolloff,andChrystineCromwell,whosokindlypush tourists in thedirection of my books. Youhavenot seen the lastofme.Thankstoallthegoodpeopleat St. Martin’s Press,including Melanie Fried and

in particular Peter Joseph,withwhomitisanhonoranda privilege to be workingagain. Thanks to PeterRindlisbacher, kindred spirit,for all your effort in makingthe cover art perfect (and forallyou’vedonefortheworldof maritime art in general).Thanks,asever,toNatSobel,Adia Wright, and all thepeopleatSobelWeber.

And thanks, and lovealways,toLisa.

ARMEDMERCHANTSHIPABIGAIL

1.Jibboom2.Bowsprit

3.Jib4.ForeTopmastStaysail5.ForeStaysail6.ForesailorForeCourse7.ForeTopsail8.ForeTopgallantSail9.ForeTopmast

Studdingsail10.MainsailorMainCourse11.MainTopsail12.MainTopgallantSail

13.MizzenTopsail14.MizzenTopgallantSail15.Spanker16.ForeMastorForeLower

Mast17.Foretop18.ForeTopmast19.ForeTopgallantMast20.MainMastorMain

LowerMast21.Maintop

22.MainTopmast23.MainTopgallantMast24.SpankerGaff25.SpankerBoom

1

Before Jack Biddlecombcame fully awake, before hehad even opened his eyes ormoved at all, he knew two

things. One was that he hadtaken a severe beating. Theotherwas that he had reasontobeenormouslypleased.Hecouldnotrecallineithercaseexactlywhythatwas.

As to the beating, herecognizedthesignsrightoff.His body felt stiff andcramped, and he knew, evenwithout experimentation, thatcertain movements would

cause considerable pain. Hecould feel areas of bruisedfleshintheusualplaces:gut,jaw, the sideof his head.Hecould taste a faint trace ofcopperybloodinhismouth.

Tavern brawl … hethought, to the extent that hewas able to formulate anycoherent thought. Hisconditionhadtheearmarksofa shoreside rough-and-

tumble, one that he had lost,apparently, and lostdecisively.Ifthatwasnotthecase, ifhehadwon,hehatedto think of the condition inwhichhisopponentmustfindhimselfthatmorning.

Hetriedtorecall,butwasnot yet awake enough, or,indeed, sober enough, tobring up the details of thenight’s adventures. He

wonderedifthesheriffwouldbe coming for him. Hewondered if he was, at thatmoment, in a jail cell. Thatpossibility made him evenlesseagertoopenhiseyes.

Jack was only nineteen,buthehadspentyearsenoughin the rugged world of amerchant ship’s forecastle toknow well the results of abeating in a tavern. He had

given and taken beatings inNewYork, Philadelphia, andSavannah, in Nassau andKingston and Barbados, andonceeveninLondon.Itwasaself-imposed exile from thecivilized world ashore inwhich he had spent hisyounger years, an exile fromthe officer’s quarters aft thatmany considered hisbirthright. It left him with

skills,knowledge,andsundryscars thatwereforeign to thecoach-and-four set fromwhichhehadsprung.

And then he recalled thesource of his pleasure, andwiththatherealizedwherehewas, or at least where heshould be. He gave anexperimental kick with hisright leg. The action causedconsiderablepaininhisknee,

but his shoe (he was stilldressed to his shoes, herealized) connected with awooden leeboard,which toldhimhewasintheberthofthemaster’scabinofthe220-ton,full-rigged merchant vesselAbigail, which was hiscommand. His firstcommand. At nineteen yearsofage.

Hetriedtoopenhiseyes,

but that effort met with lesssuccess than the explorationwithhisfoot.Helefteyewassealed shut.Why, he did notknow. Dried blood orexcessive swelling wasusuallytheculprit,buthehadseenothers.Happily,hisrighteye opened and seemed tofunction tolerably well. Justas fortunate, lyingonhis leftside as hewas, that eyewas

atahigherelevationandthusallowed him to see over theleeboard.

He guessed it to be latemorning, judgingbythelightcoming in though the sternwindows, but what reallycaught his attentionwere thestockings. Reddish brown,homespun, pulled over a setof beefy calves.The cuffs ofbrownbreecheswerebuckled

around the upper edge ofthose stockings. Jack did notrecognize either stocking orcuffs, or the man whooccupiedtheclothing,thoughhe was seated in a chair notfar beyond where Jack lay.Hecould,heunderstood,turnhisheadabit and seewho itwas,buttheeffortseemedtoomuchtocontemplate.

Jack Biddlecomb had

difficulty controlling hisimpulses. It was not as if hedid not understand therelationship between causeandeffect, as ifhecouldnotanticipate that action A,becomingdrunkandloudinashorefront tavern, say, mightlead to reaction B, a soundthrashing, and that A + Bmight well equal C, whichwas waking in his present

state.He had known men

enough,foremastjacksinthemain,whocouldnot seem tograspthis.Menwhocould,ata glance, comprehend theenormously complexinteraction of wind and sail,thetensionappliedtorigging,the stress on spars, howminor alterations in any oneof those might affect the

whole, and yet could notseem to grasp that tellingsome drunken packet rat hemet in a tavern that hismotherwas a soddingwhoremight lead to a certain andpredictableresponsefromthepacketratandhisshipmates.

Jackwasnotlikethat.Heunderstood those things. Hewas educated. But he justcould not seem to control

himself.He closedhis eye against

the light and theunfathomablemysteryofwhowas seated by his berth. Hehad confirmed that he wasindeed in the Abigail’smaster’s cabin, and that wasenoughfornow.Butthenthevoice came, just as he washappily slipping back downinto sleep, and pulled him

grudgingly to the surfaceagain.

“Ah, CaptainBiddlecomb,” the voice said.“Youareawake.”

The title “Captain” wasdelivered without the leasthint of irony, which was agood thing, as it would havegonebadlyforthegentlemanin the homespun socks if hehad said it otherwise. Or at

least it would have gonebadlyifJackhadbeenabletomovewith any kind of forceorspeed.Whichhecouldnot.

He opened his eye againand this time managed toswivel his head enough thathe could see the rest of theman with the stockings.Square-jawed, rather ugly,arms that stretched the fabricofhiswell-worncoat.Sailor,

Jack thought. Or was …boatswain or carpenter,perhaps…

With more than a littleeffort, Jack tenderly sat upand swung his legs over theedgeoftheberth.Hisribsandhiskneeweretheworstofit.He reached up and touchedthe eye that would not openandwas relieved to find thatit was just dried blood, not

some horrible swelling, thathadsealeditshut.Herubbedthelashes,feltthedriedbloodflake away, and blinked theeyeopen.

Theman in the stockingsmade nomove to help. Thatwasjustaswell,too.Itwouldnothavebeenwellreceived.

“Did I win?” Jack askedatlength.

“Pardon?”

“The fight. Tavern fight,correct? Wait, don’t tellme … I recall it now. TheBlueGoose,amIright?”

“Youareright,Captain.”“DidIwin?”“Notyou.‘We.’By‘we’I

mean you and yourcompanions. Not me. Andyes, unlikely as it mightseem, you won. Or werewinning.AforeIdraggedyou

out of there. Three stepsaheadofthesheriff.”

“Bolingbroke? WasBolingbrokethere?”Overtheyears, when fate had tossedJack and Jonah Bolingbroketogether in the sameforecastle,orthesametavern,abrawlwasoftenenoughtheendresult.

“Bolingbroke?” the mansaid. “Don’t know. Don’t

believe I know thegentleman.”

“‘Gentleman’? No, Ireckonyoudon’tknowhim.”

Jack Biddlecomb took amoment to look around thecabin. The deckhead and theceiling planking were freshpainted and brilliantwhite inthe morning sun. The lightreflectingoffthewateroftheDelaware River below the

countermadebright, dancingpatterns on the overhead.Hecould see ships through theaftwindows,shipsatanchor,ships tied to the quays. Hecould see the river’s farshore. It was mid-April andthe snow was gone but thegrass and leaves had not yetappeared,giving theplaceanunkempt look despite thesunshine.

Thebrilliant light seemedtoaccentuatetheemptinessofthe cabin. Jack had beenmaster for all of two days,and in that time the vesselhad remained tied to thewoodendockjuttingoutfromthe Philadelphia waterfront.Before coming alongside thedock theyhadbeenanchoredin the river, swinging backand forth at thewhim of the

current. The day before that,theyhadworkedtheirwayupthe river at the head of theflood tide, two weeks out ofSaintLuciawithaholdfulofmolasses.

When at last the worm-riddled snow that hadoccupied their present berthfinished off-loading its cargoand warped into the stream,they had hauled anchor and

hove the Abigail fromwarpingpost towarpingpostuntil she was safe alongside.Captain Peter Asquith, nowtheship’s formermaster,hadstoodsilentandslightlyboredon the quarterdeck as JackBiddlecomb, former firstmate, directed the evolutionwith a firm and competenthand.

They had not been

alongside two hours beforeWilliamDaileycameaboard.Dailey, whom Biddlecombhad always reckoned lookedmore like a weasel than anyman he had ever seen, wasagent to Robert Oxnard,merchantofPhiladelphia andowner of theAbigail, amongother vessels. Many othervessels. Dailey and Asquithhaddisappearedintothecool

of the master’s cabin whileJack, sweltering in theabnormallywarmspringday,continued to oversee theswayingupofcargo.

Jack, itwas true,wasnotexerting himself like thesailors and longshoremenknocking the wedges freefrom thebattens,heaving thegrating off the hatches,attaching the barrel slings in

the dust-choked hold, orswaying away at the staytackleandheavingthebarrelsup into the sun. But neitherwas he stripped to thewaist,barefooted, bareheaded, orwith a rag bound around hissweating brow as they were.He wore breeches andstockings and shoes. Hat onhishead,coatonhisback.Hehadspenttimeenoughasone

of them, one of the foremasthands,andhedidnotmissit,generally. Now he was amate, themate, and he knewhisplace.

Twenty minutes later,Asquith appeared on thequarterdeck. He took amoment to run a critical eyeover the men’s efforts, thesmoothtransitionofmolassesbarrels up from the hold at

the end of the stay tackle, amomentary pause as theyhung over the gaping hatch,thenoutandoverthedockasthe tackles at the yardarmswere swayed away. Neat,seamanlike, utterly routine.Heseemedsatisfied.Hemadenocomment.

“Mr. Biddlecomb, wouldyou come below, please?”Asquith said at last.

Biddlecomb turned thesupervision of thework overto the second mate andfollowed Asquith below andintothemaster’sdaycabin.Itwas a generous space, as faras small merchant ships’cabinswent,andnicelyfittedout.Araiseddoghouseonthedeck above gave more thanadequate headroom, and askylight on top of that

provided an abundance oflight. A scuttle in thedoghouse allowed for aprivate ladder to thequarterdeck.

There were curtains,lovingly sewn by Mrs.Asquith, hanging along thestern windows. Most of thedeckspacewastakenupbyarichly varnished mahoganytable that Jack had helped

wrestleaboardinNassau.Onthe larboard sidewas an oaksideboard crafted by one ofthe better Philadelphiafurniture makers anddiscreetly lashed to ringboltsin the ceiling planking.Sittingonitspolishedsurfacewas a crystal decanter andglasses, once again in placenow thatAbigail, tied to thewharf, was a reliably stable

platform.Asquithgesturedtowarda

chairandBiddlecombsatandwas grateful to do so. Hereckoned this meant he wasnot in any trouble, and intruth he genuinely could notimagine why he would be.That in itself was unusual.Generally there wassomething.

Butno,hehadnothadthe

chance to go ashore yet, andthat was where the troubleusually started. They hadbeen at sea forweeks, and itwas rare that any fault couldbefoundwithhisbehavioratsea, unless it was hispenchant for driving the shipharder than most masterswishedittobedriven.

“Jack,you recall thatMr.Oxnard has a new ship?We

sawher tiedupatSouthwarkaswecameupriver.”

“Yes,withthelowersjustinandtheprettysheer.Threehundredandfiftyton,Iwouldreckon.”

“Three hundred andseventy-five, actually,”Asquith said. “And Mr.Daileyhere informsme Iamtohavecommandofher.”

Jack smiled a smile of

genuine delight. Asquithcould be fussy andoldwomanish on occasion,but Jack genuinely liked andrespectedtheman,andintheyearandahalfhehadservedas Asquith’s chief mate hefelt that he had learned aconsiderableamount.

“Congratulations, sir!”Jack said and extended ahand,whichAsquithtook.“It

could go to no moredeservingaman!”

“Well thank you, Jack,”Asquith said, with a sinceregratitude and a touch ofembarrassment. “But there’smorenews.You,myboy,areto have command of thisship.”

Jackdidnotsmileatthat,didnotrespondatall.Hewasas stunned as if he had been

hit with a handspike upsidehis head. He had alwayshopedforacommand,indeedhadexpecteditifhemanagedtoliveevenafewmoreyears,which was sometimes indoubt, but he did not expectsuch a thing yet. Not atnineteen. And suddenly theswaggering confidence forwhichhewassooftenandsojustly criticized utterly

desertedhim.“Oh, sir…” was all he

managed.“IwishIcouldtakeallthe

credit for this step,and tobesure I’veput in a goodwordwhenIcould,butMr.DaileyheretellsmethatMr.Oxnardhas had his eye on you forsometime.Ishouldthinkthatbusiness west of MontserratsealedthedealforOxnard.”

That business west ofMontserrat … That allusionshouldhavepleasedJack,butinfactitonlyannoyedhim.

“Oxnard doesn’t want torisklosingyoutosomeothermerchant, you see,” Asquithwassaying.

Jack nodded as if he didsee,whichhedidnot.

“Now look here, Jack,”Asquith went on in his

avuncularway,“youcanbeahothead and you can beimpetuous, we know that.You’llhavetogrowupabit.You’re not before the mastanymore, and you’re not amate. You are in commandnow,andthatwillrequireyoutoactasamastershouldact.”

“Yes,sir,”Jacksaid.Daileyspokenext,forthe

first time since Jack had

stepped into the master’scabin. “You know your wayaround the docks and thecounting houses,we have noconcerns there. CaptainAsquith has attested to yourthoroughness with themanifests,billsoflading,thatsortofthing.”

“Yes,sir,”Jacksaid.He had, in fairness,

alwaysbeenmeticulousabout

paperwork, keeping recordsinorder,accountingforeverypenny.Hehateditmorethana fogbound lee shore or anItalian opera, but heunderstood that care in thatdepartment would play abigger role in his eventualrise to command thanseamanship or navigationeverwould.Becausethemenwho owned the ships cared

more about the paperworkandthepenniesthantheydidaboutanythingelse.

“I’ve never said thisbefore, Jack,” Asquith wasspeakingagain,“butyouhavea way about you when itcomes to shipsand thesea. Iwas just telling Mr. Daileyhow you talked me intomaking more northing fromSaint Lucia and how we

found thatwesterly flow. It’slikeyoucan smellwind, andcan findaknotof speed inaship that no one else wouldhaveguessedwasthere.”

“Thank you, sir.” It hadbeen a guess, taking thatnortherly route, based on theriseoftheglassandthesetofthecloudsonthehorizon,buthe had guessed right. It hadshaveddaysoff theirpassage

and given him a nice patinaofbrilliance.

“Youjustgrowupalittle,take your responsibilitiesseriously,”Asquith saidwitha conclusive tone. Jackbraced for what he knewwouldcomenext.Heliterallyclenched his fists andclamped his jaw shut, as ifexpectingapunch in thegut.Asquithcontinued.“Thenone

day you will be as fine amarinerandanofficerasyourfather.”

Jack grinned a weak grinand nodded his head. Heresolvedthathewouldindeedtake his responsibilitiesseriously. Not so he couldlive up to his father’sreputation.Thatdidnotseempossible or even desirable.Captain Isaac Biddlecomb,

wealthy merchant captain,leading light of that much-lauded generation that hadwon the War for AmericanIndependenceadecadeandahalf before. CaptainBiddlecomb,whohadknownPresident John Adams whenhe was ContinentalCongressman John Adams,andGeorgeWashingtonbackwhen there was still a real

possibility the man might behanged by the British fortreason.CaptainBiddlecomb,who the year before, in theelection of 1796, hadgarnered the new title ofRepresentative Biddlecomb,congressmanfromthestateofRhode IslandandProvidencePlantations.

No, he would not beliving up to his father’s

reputationanytimesoon.Hehadresolved,rather,to

become a sober andresponsible adult because hewas no longer a boy and nolonger a foremast hand, hewas now the master of avessel, a full-rigged blue-water merchantman of 220tons burthen. That resolutionhad lasted just as long as ittook for word of his new

commandtospreadalongthewaterfront, for his numerousfriends among thePhiladelphiacarryingtradetodescend on the Abigail andinsist that they celebrate hisnew status with a flowingbowl.

Which led him to wherehe was that morning, sittingon the edge of the master’sberth in the Abigail’s great

cabin, head pounding, bodyaching, regarding a big manin reddish-brown stockingswhomhedidnotknow.

The big man lookedaround the cabin, as if tryingto seewhat Jackwas seeing.“Not much in the way offurniture, is there?” heobserved.

“CaptainAsquithtookhisbelongings. I have not had a

moment to outfit it,” Jackexplained, and then, theabsurdity of the situationdawning on him, said, “Bythe way, who in all hell areyou?”

“A friend. Friend of afriend,really.Heaskedmetokeepaweathereyeonyou.”

‘Weather eye,’Biddlecomb thought. Sailor.But he did not need the

jargon to tell him that. Thisfellowhadtheinimitablelookthat marked the truedeepwaterman.

“My father?” Jack said.“My father sent you?” Evenashesaiditheknewitwasabadguess.Hisfatherwasnotthesort to thinkof sendingaman to drag Jack out of atavernbrawl.

Theman in the stockings

shookhishead.“Uncle Ezra,” Jack said

withcertainty,andatthattheman nodded. Ezra Rumstick,his father’s closest friend,former chief mate, formerfirstofficer,formercaptainofseveral of the ships in theStanton and Biddlecombfleet. Not really Jack’s uncleinafamilysense,butintermsoftheirrelationship,everybit

the part. Rumstick was,strictly speaking, Jack’sgodfather, but Rumstick’sreligious leanings were likethatofmostmariners,thatis,hedidnotleantoofartowardthereligioussideofthings,atleast not until the windreachedasteadyfiftyknotsorbetter with sens cresting attwentyfeet,andthegodfatherdesignation was generally

used only when one or theother of them found itconvenient.

Rumstick had come upthe hard way, a berth in aforecastle and two fists todefend his place, and hewasmost certainly the sort tomake sure Jack would bepulledoutofanytrouble.

The man in the reddish-brown stockings leaned back

in his chair, causing it tocreak in an alarmingway. “Iweren’t there when the fightbegun, so I don’t knowwhatstarted it,”hesaid.“Youandyour mates made a goodlyshow,Icantellyou,andyouwasoutnumbered.”

“A tread on me coat andallhandsin?”Jacksaid.

“Verylike,”themansaid.“And Captain Rumstick, he

says to remind you you wasto dine with your parentstodayandhewouldtakeitasapersonalfavorifyouwastonot look likeanabsolutepileofshitwhenyouarrived.”

Jack nodded. “Very well,I’ll take that underadvisement.”

“Good,”themansaidandstood. “You’re alive and notin jail and you’ve been

reminded, so I reckon I’vedone my duty. Good day,Captain.”Hegaveatipofhishat and was gone, leavingJack alonewithhis thoughts,his pounding head, and hisemptycabin.

2

Aship’smastmaybecalledamast, but it is, in fact, madeup of several masts. Thus amainmast might be, as a

whole,amainmast,but in itscomponent parts it is amainlower mast, a main topmast,and a main topgallant mast.Thesesectionsoverlapwherethey are mounted one uponthe other in a carefullybalanced system of perfectlyfitparts.

Each of the masts issupported by its attendantshrouds: lower shrouds,

topmast shrouds, topgallantshrouds. Those and thebackstays keep the mastsfrom falling forward, whiletheforestayskeep themfromfalling aft. All of those partspull in opposing directions,holdingtheothersincheck,abalance of tension. All ofthosepartsgetwornwithuseuntil they fit easily into theirfamiliarplaces,andresistany

change, reject any effort tomakethemassumeadifferentposition.

And so it was with JackBiddlecomb and his family.Andsoitwouldstillbe,Jackknew, as he sailed throughthe open door of theBiddlecomb home andhuggedhismotherwhereshestoodjustinside.Sheandthehouse were of a piece:

elegant, tasteful, ageless. Inthefoyerbehindher,portraitshung on the flawless whitewallsandoakstairsborderedby a mahogany handrail ranup to the second floor. Achandelier, one of several inthe house, hung above theirheads.Aroundtheedgeoftheintricatelywovencarpets,oakflooring peeked out that waspolisheduntilitlookedlikeit

wasunderasheetofglass.The house itself was a

three-story brick affair onSecond Street, just to thesouth of Market, an easystroll from the dock whereAbigail was tied up, a greatblessingtoJackinhispresentcondition. As much asVirginia Biddlecomb hadmade the home their own inthe short time they had

occupiedit,itwasnot,infact,theirown,butratheronetheyhad rented. In the volatileworld of United Statespoliticsinthe1790s,withthegreat stabilizing presence ofPresidentGeorgeWashingtonyielding to the Adamsadministration and the fullflourishing of party politics,one did not buy inPhiladelphia.Ifyourbusiness

in that city was government,you rented. If your businessinvolved intriguing againstone faction or another,however, you mightreasonably hope for morepermanence.

“Jack, dear, you arelooking well,” Virginia said,a thing she would have saidnomatterhowhelooked.Sheproffered a cheek for a kiss,

then drew away, quickly anddiscreetlylookinghimupanddown.Hehaddonehisbesttocleanupinthetimehehad,acold water wash, a shave, aclean suit of clothes, freshstock,buthe still looked likesomething that had beensloshing around for sometime in thebilge.Heknew itand he was sure his mother,for all her graciousness, did,

too.His father was standing

rightbehindhismother,veryerect, dressedwith precision,ship-shape and Bristol-fashion, as the sailors wouldsay. Jackwouldnot say that,however,becausehefearedamentionofBristolwouldleadtothestoryofhowhisfatherrescued Uncle Ezra fromBristol Harbor in England

itself. Bristol? I recall someexcitement there! Must havebeentheyear’75…no…’76.Was it? Virginia, do yourecall?

Jackkepthismouthshut.“Jack, my boy!” Isaac

stuck out his hand, and hislookwasgenuinepleasureastheyshook.Jackwaspleasedto feel the strength in hisfather’sgrip, though thehard

calloused palms he recalledfrom years past were gone,and the dark, nearly blackhair—the hair that Jack hadinherited—was shot throughwith gray. “We heard thegood news. Word on thewaterfront, you well knowhow that goes.Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jacksaid. Again, his ears were

alert to any false note, anytone of irony or disapproval,andagainheheardnone.Buttheir visit had just begun.Therewastimeenough,yet.

The sound of activity inthefoyerhaddrawntheotherBiddlecombs like moths tothe flame. ElizabethBiddlecombsweptin,sixteenyears old, favoring hermother in coloring: the deep

chestnut hair, the strikingbeauty, the quick wit. Jackhad watched the girl fadeaway, theyoungwoman takeher place. Now he snatchedup her hand and gave it akiss. “Enchanté, chérie,” hesaid.

She withdrew her handand gave him a light slap onthe face. “You take liberties,sir,”shesaid,“andyouknow

we have no use forFrenchmeninthishouse.”

Virginia’s eyebrowswentup, a warning like a roundshotacrossthebows.Politicswouldnotbeentertainedatafamily gathering, not evenwhen all parties generallyagreed with one another,which, incredibly, they did.Or, more to the point, Jackdid not care enough about

politics to argue with hisfather,whichcouldbesaidoffewotherthings.

“Wasn’t there anotherchild?” Jack said, and evenbeforethewordswereouttheshout of, “Jack!” camebounding down the stairs,eleven-year-old NathanielBiddlecomb right behind.Hestoppedafewfeetinfrontofhis brother and bowed with

all the faux seriousness hecouldmuster.

“Arise, Sir Nathaniel,”Jacksaid.

Nathaniel straightened.Hewashappy,veryhappy,toseehisolderbrother,andthatinturnmadeJackprofoundlyhappyaswell.

“Lord,youlookafright,”Nathaniel said, eyeing Jackup and down, less discreetly

than their mother had done.“Whateverhappenedtoyou?”

“Come, let us off to thedining room,” Virginia said,gesturing the way down thehall.“Mauricewillbefuriousif the soup is allowed tocool.”

“Pirates,”Jacksaid.“Pirates?” Nathaniel

asked.“Swarms of them.

Coming through the MonaPassage,threeleagueseastofHispaniola.You should haveseen them, boarding usstarboard and larboard,cutlasses in their teeth.”Virginiagesturedfor themtomovealong,andtheyobeyed.

“You can’t hold a cutlassin your teeth, they’re tooheavy,” Nathaniel pointedout.

“Not if you are as big asthesedevilishpirateswere.”

“Well, you look as ifyou’ve been beaten with ahandspike. Why didn’t thepirates toss you overboard? Itakeityoulost.”

“Lost?” said Jack withmockoutrage.“Neverinlife.You should have seen whatthepirateslookedlikewhenIwasdonewiththem.”

They took their familiarplaces around the diningroom table, Isaac at one end,Virginia at the other, JackamidshipswithElizabethandNathaniel on the other side.Maurice brought the soup,whichwasstillblessedlyhot.

“Goodtoseeyou,sir,”hesaid, placing a bowl in frontof Jack. “We’ll have twoCaptain Biddlecombs now.”

Maurice was a black manwith a fringe of white hairand sixty years or more ofadventurous living,by Jack’sguess.Hewasaformership’scook whom Isaac had hiredwhen he was still going tosea,aship’scookwho, Isaacdiscovered to his surprise,could in fact cook and cookwell,giventhechance.WhenIsaac had come ashore,

Maurice had comewith him,and he had been with thefamilyeversince.

“Thank you, Maurice.”Jack gestured toward thesoup.“Ihavemissed this, letmetellyou.”

“Itdon’tgot tobeallsalthorse and burgoo at sea, butyouwon’tfindnoonewillingto cook who’s willing tolearn.”

“I know that, Maurice,”Jacksaid.“That’swhyIplanto ship you as cook on mynextvoyage.”

“Ha!” Maurice said,distributing bowls to theyoungerBiddlecombs.“Ain’tgonna catch me on no ship.Themdaysisover.”

“Then it’s the press gangforyou.”

“AslongasIgotaskillet

in one hand and a butcherknife in the other, ain’t nopress gang gonna take me,”Mauricesaid,makinghiswaybacktothekitchen.

“Maurice would doconsiderably better atavoidingthepressgangthanIeverdid,”Isaacobserved,butnoonepressedhim formorebecause they knew the storywell.

Dinner progressed fromsoup to an excellent crownroast of lamb, with theconversationmovingalongitswell-plotted course. “Tell usmore about these pirates,”Isaacsaid.“Youdolookasifyouhavetakenabeating.”

Jack was thankfully inmid-chew,whichgavehimamoment to assess thesituation. He heard the note

this time, the subtle melodyof disapproval. The piratestory was for Nathaniel’sbenefit; his father would notbuy it andwas notmeant to.After a lifetime at sea IsaacBiddlecomb would have abetter idea of what the truthofthemattermightbe,andhecertainly would be of theopinion that tavern brawlswere not the sort of thing in

which men of Jack’s stationindulged.

The bruising wasapparentlymorevisibleinthewell-lit dining room than thesmallmirror inhiscabinhadledhimtobelieve.

“Verywell, you’ve foundme out,” he said afterswallowing. “No pirates, Ifear,Nathaniel.Wegotintoabit of nasty weather off

Hatteras and I took a flieracross the cabin. Verylubberly, I’m embarrassed tosay.”

Isaacgrunted.Hewasnotbuying that one either, andJackunderstoodthathecouldcertainly recognize thedifferencebetweenacollisionwith a hanging knee and abeating from a fight. But forthe sake of family unity,

perhaps, or to shieldNathaniel from the truthabouthisprodigalbrother,hesaid, “Well, the mostexperienced of us will dosomething lubberly onoccasion. I know that for afact.”Therewasanawkwardsilence,andthenIsaacadded,“But see here, pray tell usmore about your step to thequarterdeck.Firstsmartthing

Oxnard’s done, to myknowledge.”

Were the table notpopulated exclusively byBiddlecombs who weregenerallyofalikemind,sucha statement would not havebeen allowed underVirginia’s strict embargo ofpolitical discourse at dinner.Oxnard was a well-knownand vocal Republican of the

most vicious stripe, closeassociate of BenjaminFranklin Bache, whopublished the PhiladelphiaAurora,thepaperthatdubbedrecently inauguratedPresident John Adams, “HisRotundity.”

Isaac Biddlecomb was ofthe Federalist faction. LikeAdams. In truth, he was likeAdamsinmanyways;aNew

Englander,strongadvocateofAmerican commerce,proponent of a strongUnitedStates Navy and damn thecost, suspicious of theexcesses of revolutionaryFrance. That Isaac should bea great supporter of thenascent United States Navywashardlyasurprise—itwasasanavalofficer thathehadwonconsiderablefame,notto

mention a fortune in prizemoney, during the War forIndependency.

But Isaac’s opinions, likeAdams’s, were notreactionary or ill-considered.Men like Bache and Oxnardmight well portray allFederalists as monarchists,men as eager to crawl intobedwiththekingofEnglandastheyweretogotowarwith

revolutionary France, buttherewasmoresubtletyinthepositions held by thethoughtful men of thatfaction. Just as not allRepublicans were madradicals screaming Liberté,Égalité, Fraternité, ou laMort in the streets, thoughmany Federalists did notappreciatethenuance.

“Thank you, sir,” Jack

said, “I’m not sure exactlywhat inducedMr. Oxnard todo something of which youapprove.” Virginia’seyebrowswentupagain, andJack, trained from birth toreact to that gesture, alteredcourse.Butitwastoolate.

“First thing, indeed,”Isaacsaid.“Anditmakesmewonder…”

Jack turned back to his

dinner, cutting a piece oflamb as he grit his teeth andconsideredwhetherornothecould unclench his jawenough to chew. Damn theoldman,hethought.

Of course the GreatManwould imply that his son’sstep to the quarterdeck mustsomehow be about himself.Jackfeltlikearopestretchedso hard it creaked under the

strain, andhis father’swordslike a sharp knife. Just themerest touch and the ropewould burst apart. Thesnapback could injure or killanythingithit.

But in truth, Oxnard’spolitics made Jack’spromotion all the sweeter.Therewas no possibility thatOxnard had given him thecommand just to get in the

goodgracesofRepresentativeIsaac Biddlecomb, war hero,because that would neverhappen in any circumstance,and Oxnard did not want it.Jack’s step up was thereforeuntainted by any suggestionoffavoritism.

That’swhat galls him so,Jackthought.

What’s more, despite hisfather’s apparently genuine

pleasure at his advancement,Jackknewthat it trulygalledhimthathissonwasworkingfor the noxious RobertOxnard.Andthatwasanothersourceofsecretdelight.

“CaptainAsquithput inagoodwordforme,Ibelieve,”Jack said when he againtrusted himself to speak.“AndIthinkI’vebeeninMr.Oxnard’sservicelongenough

that he’s formed somefavorableopinion.”

“No doubt,” Isaac said.“And I have no doubt thatthat business west ofMontserrat played its part inhisdecision.”

“I’ve heard that fromotherquarters.Abittoomuchmadeofit,Ithink.”

“I think not,” Isaac said.“YousavedOxnardafortune.

And it’s an admirable thingthat Asquith gave you thecredit when it was due you.Not all masters would havedoneso.”

“He’s a goodman,” Jackagreed. “A good seaman,”which in his estimation wasthe highest compliment hecouldgive.

“In any event, thatbusiness west of

Montserrat…”Isaacwenton.“There’ll be more of that,mark my words. The Frenchare stepping up theirharassment of Americanshipping, the privateers willbeswarminglikemaggots.”

Elizabeth made asquealing sound to registerherdisgust.

“Isaac,” Virginia warned,but in this case it was the

imagery,notthepolitics, thatoffended her. Isaac mutteredsome sort of apology.WhenVirginia spoke, men obeyed.Jack had been aware of thiseversincehewasoldenoughto observe and understandthisphenomenon.Hismotherwasabeauty,gracious,witty,able to put anyone at theirease. Every man quicklybecame Virginia

Biddlecomb’s slave, andIsaac and Jack were noexceptions.

“Why should the Frenchbe stepping this up?” Jackcame to his father’s aid notout of empathy but becausethiswasasubjectinwhichhehadagenuineinterest.“Ihadthought things were gettingbetter, that the Directory orwhatever the Frenchies call

theirgovernmentwaslookingfor some sort ofreconciliation.”

“Not a bit of it,” Isaacsaid. He had put down hisknife and fork, which toldJack he was about to set allsail, rhetorically speaking.“It’schaosoverinFrance,asmanyofusknewitwouldbe.TheFrenchareutterlyunableto govern themselves. Heads

arerollingthroughthestreetslike an apple cart’s beenupset.”

Elizabeth made hersquealing sound again, thistime adding, “Father!” ButIsaac was well under waynow.

“They pretend thesefellows are privateers. Theyprobably have some sort ofpaper, I shouldn’t wonder,

though whoever signed it islikely off to the guillotinebefore the ships could raiseour coast.Thepoint is, theseso-called privateers are nobetter than pirates. They canmake a fortune raiding ourcommerce. The Frenchgovernment, such that it is,won’t stop ’em andwe can’tbecause we don’t have anavy,doyousee?

“So now we’ve elected apresident who can see thetruthof thematter,who isn’twearing a tricolor cockadeand shoutingLiberté,Égalitéand all that, like our Mr.Jefferson is. Which is goodfor us, but the French don’tlike it, so you can count ontheir redoubling theirdepredations, the dogs.They’re right off our coast,

you know. French privateerssailing free as you pleasewithinsightofourverycoast,andnotadamnthingwecandoaboutit.”

“Speaking of a navy,”Jack said, wishing to changethe course of theconversation, but not soradicallythathisfatherwouldnotice, “did I see theUnitedStates planked up and near

readytogodowntheways?”“Yes, yes,” Isaac said

with enthusiasm, hismounting irritation with theFrench blown clean away.“Beautiful, isn’t she?Humphriesisbuildingher,asyouknow.HebuiltthefrigateIcommandedintheWar,theFalmouth, built her prettymuchwheretheUnitedStatessitsnow.”

“I recall,” said Jack,stabbingasubstantialpieceofmeat with his fork andswayingitaloft.

“A month or so,Humphries tells me, andshe’ll be going down theways.”

Jack, his mouth now fullof lamb, nodded. UnitedStateswasoneofsixfrigatesthat had been authorized in

March of 1794, more thanthree years prior, back whenit was the Algerians whowerecausingsomuchtroublefor the American carryingtrade. Now, with that crisispastandtheAlgerianshavingbeen bought off for nearly amillion dollars and, mosthumiliatingofall,thegiftofathirty-two-gun frigate thrownintothebargain,onlythreeof

the sixwere slated for actualcompletion. Happily, UnitedStateswasone.

Jack swallowed. “Shelooksjust thething,”hesaid.“AndifHumphrieshasdrawnher and built her she’ll be agoodseaboat,I’llwarrant.”

“She has diagonalbracing, do you see?” Isaacsaid,holdingupcrossedarmsby way of demonstration.

“Diagonal, running fore andaft from the midships anddrifted into each frame. It’llkeep her from hogging,despitethefineentryshehas,andtheweightoftheguns.”

Jack nodded. “Isaac,dear,” Virginia interrupted,“thisisallterriblyboring.”

Jack looked at hissiblings. Elizabeth, he couldsee, was indeed bored and

doingnothing todisguise thefact. Nate was enjoying itbecauseitwasmanlytalkandseafaringtalk,eventhoughheprobably did not understandit,atleastnotentirely.Asforhimself, he was finallyfinding the conversationstimulating, but his motherhad spoken and that was anendtoit.

They moved on to more

mundane topics, moremundane, at least, to Jack:talk of Philadelphia society,gossip about the othermembers of Congress, newsof old friends from backhome in Rhode Island. Jackdiscovered that PresidentAdams had called a specialsession of Congress toconsider theFrenchproblem.Isaac expressed amazement

thathecouldhavenotknownthat.Jackpointedoutthatjusta week before he had beencrossingtheTropicofCancerinafulltopsailbreeze.

The meal passed in amoreorlessamiablemanner.Despite Jack’s flashes ofangeritwasbetterthanithadbeeninyearspast,whensuchaneveningmighthaveendedwith shouting and slamming

doors and hismother fleeingtheroomindisgust.Butnowhe did not seem to feel thatpassion, and his fatherseemedlesslikelytoprovoke.

Jack understood he wasno longer a boy. He wasmasterofavesselnow.Ihavemy responsibilities, hethought, I am a responsibleman now. That seemed tobetter explain his changed

attitude,but thena twingeofpain in his ribs brought backmemoriesofthenightbefore,orwhathecouldrememberofit,andmadehimquestionjusthow responsible he reallywas.

Maybe it’s the old manwho’s growing up, hethought. Maybe it’s hisattitudethat’schanged.

Theshadowswerelongin

the streets, the evening chillsettling in on the city whenJack said his good-byes,kissed his mother, shook hisfather’shand,teasedhissisteronelasttime,andassuredhisbrotherhecouldcomebytheship when they were takingoncargo.Hesteppedthroughthedoor,downthefourstepsto the street, and nearlycollided with the man

hoveringthere,waiting.“Good evening,” Jack

said by way of inquiry, butthisfellowdidnot looktobehavingagoodevening.

“Goodevening,Captain,”hesaid,andthere,forthefirsttime,thewordwasusedwithamocking,ironictone.Jack’sreactionwasinstant:theflushof rage, the balled fists, butthe man did not seem to

notice,orcare.“I’mhereat thebehestof

Mr. Jonah Bolingbroke,” hesaid. He spoke like a manstruggling to talk above hisstation, thewords stilted, theaccentwrong.Normally,Jackwould have found thisamusing, but he was tooangrynow.

“Mr. Bolingbroke takesexceptiontoyourconductlast

night, and demandssatisfaction of you on themorrow.There’sanemptyloton Second Street in theSouthwark—”

“Iknowit.”“Sunrise.Tomorrow,” the

mansaid.Biddlecomb searched his

memory,tryingtorecallwhatobligations he had for themorrow. Cargo was coming

aboard, but he would not beneeded for that untilsometimelater.

“Very well, then,” Jacksaid, then thought better ofthatarrangement.“No,holdamoment, I’ll never find asecond would agree tosunrise. Pray, make it eighto’clock.There’snooneintheSouthwark will care eitherway.”

Bolingbroke’s secondseemed a bit taken aback bythis arrangement, but henodded and said, “Very wellthen,Captain,eighto’clock.”

Heturnedonhisheelandmarched off, not so muchappearing in a hurry asappearing towant toseemasif he was in a hurry. Jackwatchedhimgoand thought,I reckon I have time enough

to kill Bolingbroke in themorningandthengetonwithmybusiness.

This was all verysurprising.Over the years hehad beaten Bolingbrokesenseless and Bolingbrokehad beaten him senseless butneither had taken offenseenough to demandsatisfaction. Jack wonderedwhat might have changed.

CouldBolingbrokehavebeenpushed to this by Jack’selevationtocommand?Couldhenotstandtheadulationthathad come Jack’s way afterthat business west ofMontserrat? That had been aclose-run thing. And now,nearly a year later, he mightdieasaresultofit.

“That would be ironic,”Jack said out loud. Jack

Biddlecombhatedirony.

3

That business west ofMontserrat. It was nearly ayeargone and Jackwasonlynow realizing that it had

made a pretty big splashamong the mariners ofPhiladelphia. Why, he couldonly imagine. Perhapsbecause it was one of theAmericans’ few unqualifiedwins,aftersomanymerchantships of United Statesregistry, hundreds, in fact,hadbeenpickedofflikebirdsinatreebyFrenchprivateers.

They had cleared out of

Barbados two days before,well laden with sugar andmolasses, which was prettymuch all they shipped fromtheWest Indiesbecause theywere just about the onlythings the West Indiesproduced that were of anyvalue. Abigail caught a niceslant of wind that drove heralong to the east of theLeeward Islands as they

shaped a course to catch theprevailingsoutheasterliesandtheGulfStreamnorth.

The morning watchbelonged to JackBiddlecomb. It was tenminutes shy of eight bells,3:50 A.M., when he came upondecktorelievethesecondmate,OliverTucker,standingthe night watch. From thestuffy confines of the after

cabins Jack stepped throughthe scuttle and onto thequarterdeck,intotheembraceofthereliabletradewindsofftheirstarboardquarter.

Thestarswereformedupin their brilliant cascadeoverhead, a great sparklingdome unbroken by moon orcloud,butJack’seyeswenttothe sails, always right to thesails, every time he set foot

ondeck.Helookedaloft,pastthe crossjack yard to themainsail,themaintopsailandthe main topgallant. Thecanvas was barely visible inthe sweep of stars, but therewas light enough that hecould see their set, and hesaw that it was good. Therewas about eight knots ofbreezeandJack’sinstincttoldhim it was building, but for

nowhewascomfortablewiththe sail they were carrying.Tucker, he knew, would bethinking about stowing thetopgallants, but Jack waswillingtohangontothemforawhilelonger.

He stepped clear of thescuttle and moved quietlydown to the leeward side ofthe quarterdeck. This was amoment he loved: when he

wasondeck,lostinthedark,his watch not yet begun, noone even aware that he wastopside. He could stand stillandlet thebeautyof theshipand the sea and the nightenvelop him. He could feelthe warm, regular breeze onhis face,and the long,steadyrolloftheshipunderfoot.Hecould hear the sound of thewaterrushingdownalongthe

hull and gurgling under thecounter as Abigail’s bluffbowsparted the seas and thesails above drove herhundreds of tons of bulkalongitssteadytrack.

He took a deep breath.This was the reward, themomentofrestasthesunwassetting, the warm fire atjourney’send,thecooldipinthe pond when a long

summer’s day of labor wasover.Thiswas theprizewonbyhoursanddaysofstandingthe deck through blowingwind and freezing rain andseaspilingup likemountainsto windward. This was thecompensation for standingwatch upon watch in bitterweather, strugglingwith tornsails, shattered spars, riggingsnapped like cotton thread,

for bearing the responsibilityof driving a ship throughreefs and bars and shoals,through waters swarmingwith pirates and privateersandcustomsagentsandtight-fisted merchants. This waswhyhewenttosea.

This, andbecausehewasnot sure he was capable ofdoinganythingelse.

Jack saw a seaman

heading aft to turn the glassandringouteightbells,sohepushed himself off the railandsoughtoutOliverTuckeronthewindwardside.Tuckerwas bigger all around thanJack, who stood five footeleven and had his father’smuscular build. Tucker wastoying with six feet, wasinches wider than Jack, andten years his senior, but he

lacked Jack’s time on bluewater.

Tuckerhad spentmostofhiscareerincoastingvessels,or fishing for cod on thebanks, and had only recentlytaken to the deepwatercarryingtrade.Thatwaswhy,despite the difference in age,hewassecondmateandJackfirst. And that seemed to befine with Tucker, who was

competent but unimaginativeand largely devoid ofambition. He said little andseemedquitecontentwithhisplace in theworldand in thehierarchyoftheship.

“Evening, Jack,” Tuckersaid on seeing the mate’sapproach.

“Evening, Oliver. Finenight.”

“Fine indeed,” Oliver

agreed, then went about theformalitiesofturningoverthewatch. “Course is northwest,and Montserrat bearing westsouthwest and about tenleagues distant. Not muchelse to report, we haven’ttouched a rope since I cameon deck.Wind does seem tobebuilding.Iwasthinkingofhanding the topgallants, butreckoned I’d wait for the

changeofwatch.”Jacknodded.Abigail,like

mostmerchantmen, carried abare minimum of crew,because Oxnard, like mostmerchants, was too mean topayformorehandsthanwereabsolutely necessary, andgenerallylessthanthat.Therewere ten men in theforecastle, five for eachwatch, along with a cook,

steward, two mates, andAsquith, making a total offifteen souls aboard,excluding the two cats, whodisplayed even less evidenceof having souls than did thecook.

Any task of notabledifficulty, such as winningtheanchororreefingtopsails,required all hands, butstowing topgallants did not

rise to that level. In truth,Jackknew,Tuckerwasunderorders not to make any sailchanges without waking thecaptain, and he did not wanttowakethecaptain,sohehadwaited for Jack to make hisappearance.

“We’ll probably need tohand them soon,” Jackagreed, “but I reckon I’llhangontothemabitlonger.”

“You’ll hang on to themtill they blow out of theirboltropes,” Tucker said, andinthedarkJacksmiled.

“Imightyet,butonlyifIcan figure a way for you totaketheblame.”

They said their goodnights. Tucker and his menheaded for the scuttles andtheir watch below, Jack’swenttotheirvariousstations:

helm and forward lookout,the rest milling aboutamidships,waitingfororders.Therewasagoodchancethatthe four tricks at the helm,requiring slight turns of thebig wheel one way then theother, would be the mosttaxingpartofthewatch.

Haditbeendaylight,Jackwould have set themen to ahalf-dozen different tasks;

tarring down the standingrigging, slushing thetopmasts, end for ending therunning rigging, mendingsail, polishing brass, makingupswordmats,andrefreshingthe chaffing gear; but as itwas dark, and because heknew the men would worklikedogswhencalledupontodoso,heletthemstandeasy.Or sit, as the case may be.

Such was watch standing intheCaribbean.

Asquithhadthereputationof being a fair captain, andBiddlecomb a hard driver, amate not shy about carryingsail, a man who knew hisbusiness but not one whosought authority through fearand brutality, as some did.The profit on that was thatthey had their pick of the

seamen along thewaterfront.Abigailhadasmallcrew,buta good crew, and when itcame to seamen, qualitycounted for considerablymorethanquantity.

Jacktookhisplacebytheweatherrail,lookeddownthelengthoftheshipatthewaterrolling and curling off herrounded side, flashing withlight as the phosphorus was

churnedupinherpassingandstretching away in a longwake astern.Hewalkedoverand glanced at the compass,illuminatedbyacandleinthebinnacle box. Northwest.John Burgess, the seaman atthehelm,washoldingher sosteadily on course thecompass card looked as if itwasstuckinplace.

“How does she feel,

Burgess?”“Feels well, sir. Helm

answersrightandproper.”Jack nodded. He paced.

Heranhiseyesoverthesails,and the time rolled past likethe darkwatermoving undertheirkeel.

The first hints of dawnwere starting to showthemselves when NoahMaguire, once just another

Irishman fromCork, now anable-bodied seaman fromPhiladelphia, a good man atsea but a fearsome drunkashore, came ambling aft,turned the glass, took up thebell rope, and rang out fourbells.

“Maguire,” Jack called.“First light soon. Take thisglassandupaloftwithyou.”

Maguire responded with

an “Aye,” took the telescopethat Jack offered, anddisappeared up the mainshrouds. This was aprecaution thathis fatherhadoften told him about, how inthe naval service in times ofwar they would have alookout aloft at first light, tominimize the chance that thedawn might reveal someunhappy surprise, such as a

powerfulenemyintheoffing.Indeed, according to hisfather the entire ship wouldgotoquartersatdawn,justtobeready.

Jack would not go thatfar.And of course therewasnosuchthingas“quarters”inthe merchant service, andsincenomerchantmancarriedany sort of weapons withwhich theymight reasonably

defend themselves, such aprecautionwouldbepointlessin theextreme.But inwatersinfested with Frenchprivateers,havingamanaloftatdawnseemeda reasonableprecaution.

It was not long afterMaguire had disappearedaloft that the first gray lightbegan to spread along thedeck.Themasts,hatches, the

fife rails and pumps, andforward,thewindlassandtheheel of the bowsprit slowlyrevealed themselves in thegathering dawn. The sky tothe east took on a pinkishhue. Just forward of themainmast Abigail sported agalley,housedinadeckhouseabout the size of a generousprivy,andnowthefirstpuffsof black smoke began

chuffing from the galley’sstovepipeandwhiskingawayforwardanddownwind.

It was no more than tenminutes after that, with thesun finally breaking the rimof the horizon, that Maguiresangoutfromaloft.

“On deck! Sail, ho! Twopoints off the larboard bowand all but hull down! Can’tmakeoutmorethanthat,Mr.

Mate!”“That’s well!”

Biddlecomb called back.“Keepyoureyeonit,singoutwhenyoucanseemore!”

Sail … Jack swalloweddown a rising panic, chidedhimself for a coward.You’rein the West Indies, youdamned fool! he thought.Ofcourse there’s a sail, thereare more damned sails here

than the damned bloody sailloft in theRoyalDockyardindamnedPortsmouth!

And,inevitably,therewasthe image of his father,standing unmoved amid theflying metal, the hero of theWar for Independency whomostcertainlydidnoturinateinhisbreechesatthesightofastrangesailonthehorizon.

“Oh, damn it all!” Jack

said, which earned him a“Pardon, sir?” from theseamanonthehelm.

“Nothing, Lacey, it’snothing.”

Six bells and Jack wasabouttocalluptoMaguiretoask if he could see anythingmore, an undignified displayofimpatienceandheknewit,whenthecaptainappearedonthedeck.Hewasstilldressed

in his nightshirt, as was hiscustom in the warmerlatitudes. “Jack, did I hearsomething about a strangesail?”

“Two points off thelarboardbow, sir, andallbuthull down. That’s fromMaguirealoft,sir,don’tknowifwecanseeitfromhere.”

Asquith raised thetelescope he had brought

fromhiscabinandswept thehorizon. “Yes, there’s thebuggerer,” he muttered.“Tops’ls,that’sallIcansee,”he added, then he lookedaloft. The rising wind wasmaking his thin, white hairstream out to leeward. “Stillcarrying the t’gan’sls, Mr.Biddlecomb?”

“Iwas justabout toorderthem handed, sir,” he said,

which was not strictly thetruth.Actually,itwasnotthetruth in any sense. But,motivated by Asquith’spointed hint, he called anorder forward that sent menrunning to the foremast,casting off the topgallanthalyard, hauling awayclewlines and buntlines tobring the yard down to thecap.

Makeus less visible froma distance, in any event, hethought.

“Deck, there!” Maguirecalled down. “She’s hull upnow, schooner or brigantine,I’llwarrant!”

Jack could take it nomore.“Byyourleave,sir,I’dlike to go aloft and have alook.”

“Of course, Mr.

Biddlecomb, of course,”Asquith said. Jack took offhis hat, a moderately high-crowned, round-brimmedaffair, and stuffed it betweenthe binnacle box and the aftskylight, shed his coat, andswung himself up into themainshrouds.Climbingaloft,upthehundredorsofeetofaswaying, plungingmainmast,over the futtock shrouds that

ranata sharpangle from theshrouds to the edge of themaintop, up and over and upthe topmast shrouds, itwarranted no moreconsiderationthanclimbingasetofstairsand,youngandfitas he was, took only a bitmoreeffort.

He reached the topmastcrosstrees and continued upthe topgallant shrouds. Had

the topgallant sail still beenset, he would have had toclimb all the way to themasthead to see over it. Butby his orders (and he couldfeel that thewindhad indeedbuilt considerably, and knewhe should have taken in thetopgallantsailanhourbefore)the yard had just beenlowered, the sail clewed up.Jack could feel the vibration

in the mast as somewherebelow him two hands wereclimbingalofttostowit.

Fivefeetupthetopgallantshrouds Jack swung inboardand stepped onto the mastcap.Maguire, perched in theratlines to leeward, handedhimthetelescopeandpointedtoward the western horizon.Biddlecomb could see thesailsnow,whitishgraywitha

geometric appearance thatshowed theywerenotcloudsbutrathersomethingmadebythe hands of man, barelyvisible against the dawn sky.Fifteenmilesorsoofrolling,deepbluewaterseparatedthetwovessels.

Jack wrapped an armaround the topgallant mast.The tallow slush applied tothe wood to ease the

topgallant yard’s travel wassticky and black and fouledhis linen shirt, but there wasnothing for it. He held thetelescope to his eye, sweptthe horizon until the sailscame into view. He twistedthe tube, bringing them intofocus.

“Hmmm…” he said.Schooner or brigantine …Maguirewasrightaboutthat.

Hecouldmakeoutnodetails,just thegeneralprofileof thedistantvessel,buthehadseenships enough that he couldtellagreatdealfromwhat toa landsmanwould be just aninnocuous shape on thehorizon. And he did not likewhat he saw. There was apronouncedraketothemasts,and the sails had a toweringquality, suggesting a lofty

ship. A ship built for speed.Suchasaprivateermightbe.

On the other hand, sheseemed to be under easy sailand making toward thenorthward,notonacoursetointercept. Jack lowered theglass.“Hasshealteredcourseat all, or made any sailchange?”heasked.

“Notwhat I’veseen,sir,”Maguire said. John Burgess

and an ordinary namedRatford came swarming upover the crosstrees and outalong the topgallant yard,gatheringupgreatarmfulsofthe beating canvas andbundlingitupontheyard.

“Hmmm…”Jacksaid.Heraised the glass again. Thesailshad apinkhue, shadingbytherisingofthesun.

Hehasn’tseenusyet,the

blind buggerer … Jackthought.Fromtheschooner’sperspectiveAbigail would beright in the sun and theblazingdawnlightwashidingthem.

We’d better turn and runlikethedevilwasonourarse,he thought. It was not hisdecision, of course, but hereckoned that Asquith woulddoashesuggested.Notthatit

was quite as simple as that.This brigantine son of awhore was downwind ofthem, which meant the onlyway to run was a beat towindward.Anyotherpointofsail would put the two shipson headings that wouldeventuallyintersect.Butfromthe lean, weatherly look ofthe stranger, there was nochance that the tubby old

Abigail would ever outrunthemonatautbowline.

Still, if theywere to haultheir wind now, run off toweatherwhile thesunwas inthe stranger’s eyes, theymight put enough distancebetween them that theprivateer, if such he was,would never close it. Theymight be gone over thehorizon before the Frenchie

evenknewtheywerethere.“Oh, he’s seen us now,”

Maguire said. Jack put theglass back to his eye. Hecouldseethedistantshipwasaltering course, turningtoward them, and he saw thegraypatchof sailgrow tallerastheysetmorecanvas.

Damn … Jack wantednothing more than to curseout loud, but he knew better

than to let his building panicshow in front of Maguire oranyofthemen.Still,hecouldnot help thinking aboutwhata French privateer couldmean. Rotting in a prisonwhile some wild-eyedradicals decided the fate ofthe ship, cargo, and crew.Fever, dysentery, starvation.Theguillotine,perhaps.Witheverythingblowing tohell in

France, that possibility didnotseemtoofarfetched.Jackswallowedhard.

Andthenhehadanidea.

4

Jack handed the glass toMaguire,grabbedawindwardbackstay, and slid down tothe deck. The captain had

gone below, and Jack wasmorallycertainhewasseatedinhisdaycabinwithacupoftea and two slices of toastwith butter and jam. It washis custom every morning,andAsquithwas not the sortwholikedtovaryhisroutine,no matter what washappening beyond theconfinesoftheship.

Jackranhiseyesoverthe

sails, nodded toLacey at thehelm.“Steadyasshegoes.”

“Steadyasshegoes,aye.”Jack disappeared down

the scuttle, down to the littlespacesetasidefornavigation,just forward of the bulkheadthat separated the master’scabin from the rest of thelowerdeck.Spreadoutonthesmall table was the chart ofthat corner of the ocean, and

spread across the chart, thesmooth arc of pencil marks,tiny dark points representingAbigail’s real progress alongherwaterytrack.

They had been deadreckoning through the night,making calculations of theship’s position based on herspeed,course,theleewayshemade, and any currentssettingthrough.Whichmeant

her current position was aguess. A highly educatedguess,tobesure,butaguessjust the same. With thecomingofdaylight,however,Jack would be able to takebearings on Montserrat andAntigua to theeastandmoreperfectly establish exactlywheretheywere.

Hetracedhisfingeralongthe chart. Northwest of their

fix, north of their intendedtrack, he saw the faint circlehehaddrawnontheirvoyageoutward bound, two weeksbefore. The single word hehadwritteninpencil.Bank.

“Jack, what’s acting?”Asquith came out of hiscabin. He had pulled onbreeches and stuffed hisnightshirt into them. He wasstillwipinghismouthwith a

linennapkin.“Schooner or brigantine,

sir, and a lofty one by thelooks. She altered course inour direction when she sawus,whichdon’tlookgood.”

“No … no it does not,”Asquithagreed,thoughhedidnot seem terribly concerned.Jackfiguredtheoldmanwaseither too cool to show anyworry,orgettingtooinfirmto

recognize the danger. In theway of first mates, Jackreckoneditwasthelatter.

“So, here’s what I wasthinking, sir,” Jack went on,speaking slowly. “We won’toutrun him on any point ofsail. But see here…” Hepointed to the pencil linerepresenting the bank. “Yourecallthis,fromwhenlastwepassedthisway?”

“Yes, I recall,” Asquithsaid. It was a sandbar,reaching up from the bottomto just a few feet below thesurface of the sea, shiftingand unmarked on any chart,one of the great hazards ofnavigation in that part of theworld. It was invisible fromdeck level, and Burgess justhappened to have spotted itwhile aloft seizing new

ratlines on the larboardtopgallantshrouds.

“Well, sir,” Jackcontinued, “my thought was,if we set our course thus…”He traced a line on the chartwith his finger that movedfrom the Abigail’s currentposition to a spot just toleeward of the bank. “Wecould haul our wind andscrapepast thisbank, stillon

a starboard tack. This otherfellow would make tooverhaulusthus…”Jacknowtraced out the mostreasonable course for thestranger to take, if he wasindeed trying to interceptAbigail.“Butifwemakehimfall off more trying tointercept us, he’ll neverweather the bank. Either hewould tack and tack again,

which surely would give ustimeenough tosailaway,or,with any luck, he would notknowthebankwasthereandrunaground.”

Asquith looked at thechartandsaidnothing.

“Doyouunderstand,sir?”Jackasked.

“Of course I understand,I’venotgonesoftintheheadquiteyet,youknow,”Asquith

snapped. “This is all verywell, but it meansmaintaining our presentcourse for an hour or more,whichmeanshegetsdamnedclosetousbeforewehaulourwind.”

“Yes, sir, that’s right, butthere’s nothing for it. If wemake a simple footrace of it,we lose. Ifwe can hang himup on this sandbank, we

mightget awayyet. Ifnot, ithardlymattersifwearetakenwithin thehouror fourhoursfromnow.”

That was the simple factofthematter.Itwasgeometryreally, nothing more. Theships were sailing straightlines, the sides of a trianglethat must meet at a fixedpoint. The direction of thewind, the direction in which

theshipscouldsailinrelationto that wind, the location ofthe submerged sandbank,they were all factors in thegeometric puzzle, nerves andseamanship the humanaspectsoftheequation.

Asquith sighed. “Youmakeapoint,Jack,youmakeapoint.Ifwedonothing,weare taken, and it hardlymattershowsoon.Verywell,

we shall try this trick ofyours.” He sounded resignedand not particularly hopeful.“It will be Mr. Tucker’swatch soon, but I’ll ask youto keep the deck,” he added.“Idon’tthinkMr.Tuckerwillobject to having this cuptakenfromhishands.”

“No,sir,”Jackagreed.Hebent over the chart, markedhiscourse,walkedthelineto

the compass rose with theparallel rule. By the time helooked up, Asquith wasalreadygone,uptheladdertothe quarterdeck. Jackfollowedbehind.

Thesunwaswellupnow,the sky a cloudless blue, thedistant sail considerably lessdistantandclearlysteeringtointercept them. Maguire hadreplaced Lacey at the helm,

and Jack gave the order,“Make your course westnorthwest,onehalfwest.”

There was just theslightest catch in Maguire’sresponse as he repeated theorder back, an order thatwould turn Abigail’s bowmore toward the strange sailon the horizon rather thanaway from it, probably notthe helm command Maguire

was anticipating, or hopingfor. His eyes shifted fromsails to compass as he madethe subtle adjustment of thehelm. Jack called for sailtrimmers to brace the yardsaroundeversoslightly.

“Mr. Biddlecomb,” saidAsquith, who had taken aplace by the weather rail,“let’scallupallhands,setupsome temporary backstays,

andget the t’gan’slsbackonher.”

“Yes,sir,ofcourse,”Jacksaid, givinghimself amentalkickfornothavingthoughtofthathimself.Heturnedonhisheel, called for all hands,calledfor lighthawsers toberun aloft to the topgallantmastheads and set up welltaut. With the temporarybackstays taking the strain,

thelightpoleswouldbearthetopgallant sails in winds thatwould otherwise threaten tosnap them off. Or so Jackhoped. Even with thebackstays, he knew, theywouldbepushingtheirluck.

Itwasherethattheship’sgood reputation, and theconcomitant ability to shipgoodmen,paiddividends,ason fore-, main-, and

mizzenmasts the handsswarmed aloft, sending thehawsers up on a girtline,bending them on, settingthemup,withneveranordergiven by Jack or the captain.Half an hour later, thetopgallant sails, which anhourbeforehadbeenstowed,were set again and strainingin the twenty knots of windblowing over the starboard

quarter. Abigail heeledfurtherover,herplungingandyawing more pronouncedunder the lofty canvas, buther speed was a good twoknotsgreater.

Jack looked across theimpossibly blue water of theCaribbean.Hecouldnowseethe brigantine clearly fromthedeck,hullup,drivinghardon a starboard tack, as close

hauledas shewould lay.Shewas straining her very fabricto get at Abigail, a fat,lumbering merchantman,irresistible prey, and Abigailinturnwasrunningforallshewas worth. But not runningaway. And not runningtowardtheFrenchman,either,but rather sailing for a pointjustbeyondherbow.

What must they think

we’reabout? Jackwondered.Assuming this privateer hadnotguessedwhatJackhadinmind, then Abigail’s actionswould make no sense at all.Set topgallants in that wind,just so the two ships mightconverge even quicker? Jackhoped that his actions wouldsow confusion, and perhapseven suspicion or fear, intheirfrog-eatinghearts.

“Deck, there!” Laceycalled from aloft. “She’sshowingcolors,sir,looksliketheStarsandStripes!”

Jack put his glass to hiseye. A spot of color wasvisible at the stranger’s gaff,and though it was notdiscernibleinanygreatdetail,Jackwasallbutcertainitwasthe flagof theUnitedStates:fifteen stripes, a blue canton

withfifteenwhitestars.“I think not, Monsieur

Jean Crapeau,” Biddlecombmuttered to himself, his eyestilltotheglass.Hesweptthehorizon to the northward,hoping to see some sign ofthe bank, breakers, someindication on the sea’ssurface of where thetreacherous sand might lie.But he could see nothing, so

he lowered the glass andfocused on the set ofAbigail’ssails,thetrimoftheyards, the curve of the longwakeastern.

For twenty minutes theships continued to converge,the details of the brigantinebecoming more visible; thesteeve of her bowsprit, therakeofhermasts,theflashofwater kicked up under her

bow, the grayish-white massof sails resolving into theirindividual components. Theywere close enough that JackdidnotneedaglasstoseetheStarsandStripescomedown,the Tricolor of France go upin its place, a switch thatsurprisednoone.

The sails, Jack noted,were more white than hemightexpect,thesquaresails

lacking the ubiquitous blackstreakdownthecenterwherethey had rubbed against thedirty slush of the masts. HehopedthismeanttheshipwasnewtotheCaribbean,thathermaster did not know aboutthe dangerous sands lurkingbeneath the surface to thenorth.Itcouldwellmeanthat.Or it couldmean thathehadbeensolonginthoseseashe

neededanewsuitofsails.Eitherway,thiswasgoing

tobeacloserunthing,anditdepended entirely on Jack’sbeing able to swing Abigailaway from the privateerbefore the two vessels wereso close that the Frenchie’sgunscoulddorealdamage,atjust that point on the oceanwhereAbigail would be ableto weather the sandbank and

theFrenchmanwouldnot.Helookedaloft.Helookedattheship closing with them. Helooked at the horizon to thenorth, and he did not knowwhattodo.

To time this right,hehadto be aloft, where he couldsee the sandbank, but he didnot want to leave the deck,and he did not really trustanyonetohandletheshipthe

way he wanted it handled.But he could not be in bothplaces.

“Captain,” he said,deciding in that moment, “Iam going to the mainmasthead to keep an eye out forthatbank.”

“Verywell,”Asquithsaid.Jack hesitated, unsure

how to say the next thing,whichwasnotatallaproper

thing to say toone’s captain,but Asquith spared him theawkward moment. “Sing outwhen we should haul ourwind,” he said, “and I’ll setherfullandby.”

“Very good, sir, thankyou,” Jack said, stuffed hishat in its familiar place infront of the binnacle, andraced aloft once more. Thetopgallant sails were set

again, so Jack continued upthe topgallant shrouds untilhe was able to throw a legoverthenarrowyard,hisheelrestingonthestiffcanvasthatbulged with a bellyful ofwind.Hesettledthereandranhis eyes around the sceneaboveandbelow.

The sky was a greatdome, stretching horizon tohorizon. Off to the east was

thegreenandruggedhumpoflandthatwasMontserrat,andto the north, Antigua. Helooked down to the deckbelow.From that perspectiveit always seemed impossibletohim that theshipwasableto remain upright; seen fromaloft it appeared too top-heavy,asifitshouldrolloverundertheweightofthemastsandyards.

Jackturnedhiseyestothemore pressing business forwhich he hadmade the longclimbtothemasthead.There,off to leeward and off thelarboard bow, the Frenchprivateerwasplungingalong,bowrisingandcomingdowninawelterofsprayas itmeteachseainsuccession.Iftheymaintained this heading foranother forty-five minutes,

the Frenchman and Abigailwould literally run into oneanother.

Off to the north he couldsee it now, the bank, ayellowish tan stretch of sandjust below the surface, agreat, sleepingbeast ready towakeand snatch thekeelsofunwary ships. The endlesswavessweptoverit,throwingupbreakersthatincalmerair

would have been as easy toreadasatavernsign,butwiththe whitecaps kicked up bythe building wind andflashingacross thesurfaceofthe ocean, they were not soobvious.

Do you see that, JeanCrapeau? Jack wondered.The Frenchmen would onlysee it if theyhadamanaloftand he was keeping a bright

lookout. Jack calculated thespeed,thewinddirection,therelativebearingoftheeasternend of the sandbar. Anotherfive minutes on this courseand then they would swingaround to starboard, bear up,full and by, and scrape pastthesandwiththeFrenchietoofardownwindtoweatherit.

He looked back at theFrenchman,sawajetofgray

explodefromthebow,whichhetooktobespraykickedupby the hull, and then twoseconds later came themuffledthumpofthegunfire,the scream of flying metal,andaraggedholeappearedinthe fore topgallant sail, fortyfeet ahead and a little belowwherehestood.

“Damn my eyes!” Jackshoutedwithsurprisebecause

he knew no one could hearhim.Hefeltsomethinginhisbowels loosen up. He hadbeenreadyfor thepossibilityof a few long shots from theFrenchman, but he had notthought they would get soclosethattheirshotwouldbeupamongthetopgallantgear.

Hiseyeswere stillon theholeintheforetopgallantsailwhen the sound of the gun

and the scream of theroundshotembracedhimonceagain and then the whippingsoundoftheforetopsailbraceparting. The fore topsailslewed around a bit, but itwas mostly held in place bythe fore yard and the foretopgallant. He looked downto the deck, mouth open toshoutorders,buthecouldseefigures alreadyheaving spare

cordage up from theboatswain’s locker to reeveoffanewbrace.

“Mr. Biddlecomb!”Asquith’s voice came upclear and strong from thequarterdeck. “Now would beafinetimetohaulourwind!”

Jack looked out towardthe bank, and every bit ofhim,downtohiskidneysandliver,wanted to turn the ship

at that instant and run forsafety.Butitwasnottime.

“Fiveminutesmore, sir!”he shouted down, and thatwas greeted by silence atfirst, and thenAsquith calledup,saying,“Fiveminutesandnot a second more, Mr.Biddlecomb!”

It’snotsomefavoryou’redoing me, Jack thoughtpeevishly, but that thought

wascutshortbyanothershot,the ball making its noisypassage between fore- andmainmast but strikingnothing. Jack’s father haddescribed often enough theweird buzzing scream madeby passing roundshot, and asayoungboyJackhadalwaystried to imaginewhat itmustsound like. He had oftenenough, in theyounger days,

pictured himself standing asbrave and unmoving as hisfather on a quarterdeck withthe iron flying freely. Butthose fantasies had fled longago, and herewas the realityat last,nolongerwelcomeorlookedfor.

Come along, comealong … Jack thought,wishing another half a knotfrom the Abigail so that she

might reach that spot wherehe calculated that she mustturn,andhecouldgobacktothedeck,theblesseddeck.

Another shot, so closeJackcouldfeelthewindofitspassing. The temporarybackstay set up on the maintopgallant parted, giving themast a hard jerk like it wastrying to fling him off, andthe long rope fell down,

down,doingaweirdspiralingdance as it collapsed. Had itbeen the weather backstay,then the topgallant mast, thesail, the yard, and JackBiddlecomb would havefollowed the cordage in itsplunge to the deck, but as itwas the leeward stay, themast remained thankfullyintact.

Jack thought he might

puke.Hehadneverfearedtheheight or the motion, but hehad never been at risk ofbeingshotoutof therigging,either. The dogs are aimingforthemasts!herealized.Butof course they would. Theywould have no interest insinking a valuablemerchantman. Bring down atopmast,bringherto,sailhertoFrance,thatwastheplan.

Oh, Dear Lord! Jackthought.Sodistractedwasheby thenearmisshe forgot tokeep a weather eye on thesandbank.

“Mr. Biddlecomb!”Asquith’s voice rose againfrombelow.

“Now sir, now!” Jackshouted.“Haulyourwind,sir,closehauled!”Hereachedoutand grabbed an intact

backstay with an unseemlydegree of relief at theprospect of gaining thedeck.He swung over and wrappedhis legsaround the thick lineeven as Abigail began toswing onto her new heading,close hauled, as nearly intothe wind as she could sail.Legs wrapped around thebackstay, feet controlling therate of descent, Jack slid

down the long, tarred lineuntil he reached the level ofthe rail, then swung down tothequarterdeck,tenfeetfromthehelm.

The Frenchman firedagain and a spray of woodexploded from the mainmastfifteen feet above the deck.“Ever been under fire, Mr.Biddlecomb?” Asquith askedinthesametonehemightuse

ifhewereaskingafterJack’sfamily.

“No,sir.You?”“Privateering, in the war.

By God, this is making mequitenostalgic.”

“Yes,sir.”Jackbracedfortheinevitablecommentabouthis father, the amount ofgunfire the Great Man hadendured, butAsquith seemedtoo wrapped up in his own

memories to think alongthose lines, so Jack walkeddown the canted deck to theleeward rail. He lookedforward, down the length ofthe ship and the tumble ofwhitewaterrunningdownherside. Spread out ahead hecouldsee thechopwhere theseas were breaking over thesandbank, hardlydistinguishable from the

whitecaps curling aroundthem, and disappearing fromsight around the turn of thebow.Jackwonderedifhehadmisjudged. Perhaps theywouldnotweatherthebankatall.

Hepushedofftherailandhurried forward, past themainhatch, the foremast, thewindlass, and up into thebow. The spritsail, with its

larboard yardarm cockedhigh,blockedthecrucialviewof thebreakers sohe ranoutalong the bowsprit, grabbedthe forestay, and held fast asthe ship rose, plunged, andtwistedunderfoot.

Damn it all … Thebreakers stretched across thehorizon to a point all butdirectly in the ship’s path. Ifthey could not sail higher on

thewind,oriftheymadetoomuchleeway,theywouldruntheirbowright into the sand,and there they would sit,waitingfor theFrenchman totowthemoff.

He climbed inboard,hurried aft, calling as hewent, “Hands to the braces,let’s brace her up, sharp ascan be!” The men, who bynow had guessed at Jack’s

plan, moved fast, taking upthe lee braces, ready to haulwith a will, while the cookand steward lent a handslackingawayontheweatherside.

Jack gained thequarterdeck and took theweather main brace off theheavy cleat, shouting, “Haulofall!”Allalongtheleesidethehandssweatedthebraces,

hauling, grunting, pullinginch by painful inch as theyhauled the yards fartheraround.Jackshookafewfeetof slack into the main braceand then grabbed the wheelfromMaguire.

“Bear a hand to leeward,there,” he ordered, thenslowly, slowly, turned thehelmtoweatherandwatchedas the bow swung more and

moreupintothewind.“Wellthe braces, belay!” Jackcalled. Foot by foot the shipturned,and then theedgesofthe square sails began toshudder and curl, a warningthat he was too close to thewind.

“Hands on the weatherbowlines!”heshouted.“Haul,yousonsofbitches,haulwithawill!”Eager hands cast off

bowlines, hauled away,drawingtheedgesofthesailstight again. And that was it,Abigail was as close to thewind as she would lie. Theywouldmake itor theywouldnot, but there was nothingmorehecoulddo.

The Frenchman firedagain, the ball passing overthe quarterdeck, slicing oneof the main shrouds in two,

butJackhardlyregisteredtheshot.Hecouldhearthestrainin the rigging, the sharpcreaking of the hull pushedright to her limits. Thebreakersstretchedawayfromthelarboardbow,agreatlonglineofroilingwater.

OnceagainJackheardthedull thud of the French bowchasers, the scream of theball,andasharpcrackas the

newmaintopgallantbackstaywas parted by the shot. Thelinewhippedofftoleeward,awild black snake, and highabove,thetelltalecrackingofthe mast. Jack looked up intimetoseethetopgallantsailcollapse in a heap, a greattangle of broken wreckage ahundredfeetabovethedeck.

Abigail’sbowfelloffandhe turned the wheel to

weather, saw the leeches ofthe sails flog, turned half aspoketoleeward.Hefeltlikehis guts had folded over. Hebraced for the impact on thesandbank. The deck jumpedbelow his feet, the shipshuddered, themasts swayedasthekeelstruck,andagreatscraping sound reverberatedthroughtheveryfabricofthevessel.

Andthenjustassuddenly,theywerepast.Jackcouldseethe yellow sand feet belowthe surface, he could feelAbigail’s speed buildingagainas theypassedover thebankandkeptongoing.Andevenashewaswatchingwithdelight as the sandbankslipped astern, he saw theFrench privateer strike. Shewas under a full press of

canvas, in twenty-four knotsofwind,makingallthespeedshe would ever make, andthen she stopped, her bowburied in the sand, hermastswhipping forward, hangingfor a delicious second, thencoming down like trees withtheirtrunkscutthrough.

***

Afterthatnarrowand,asJack

was willing to admit tohimself, very providentialescape, even the foremastjacks, the most taciturn ofmen and the least likely toever dole out praise, had toadmit it was a neat bit ofseamanship. When theylanded in Philadelphia someweeks later, tales of Jack’scunning and ship handling,augmented as sailors will,

spread like yellow feveralongthewaterfrontandthenthroughthecity.

FordaysJackenjoyedtheadulation.And then someoneremarked how like theincident was to the time hisfather,IsaacBiddlecomb,hadtricked the British man-of-war Swan onto NarragansettBay’s Halfway Rock. Thattheme was taken up in the

local press, Son of theGreatWarHeroTakesAfterFather,Apple Does Not Fall Farfrom the Tree, et cetera, etcetera, and the whole thingturned to ashes in Jack’smouth.

5

The second morning that hewokeinthemaster’scabinofthe Abigail merchantmanJack Biddlecomb was in

considerably better shapethanhehadbeenthefirst,buthewas still not exactly freshas a new day in springtime.He felt stiff and achy anddecidedly unrested. In thefitful dream he had beenenduring in his last minutesofsleep,theshiphadgoneupagainst the rocks and waspounding itself tobits.Whenhe woke enough to be

convinced he was indeedawake he realized thatsomeone was stampingrhythmically on the deckabovehishead.

Itwas still dark and Jackhad the sense that somethingvery important was lurkingjustbeyondhismemory.Thestomping continued and heshouted, “Belay that!” andhappilyitstopped,andbehind

it came the voice of hisparticularfriendGilbertStilescalling down through theskylight.

“Jack? I say, Jack, there,areyouawake,oldman?”

Ah, yes, Stiles, Jackthought. He had hunted himdownlastnightaftermeetingthatunpleasantfellowoutsidehis parents’ house. He hadthought to look for Stiles at

the Blue Goose, but thenreckonedheandStilesmightnot be much welcome there,after having apparentlyinflictedconsiderabledamagetothatestablishment.Instead,he sought him out at theFraunces, where he correctlyguessed Gilbert had found anewhome.

After formally requestingthatStilesstandassecondfor

him, he had accepted theinvitation to a drink, whichsoon became more drinksthan he had quite intended.He had stopped, however,before he became insensible,and secretly congratulatedhimself on his newfoundmaturity.Now,thankstothatrelative abstinence, thethought of fightingBolingbroke to thedeath that

morningwas not entirely outofthequestion.

“Come below, Gilbert,and stop the damnedstamping!” he called, and hesatupinhisbunkasheheardStiles blunder around thenarrow passage beyond themaster’scabin, thenopen thedoor and step in. He wasbarely visible in the weaklight. Jack glanced at the aft

windows and saw itwas justcomingonsunriseandhewasgrateful for his ownforethought that had led himtoinsistonalatermeeting.

“Well, Jack, I didn’t careto go stumbling about theship, not knowing at allwhomight be below stairs,” hesaid.

“Soinsteadyoustomponthedeck like somemadman?

The rats in the hold will besending me a round-robin inprotest of your noise, Ishouldn’twonder.”

“You should be moregrateful,Jack.Bythelooksofit youwouldhave slept rightthroughyourengagementifIhadnotwokeintimetofetchyou.”

Jack assessed Stiles’scondition and decided, far

from waking in time, hissecond had never actuallygone to bed. He and Stileswere the same age and hadbeen friends for four years,sinceJackbeganshippingoutof Philadelphia. Stiles wasnotamariner,buthadworkedfor various merchants andwasnowoneofseveralbrightyoung men who handled thebooks for Robert Oxnard,

whichaffordedJackaviewofthe carrying trade he couldnotget from thequarterdeck.Stiles was good-looking andfashionable in a fauxmacaroni sort of way, hisclothes and his lifestylealways outstripping hisincome.

Jackclamberedoutofhisbed,washedhisface,combedhis hair, changed his shirt,

pulled stockings, breeches,and shoes on, tied a stockaround his neck, buckled hissword belt around his waist,slippedintocoatandhat,andledStilestopsideintothecoolof the predawn hours ofspring.

They crossed thegangplank to the wharf andthenheadedoff into the city,making their way through

still-slumbering streets to theGeneral Washington Tavern,which served a tolerablebreakfast. Stiles pointed outthat, as Jack’s second, hecould not allow him to killBolingbroke on an emptystomach,norcouldhehimselfbearwitnesstoitwithneveracup of coffee in him. Stilesfelt sure that he had readsomewhere that protocol

dictatedthecombatantshouldpay for his second’sbreakfast.

Meal finished, theyemerged onto busier streetsand walked south towardSouthwark, past theboardinghouses and tavernsand shops that catered to thelower sort. “This is all aterriblebother,”Stilessaidasthey reached Second Street

and made their way towardthemeetingplace,whichwasnot so much agreed upon asassigned by Bolingbroke.“We have the flour arrivingtoday, you know, and you’llneed to get it stowed downaheadofthebarrelhoops.”

“Yes, I know,” Jack said.“And yes, this business is aterrible bother. I don’t knowwhy Bolingbroke should

suddenly feel the need tostickaswordinme,butthereyou have it. I’ll try to bequickaboutit.”

Theycouldsee theothersalready in the empty lot,standing amid the forlornclumps of weeds; JonahBolingbroke and theunpleasant fellow who hadaccosted Jack outside hisparents’ home, and another

fellow in homespun, awooden box in his hands,whomJackdidnotrecognize.He and Stiles cut across thelottojointhem.

“Bolingbroke,” Jack said.“Youarelookingwell.”

“You made it,”Bolingbroke said, taking anostentatious glance at hiswatch. “I had thought youmight not,” but Jack could

hear thathisheartwasnot inthegibe.Helookedabitpale,and Jack wondered if hemightbeafraid.

“Never in life would Imissachancetorunaswordthrough you,” Jack assuredhim, “nor would I be soimpolite as to refuse yourinvitationtodoso.”

“Sword?” Bolingbrokesaid.Jackwaslookingupinto

Bolingbroke’s eyes, whichreminded him again of howbigthefellowwas,abitoversix feet and with a physiqueearnedbyspendingtenofthetwenty years he had beenalive at hard labor, mostly,butnotentirely,onshipboard.Being a seaman and havingthe name Jonah was anawkward combination, andBiddlecombwondered if that

was in part whyBolingbroke’s attitude andgeneral demeanor developedasithad.

The man in homespunstepped up and opened thewooden box as if offeringJack a cigar. “Pistols, sir; amatched set, but you maytakeyourchoice.”

“Pistols?” Jack said.“Now,doyousee,Jonah,this

is exactlywhypeopledislikeyouso.”

“What?” Bolingbrokeprotested. “It’s a perfectlyhonorableweapon.”

“But why do you get topick, is my question. Firstyou dictate where we’re tomeetandnowyoupresumetochoose theweapons aswell?What if I want to fight withswords,whatthen?”

Bolingbroke lookedconfused. “Someone has tochoose,”heoffered.

“Well certainly, it’s justthatyouassumethechoiceisyours. Isn’t there someprotocol for this?Stiles, howis this sort of thing supposedtowork?”

“Well, I’m sure I don’tknow,” Gilbert protested,“but Ihad thought itwas the

aggrieved party who gets tochoose.”

“Well, there, you see,”Jack said. “And I am theaggrievedparty.”

“You?”Bolingbrokesaid.“Of course, youwould thinkyou are the aggrieved party,you arrogant son of a bitch.Always think everyoneshould be tugging theirbloodyforelockstoyou,Your

HighnessBiddlecomb.”Jack shook his head, a

gesture more of pity thandisagreement. “Jonah,Jonah,” he began, but therumble of a coach and theclapoffoursetsofhoovesinthequietmorning interruptedthe thought. The sound of awagon, heavy laden withbarrels, drawn by someunhappy draft animal, was

common enough inSouthwark, but the sharper,sophisticated clatter of acoach-and-four, especially atthat hour, made all headsturn.

Horses andcarriagecameinto sight as they passed thebattered clapboard house onthe corner and emerged intotheopenspacecreatedbythevacant lot; a fine matched

team pulling a black-lacquered coach with a coatof arms on the door. “Oh,damn,”Stilessaidoutloud.

The driver reined thehorses toa stopand thedoorflewopenandRobertOxnardleaptout,alargeandfreneticman,more energetic thanhisframe would suggest. Hewalkedquicklyacrossthelot,tall polished black boots

parting thehighweeds likeashipbuffetingitswaythroughbrash ice. “What, ho?” hecalledwhenhewasstillsomeyardsawayfromtheduelists.“What’s all this? Come,come, we have no time forsuchnonsense.”

He stepped up to thegroup of them like a fatherwho has caught his boys insome mischief of no great

consequence.“Stiles?Doyounot have a place ofemployment?”

“Yes sir,Mr.Oxnard.Asofyesterday,Idid.”

“Well, I suggest you getyourselfoff to it, ifyouwishfor that advantageousarrangement to continue.Mr.Bolingbroke,Ihavenodoubtyou have more pressingmatterstoattendto.”

“Yes, sir,” Bolingbrokesaid. Bolingbrokewas fillingasecondmate’sberthaboarda merchantman of 350 tons,and though the ship wasowned by one of Oxnard’srivals,Oxnardwasstillamantobeobeyed,becauseOxnardcouldeasilyendthecareerofanymaninthecarryingtradeifhesochose.

Having given his

suggestions for how theothers might more profitablyspend their morning, Oxnardput a big arm around Jack’sshoulders and half guided,halfpulledhimacrossthelottoward the carriage. Therewas never a question ofwhether Jack wished to gowith him, because it neveroccurred to Oxnard thatanyone might have designs

thatwereinconflictwithhis,and if it ever did occur tohim,hewouldnotcare.

“Wemustgetusdowntothe Abigail, Jack,” Oxnardsaid as they walked. “Yousail for Barbados by week’send, youhave a considerableamount of work yet to do.Also, I have a surprise foryou. Flour is coming aboardtoday as well, though that

don’t answer for a surprise.No, this is much better, asyou’ll see!” The merchantkept up his runningmonologue the full length ofthe empty lot, then openedthe door of the carriage forJack.AsJacksettled into thesoft leather seat he glancedback the way he had come.The others were heading offin their various directions;

Stiles back toward thewaterfront, setting a courseno doubt for the offices ofOxnard and Company,Limited, Merchants, housedon Chestnut Street.Bolingbroke and theunpleasant fellow wereambling off toward theSouthwarkdocks,andtheonein homespun was walkingwest. Oxnard was still

talking.“The flour,when you get

to Barbados, Jack, the flourwill be at a premium. I hearfrom a ship just returned…”But by then Jack had againstopped listening, and wassimply making gruntingsoundsofcomprehensionandnoddinghisheadas if itwassome sort of mechanicaldevice designed to move at

regularintervals.What on earth just

happened here? Jackwondered. This whole issueof Bolingbroke challenginghim to an affair of honor, ofall things, was odd enough,butOxnard’sarrivalmadethewhole situation positivelyotherworldly.

Oxnard’scarriagehadthefinest suspension that could

behadinNorthAmerica,buteven that was not proofagainst Philadelphia’s ruttedand cobbled streets, and thejouncing and shudderingprevented Jack fromconcentrating on much ofanythinguntil theydrew toastop on the wharf to whichAbigailwastied.Thesunwasnot two hours up, but thewaterfront was already a

bustle,cartsanddraysrollingpast, mates shouting orders,thesquealoftacklesascargocame aboard, carpenterspounding, hacking, sawing,seamen scrambling aloft tocastoffsailsandletthemdrytoabowline.

Jack stepped from thecarriageandreplacedhishat.His eyes turned first to hisship, as theyalwaysdid, and

hecouldnotfailtonoticetheconsiderableactivityondeck,activitythathadsprungupinhis absence and through noordersofhisown.

Abigail, like manymoderately sized merchantvessels, never had anybulwarks, just a waist-high,stanchion-mounted railrunning the perimeter of thedeck and terminating just

forward of the foremast. Butthis, apparently, would nolongerbethecase.Astackofyellow lumber lay on thewharf, givingoff its pleasingsmell of fresh-cut wood. Aswarm of carpenters were atworkonthedeck,andalreadythe first planks of the new,solid bulwark were beingfittedinplace.

OliverTuckerstoodinthe

waist, directing a gang ofmenfussingoverthefallofaheavyyard tackle.Jack’seyefollowed the run of the linefrom waist to yardarm andthen down to the dock untilhe came to its end, a squat,overbuilt cart, in the back ofwhich rested the long, blackbarrel of a cannon.And thusthe need for the bulwarks,Jack thought, with the

unhappy dawning ofcomprehension.

“Come here, Jack, comehere!” Oxnard said withenthusiasm, once againguiding Jack along with anarmover theshoulders.Theycrossed the rough boards ofthe wharf and stopped oneithersideofthecart.Agangofmen from theAbigailwaspositioning the lower end of

thewindingtackle,amassivesix-part tackle slung underthe maintop that would bearthe bulk of the cannon’sweightinhoistingitaboard.

“Well, Jack,what doyouthink?” Oxnard asked,slappingtheblackiron.

“Ofwhat,sir?”“The cannon, Jack, the

cannon!Whatdoyouthink?”“It’sagreatbeastlything,

tobesure.”“‘Beastly’! That’s good!”

Oxnard barked. “It a regularanimal! It’s a six pounder,Jack,asixpounder!”

Jack nodded. “A sixpounder,yes,sir.”He lookedat the gun, trying but failingto conjure up enthusiasmenough to match Oxnard’s.“AmItotakeitsomewhere?”heasked,buthealreadyknew

theanswer.Theplanksofthenew bulwark, straight, fresh,andsturdy,prettymuchgavethegameaway.

“No, no!” Oxnard said.“We are arming the Abigail,do you see? You’ll have sixalltold,threetoabroadside.Iplanondoingthesametoallmyships.Damneddangerousout there, you know. Thatbusiness west of Montserrat,

damned fine seamanship, butyou can’t hope to have asandbar there whenever youneed one. We need toprepare, because the Frenchare swarming like flies to…honey.”

Biddlecomb regarded thegun for a long moment andtriedtothinkofsomethingtosay. As far as engaging in aseafightwith theAbigail, he

felt about that the same wayhe might feel if Oxnard hadasked him to compose asymphony; he was notnecessarily against the idea,but he had no notion of howto go about it. He knew hemust communicate this fact,but he also knew whatOxnard’s nonsensical replywould be, so he bracedhimself for it as if preparing

to take a blow he could notavoid,andsaid,“Iappreciatethe idea, to be sure, but Idon’t know the use of theseguns, and neither do thecrew.”

“What? The son of IsaacBiddlecomb can’t fire acannon? Nothing to it! Canyoufireamusket?”

“Yes,certainly.”“Well, this is just like a

musket, but a damned sightbigger.Andofcourseithasavent andnot a flintlock.Andyou must swab it out beforereloading. In any event,you’ll be taking a passengerwith you, a particular friendofminenamedCharlesFrost,who is quite familiar withsuch things, and he cancertainly help you drill themen.”

“Yes,sir.”In truth, Jack knewmore

aboutgreatguns thanhewasletting on. He could hardlynot,being,ashewassooftenreminded, the son of IsaacBiddlecomb, and as a boydesperately eager to learn ofsuch things. He knew, forinstance, that a six pounderwould generally enjoy a guncrew of at least five men,

which meant Abigail couldman exactly three guns at atimeifnoonewasneededforanything else, such assteeringorbracing theyards.Heknewthatthesemonstrousthings weighed about a tonandahalfapieceandputtingsix of them aft would doterrible things to the trim ofhislovelyship.Heknewthatthe men would whine

endlessly if, alongwith theirregular duties, hemade themdrill at the guns, though thatcomplaintmightbemitigatedif they were allowed toactuallyfirethem.

In any event, Jackrecognized immediately theenormous irritation that thesegreatgunswouldcause,fromruining the trimofhisvesselandconsumingyardsofdeck

space, to having his menmaintain the guns and drillwith the guns and move thedamned guns, taking aboardandstowingpowderandshot.It all meant a vast headachehe did not need, particularlywhen he considered howwildly unlikely it was thatthey would actually have tofightsomeone.

“Well, Jack,what doyou

think?” Oxnard asked, hisvoice fairly brimming withexcitement.

“I think it’s a fine idea,sir,” Jack said. There wasnothingelsehecouldsay,andluckily, before Oxnard couldplumb the depths of Jack’ssinceritymoredeeply, adraydrawn by two oxen andstacked high with barrelscame rolling upwith a noise

that did not allow for anysubtletyofconversation.

“This will be your flour,Jack,” Oxnard said, givingJack a pat on the shoulder.“I’llleaveyoutoit,then.”

“Very well, sir,” Jacksaid.Hewondered,asOxnardclimbed back into hiscarriage,whatoddturnwouldcome his way next. He didnot have to wait too terribly

longtofindout.

6

Upon his promotion tocommand, Jack asked OliverTuckertostayonandstepupto chief mate, pending

Oxnard’s approval. In truth,Oxnard was easier toconvince than Tucker was.Oxnard greeted the requestwith a wave of the hand,saying,“Ofcourse,ofcourse,Jack, pick any officers youwish, just so long as youunderstand, what with theinsuranceratesandsuch, I’mforced to reduce everyone’spay by a dollar a month.

God’struth,Istilldon’tknowhow I’m to stay in business.Say, that new cordage youordered, is that entirelynecessary? Sure you can getone more voyage from yourrunninggear,notreeveoffallnew, what say you? Not theRoyalyacht,youknow.”

In the end, and withconsiderable difficulty, Jackconvinced Oxnard to keep

wages as they were. Tucker,not certain he wanted theresponsibility of chief mate,wasjustashardasell.Butheand Jack had made threevoyages together, and eachfelthehadthemeasureoftheother.TuckerknewJackforafairmanandnotsomenoodleor Tartar who would expecttoo much and then screamlikealunaticwhenhedidnot

getit,soheacquiesced.And Jack in turn wanted

Tuckerbecauseheknewhimto be a decent seaman and adiligentandhardworker,andbecause Tucker was toounsure of himself to try andtake advantage of Jack’syouth and lack of commandexperience to undermine himinanyway.

So, as Oxnard’s carriage

rolled away, Captain JackBiddlecomb and Chief MateOliver Tucker met on thequarterdeck.Jackstoodsilentas Tucker called the order,“Heave away the windlass!”andthedozenmenwhostoodwith hands resting on thewindlass’s handspikes hovedown on them, winding thecreaking, popping, protestingfallof theyard tacklearound

the drum and causing thegreat mass of black iron toclimb higher and higherabove thewharf. Therewerefaces at the windlass barsJack did not recognize, andhe guessed Oxnard had sentmore men to help with thiswork.HewonderedifOxnardhad been angry at his notbeing aboard that morning,anditoccurredtohimforthe

first time to wonder howOxnard knew where to findhim.

A quick movement aftcaughthiseyeandpulledhisattention from the delicatetask of getting the cannonaboard.Helookedtowardthetaffrail and there saw hisbrother, Nathaniel, fairlydancing with the excitementofitall,andhefeltaflushof

guilt at having completelyforgotten inviting the youngmandown to takepart in thegetting in of cargo. But herewastheperfectopportunitytomake up for that negligence,andtoplaythepartofdecentbigbrotherandundiminishedhero,allatthesametime.

“Nathaniel, come here,”Jack waved him over andNathanielcrossedthedeckas

swiftly as his adolescentsenseofdignitywouldallow.When his brother was at hisside,Jacksaidinavoicethatcouldbeheardforeandaft,“Ithink this task needs yourfirm hand on it, Nathaniel.Mr.Tucker?”

“Sir?”Tuckerreplied.“Might young Master

Biddlecomb here take overthisjobforyou?”

Tucker grinned. Themenat the windlass and thewinding tackle grinned.“Tricky job, sir,” Tuckerreplied.“Ithinkwedoindeedneed Master Biddlecomb’sparticularskillshere.”

“You heard the man,”Jacksaidtohisbrother.“Praygive your orders to see thecannoninitscarriage.”

Nathaniel’s face was a

mix of awe, fear, andexhilaration. He looked overatthegun,ranhiseyesuptherigging. The cannon, a tonand a half of iron, wasdanglingfromtheyardtacklemade fast to the yardarmdirectly above it. The upperendofthewindingtacklewasaffixed under the maintop,and the lower end alsoattached to the cannon. The

trick was to lift the gunstraight up with the yardtackle, then haul it inboardwith the winding tackle, andthen ease them both so thegun came down on the pointofthedeckwhereitneededtocomedown.

Nathaniel considered theinvertedtrianglemadebytheyard, theyard tackle,and thewinding tackle, the gun

hanging from its lowercorner. He considered theangle of the yard, the heightthe gun would need to clearthebulwark,and thedistanceit might be pulled inboardwith thewinding tackle.Jackcould all but hear thecalculations going on in hishead.His brotherwas seeingthe complex interplay ofangles and tensions and

weights not through anyformal mathematical processbutthroughpureinstinct,inamanner that made Jack veryproud in a paternal sort ofway.

“Go ahead,” Jackprompted.

“Heave away thewindlass!”Nathanielshouted,his high voice even higherwith the excitement of it all.

The men at the windlassbegan heaving at thehandspikes once more. Thefall of the tackle groanedunder theweight, the cannonrose higher and higher, andthe yard dipped and pulledagainst the rolling tackles setup to counteract the weight.AndjustasJackwasabouttowhisper ahint tohisbrother,Nathaniel called, “Well, the

windlass!” in a voice nowstraining to find a deeperpitch.

Nathaniel took anotherlookaloftandtracedthelineswith his eyes. “On thewinding tackle, heave away,smartly now!” he called. Hewas not so much givingorders as imitating orders hehad heard givenmany times,like a student painter who

learns by copying the worksofthemasters.Themenatthefall of the winding tacklehauled away with thecoordinatedeaseofmenwhohad hauled a thousand lines,and the great black gunswung in over the bulwarkandhungabovethedeckandthewaitingguncarriage.

“Wellthewindingtackle!Belay that!Let’scheckaway

that yard tackle, smartly,smartly!”Theyardtacklewaseased away, the windingtackle took up the strain, thegun swung inboard, andNathaniel called, “Easeawaythe winding tackle!” Thecannon came gently downand inboard, down andinboarduntilithoveredafewfeetabovetheguncarriage.Itwas a neat bit of work, and

while those able men of theAbigail’s crew might haveeasily done it even ifNathaniel had not issued asingle order, Jack supposedthatNathanieldidnot realizeas much, or, if he did, thethrillofbeingabletooverseesuch an operation quitetrumped any suspicion thathisoversightwasnotentirelynecessary.

“Ease away, ease away,”Nathaniel called, and thecannoncamedownmore,andjustbeforeJackorderedthemto do so,Maguire andLaceyleapt forward and adjustedthe position of the guncarriage directly under thegun. The massive iron tubeeased down those last fewinches, the carriage groanedunder the weight, and the

yard tackle and windingtackle went slack as if theywere settling down by a fireafteralongday’swork.

Jacklookedathisbrotherand smiled. “Well done,young sir, well done,” hesaid, and Nathaniel gave ahalf smile and a nod of thehead, as if to suggest thatthere was no need tocomplimenthimonsoroutine

a bit of shipboard business.Tucker came aft and echoedJack’s words of praise andNathaniel lookedembarrassed.

“Whatthinkyouofthese,Mr. Tucker?” Jack asked,noddingtowardthegunthatadozen seamen were nowmanhandling out of the wayso the next could be broughtaboard.

“Well, I’m not so sure,Captain,” Tucker said,hesitant to give his opinionwhenhedidknowwhereJackstoodontheissue.

“I’m not sure, either,”Jack said. “Not sure at all.”Though in truth hewas sure,quite sure, that he did notwant them aboard. He didnot,however,wishtoimposehis bad attitude on his mate,

so instead he steered theconversation towardhowandwhere the flour would bestowed down and the waterbrought on, the thousanddetails thatwere the purviewof master and mate, and allthe while, like a quintetplaying softly at a granddinner, the carpenters sawedand filed and drilled andhammered at the bulwarks,

fashioning the gapinggunportsfromwhichthenewarms would leer at anywantonFrenchmanwhocamewithintheirarcoffire.

Jack turned to Nathaniel.“When you at last rise tocommandofyourownvessel,brother,” he explained, “youwill find that suchamusements as hoistingcannonsaboardarenolonger

yours, and your life isreducedtobillsofladingandcrew manifests andchandlers’ bills and suchdrudgery as to make youyearn for labor in the saltmines. So with that, I willleave you in the good handsofMr.TuckerwhileIretiretomycabinandmypapers.”

***

That very afternoon, on theday that Jack BiddlecombmissedhischancetodispatchJonah Bolingbroke inaccordance with the codeduello, Captain EzraRumstick found himselfseated in the parlor, whichservedashisoffice,inthesetof rooms he rented on ThirdStreet. Hewas slouched in ablack-lacquered Windsor

chair,feetsplayedoutinfrontof him. The chair looked toany observer as if it mightcollapse under Rumstick’sconsiderablemass;hisheightwas above six feet, and hisweight was approachingseventeen stone, greater thanit had ever been in hismoreactive years, though, despitebeing in his fifth decade oflife and having long since

given up manual labor, thebulk of it was still muscle,and that which was not hecarriedwell.

Like Rumstick, the chairwaswellmadeandnotaboutto come apart. It was thework of John Townsend ofNewport, one of a set ofchairsandmatchingtablethatRumstick had ordered in theyears following the War for

Independency, after his longassociationwithhisparticularfriend Isaac Biddlecomb hadleft him wealthy enough toafford such things. Both thechair and his friendship withIsaac had stood many a testand both were found to bedurable, able to stand thestrains, the bumping andscrapingandoccasionalabusethat went with simple

existence.The chair, and Rumstick,

were turned away from thedesk.Acrosstheroom,sittingmoreerectthanRumstickinachairthatwassistertoEzra’s,wasJeremiahTillinghast,stillwearing the reddish-brownhomespun stockings that hadgreeted Jack on his first fullday in command of theAbigail. Tillinghast was

talking, Rumstick waslistening.

“I could never discovertheplacetheyagreedtomeet,you see, so I hove to byOxnard’s wharf and kept aweather eye on Abigail. I’llwarrantIwascomingtothinkJackwouldtakeapassonthewholeaffair,butatlengthhisfriendStilescomesalong,andofftheygo.”

“To meet Bolingbroke?”Rumstickasked.

“To have their breakfast,ifyoucancreditit.”

Rumstick shookhishead.“Theseyoungmentoday,”hesaid.“Evenanaffairofhonorwon’t get them out of bedbeforethesun.”

“They’rethefutureofourcountry,Captain,”Tillinghastsaid.

“Youputmeinthedumpswhenyou remindmeof that.Butpray,goon.”

“Once they’ve had donewith their breakfast they’reofftotheSouthwark,andI’mintheirwake,butwellastern,so they never see me. Theymeet Bolingbroke at thatempty lot on Second, youknowtheone?”

“Ido.”

“There’s some businessaboutweapons,Ithink.IwasinanalleywhereIcouldsee,but too far away to hear. Inany event, they was talkingabout something, talkingbeing what these youngfellows do best. I waswatching them all the while,andhad theychosenpistols Iwas ready to step forward.Swords,IwouldhaveletJack

haveafewpasses,lethimrunfree, as it were, unless helooked to be standing intodanger.But before they evensettled on weapons, up pullsOxnard in that new coach-and-fourofhis,stepsrightupand orders everyone gone,like theywas foremasthandsand he the admiral.He takesJack off in his coach, andthat’sanendtoit.”

Ezra frowned and staredat the pattern in the carpet.“It’spassingstrange,”hesaidatlast.“JackandBolingbrokehave mixed it up over andagainthroughtheyears,butIwould not have creditedBolingbroke with being thekindwould lookforanaffairofhonor.Acovelikethathasdamned little honor todefend.”

At that, Tillinghast justshrugged.

“So now that you knowwhat Bolingbroke looks like,tellme,was he at the tavernyoudraggedJackoutof?”

Tillinghast shook hishead. “Iwas too far to get agood look this morning, andthingswasabitconfused theothernight,soIcan’tsayforcertain.”

Rumstick nodded. Hecould just picture Tillinghastandafewofhismatestearingup the Blue Goose anddragging Jack and Stiles andtherestofthoseyoungbucksout of there. Tillinghastexudedpower, in thewayhesat,inthewaytheclothofhiscoat was stretched tight overthe muscles in his arms. Hewas a tough son of a bitch,

and Rumstick was one toknow,becausehehadknownplenty of tough sons ofbitchesinhisnearfortyyearsat sea. He had seen men sitsilentandunmovingasship’scarpenters used pliers to pullrotten teeth from theirmouths. He had seen menspend hours aloft, bare-handed, pounding the ice outofthedouble-aughtcanvasof

frozen topsails just to makethe cloth pliable enough toreef. He had seen men withdreadful wounds keep onfighting as they slipped intheirownblood.Hehadseenmen with mortal woundsrefuse to leave their stations,unwilling even in the faceofdeath to abandon theirshipmates.

Ezra had sailed with

Tillinghast and he knew hewas that kind of tough. Hisage was harder to figure.Rumstick guessed it was alittle less than his own, lateforties, perhaps, but withtheseseamen,withtheirlean,hard bodies and weatheredfaces, itwasa trickythingtogauge.

Rumstick continued toponder the mystery of it all.

With everything that hadpassed between Bolingbrokeand Jack Biddlecomb, whywould Bolingbroke call himoutnow,ofalltimes?Andforso minor an affront as atavern brawl? “It don’tanswer,” he said at length.“Bolingbroke just ain’t aduelingsortofcove.”

Not that any of this wasany of Rumstick’s affair. He

had no official business inPhiladelphia, or anywhere,for thatmatter.At theendofthe war he had continued onwith Stanton andBiddlecomb, Merchants,takingcommandofaseriesofships on a series of voyagesto the West Indies andbeyond. But for Ezra, whohadbeenpartofthatgroupofupstart Rhode Islanders who

had begun fighting theRevolution before mostothersevenknewtherewasawar,themerchantservicewaspretty small beer. After tenyears of near constant armedconflicthefoundhecouldnotmuster much enthusiasm forhagglingwithmerchantsoverbillsoflading.

The monotony of thecarrying trade pushed him

fromthesea,andthefactthatanewnationwasbeingbuilton the foundation he hadfoughtsohardtolaykepthimashore. The War forIndependency had left theformercolonies a smolderingruin, and now architects ofevery stripe were strugglingto design what new edificewould be built in its place.Afterall thesufferingthathe

had endured, witnessed, anddoled out over the years offighting, he could not spendhis days worrying about thepriceofmolassesinBarbadosand take no part in thiscreation.

Lofty debate over thephilosophy of governancewas not for Ezra Rumstickand his ilk, and he knew it.The clever coves, the

Adamses and the Madisonsand the Jeffersons andHamiltons, and, on anotherlevel, the Biddlecombs andthe Stantons, were the oneswho would build it up, whowould make their long-winded arguments based onCicero or whatever ancientworthy they were citing thatweek. They were the oneswhowould shape the United

Statestobetheverythingforwhich so many had shed somuchblood.

Creating a governmentwas a messy thing, that wasone of those truths Rumstickhad discovered, to hissurprise. Questions of howmuch power a federalgovernment would wield inrelationtothestates,whetherthe Federalistswished for an

American monarchy or theDemocratic-RepublicansfollowinginJefferson’swakewouldbring thenationdownin chaos were not topics foreffeminate debate in somesalon, but issues that wouldgenuinely determine whatsortofanationrosefromtheashes.

There was a place forEzraRumstick,anditwasnot

arguing in the fancy hallswhere the tables werecovered in green baize andlaid with silver writing sets.Andjustashewascomingtounderstand that, the Frenchburstintoarevolutionoftheirown, to the near universaldelightofallAmericans,theirformer compagnon d’armes.Rumstick, like most citoyensof the United States, had

cheered them on at first,seeing, correctly, that theFrench Revolution was acontinuationofthespiritborninAmerica.

But soon the gloriousrevolutioninFrancedevolvedinto a bloody, chaotic affair,and Rumstick, like many ofhis countrymen, felt hisenthusiasm turn to warinessand disgust. His support for

the revolutionaries of Francefell by degrees with eachhead that dropped into awickerbasket.

Could the heads startrollingdownMarketStreetinPhiladelphia? To most itseemed impossible, but EzraRumstickhadseenquiteabitof the true nature of men,evenAmericans, and he wasnotsosure.Therehadalready

been rioting a’plenty inAmerica, with Jefferson andhis followers standing inunwavering support of theFrenchies no matter howdeplorable and bloody theirbehavior. So when hisparticular friend IsaacBiddlecomb was elected totheHouse ofRepresentativesas a delegate from RhodeIsland and Providence

Plantations, Ezra understoodwherehisplacewouldbe.Onthe streets. In the alleys. Inthe shadows. Making certainthattheheadsdidnotroll.

Keeping young JackBiddlecomb alive and out ofprisonhadbecomesomethingof a sideline to his mainconcern.

“I don’t care for this,Tillinghast, I tell you, I

don’t,”Ezrasaidatlast.“Thisbusiness with Oxnard’spromoting Jack never didsmell right. And now youthrow Bolingbroke into thepot.”

“Jack’s a damnably fineseaman,” Tillinghast said.“Oxnard promotes him, hegets a good shipmaster, andgets to stick IsaacBiddlecomb’snoseinit.And

someof thatwill splashontoAdamsaswell.”

“Iknow,”Ezrasaid.“Butit still don’t smell right. Ithink we better have a wordwithMasterBolingbroke.”

Tillinghast smiled andstood. “Aye, aye, Captain,”he said, then turned andwasgone.Bolingbroke,ofcourse,would not come willingly.Thatwaswhat accounted for

Tillinghast’s smile, and hisgenuine enthusiasm for thetask.

7

Ithad,infact,beentwoyearssince Jack Biddlecomb andJonah Bolingbroke trod thesamedeck,andbunkedinthe

same forecastle, and gone atone another with fists andknives. Jack had not been amate then. He had not evenbeen Jack Biddlecomb then,and that was where thetroublehadstarted, that time,atleast.

Jack had abandoned thename Jack Biddlecomb inBuenos Aires at the sametime he had abandoned the

leaking, half-rotten, hoggingold bucket known as theQueen of the Sea, aboardwhich he had shipped inCharleston. He had not beenoverly optimistic about theQueeny,asshewasknowntothose aboard her, based onthe sight of her alone, thesaggingandcrooked ratlines,the white patches on herstanding rigging where the

cordagehadbeenimperfectlytarred, like exposed bone onsome sun-rotten corpse, thestrands of oakum hanginglike seaweed from her deckseams that all but assured aleaky,miserabletimebelow.

He was less enthusiasticstill after meeting the mate,aninarticulatebrutewithonegood eye and onewanderingeye, neither of which would

meetJack’swhentheyspoke,so that Jackwas not entirelycertainwhicheyewaswhich.The master was half drunkwhentheymetandsoonafterachieved full drunkenness,and in their brief monthstogether never seemed to beinanyotherstate.

ButJackneededtogetoutof townquicklyfollowinganunfortunatemisunderstanding

at a local brothel, and sinceQueenywashoveshortinthestream and ready to makesail, and for some reason indesperate need of hands, hesignedaboard,able-bodied.

Alloftheshortcomingsofthe Queen of the Sea Jackmight have overlooked,mostofthembeingnotparticularlyunusualforthecarryingtrade,including the near constant

pumping he soon found wasrequired to keep her afloat.And to be sure, she wasblessedly freeof rats, thoughthat could have beenconstrued as a bad sign. Buttwo things pushed himbeyondhisendurance.

One was the captain’sinsistence, after they sailed,that he did not warrant therating of able-bodied, or the

concomitant pay, and soreratedhimasordinary.Sucha thing was unusual to thepoint of being unheard of,and would have infuriatedJack in any case, he havingbythensailedformorethanayear with the rating of able-bodied. But when it becameclear to him that he was byfar the most active andskilled, ifyoungest,man ina

forecastle full of brokendrunks and skulkers and sealawyers, itbecamemorethanhecouldtolerate.

And just as he wasmaking his displeasureknown to themaster, the oldman saw far enough througha rent in the fog of rum tosay, “Biddlecomb, is it?Unusual name. You must berelative to IsaacBiddlecomb,

what made such a name forhimselfinthewar.Sowhatinhell are you doing in thefo’c’sle,eh,boy?”

And that was that. FromthenontherewasnothingthatJackcoulddo thatwouldnotbe referred back to hislineage. “Doyou seehowhespilled slush on the deck!”one might say, “the son ofIsaac Biddlecomb!” (they

having guessed at hisrelationship to the GreatMan). “See what the son ofIsaac Biddlecomb reckonspasses for a proper longsplice!” This, like thepumping and the waterdripping from the deckhead,had long been one of theregular plagues of hisseagoing career, but of all ofthem, this, he was finding,

wastheonehecouldnotwithequanimityendure.

So,oncetheQueenoftheSea dropped her best bowerintheharboratBuenosAires,and all was snugged downandthesunsetandtheanchorwatchpassedoutdrunkinthelongboat on the main hatch,Jackloweredhisdunnageandthen himself into thecaptain’s gig floating

alongside and pulled forshore. Abandoning theQueeny meant abandoningthemeager pay thatwas duehim, and since themisunderstanding inCharleston had left himwithout a sou, he knew hewasinforabitofaleantimeuntil he could find anotherberth. But this was not thefirsttimehehadtakenFrench

leaveofashiphehadsignedaboard. Indeed his very firstvoyagehadendedthatway.

And lean it was, for thefew days he spent hauntingthe waterfront of that SouthAmerican town, looking outfor the main chance andkeepingaweathereyecockedforanyfromtheQueenoftheSeawhomightbelookingoutforhim.

Hewas ina tavernoffanalleythatsharedawallwithachandler, hoping thatsomeone would abandon amealwitha tolerableamountof food still on the plate,when he fell in with twoYankee sailors off a BostonshipcalledtheHancocklyingatanchoroutintheroads.

“The old Hardcock’s inwant of hands,” one of the

sailors said, sniggering atthis, the apogee of theseaman’s sly, droll humor,though Jack could notimaginethathehadmadethatwitticism up on the spot, or,indeed,atall.

“Is that true?” he asked.“Ordoyoupracticeonme?”

“No,it’sGod’struth,”theothersaid.“Wehadonehandin the larboard watch break

his leg and another gotathwartthemate’shawseandrun once he got the chance.Theoldmanhatesyourdagosand Frenchmen, and wouldsoonshootanEnglishmanaslet him slush the t’gallantmasts, so an American isalwayswelcome,especiallyafellow knows a head from ahalyard, which you look tobe.What’syourname?”

“Tobias Harwood,” Jacksaid, extending his hand,“fromPhiladelphia.”

The sailors, who werefully empathetic with thesuffering of their brothermariner,orderedupbreakfastfor Tobias, and he in turnhelped them load theboatswain’s stores they hadbeensentashore topurchase,first into the rented cart and,

afterabone-jarringridetothestone steps by the quay, intotheship’sboat floating there.They rowed Jack out to theHancock and introduced himtothemate.BythattimeJackhad entirely forgotten thename he had made up, buthappily the older of theforemast jacks, whose namewasIsraelFerguson,hadnot,and when he presented

Tobias Harwood to the firstofficer,Jacktookspecialcaretocommitittomemory.

At that point Jack wouldhave signed aboard anybucket short of a slaver or apirate,butasluckwouldhaveittheHancockwasawell-runship, with as happy aforecastle as any Jack hadknown. He signed on thebooks as Tobias Harwood,

able-bodied, and made thepassagetoKingstonandthenon to Tobago, from whencethey caught the westerlies toLisbon and then back on amore southerly route to theWest Indies. Jack did hisshareof thework,more thanhis share, and his goodhumor, his willingness, hishard-earned skill, andnaturalability made him popular

withhisshipmates.He was no cock of the

forecastle, did not act thestrutting, self-appointedmaster of that domain. Hemayhavehadanintemperatestreak as wide asNarragansett Bay, whichshowed itself to ill effectwhenever he had a runashore, but he also had anativehumilitythatprevented

him from lording it overothersandmadehimpopularamonghisfellows,popularatfirst in themannerofawell-liked younger brother andthen, as he became more ofan integral part of themachine that was the ship’scompany,popularasavaluedandreliableforemasthand.

Tobias né Jack had beeneightmonthsaboardHancock

when Bolingbroke cameaboard. The merchantmanwas anchored in the widestretch of blue-green seabetween Nassau and HogIsland that passed for thechief harbor of NewProvidence Island, andwaitingonlyfortheirwatertoget under way, when abumboat hove alongside andthe new hand came up the

pilot ladder, sea chestbalanced with practiced easeonhisshoulder.Bolingbroke.

Jackwasupaloftpatchingbroken service on the maintopmastshroudswhenhesawtheman,andhisheartsank.Ithadbeentwoyearssincetheirpaths had crossed, and Jackhadthoughthimselfridoftheson of a bitch, but here hewas. He cursed his luck, but

heknewthattheworldofthedeepwater sailors was not solarge. Such an unwelcomereunion as this was far fromunlikely.

Their last partinghadnotbeen amicable, not amicableatall,andnowthechanceforrevenge was served up toBolingbrokelikeatwo-pennyordinary. Once Bolingbrokehad had his laugh at the

TobiasHarwoodcharade,andrevealedthatJackhadsignedon under a false name, Jackfigured he would be quicklysigned off again and left onthe beach, most likely withhis pay forfeited. Ship’smasters did not care forsubterfugeofanysort.

It was not until nearsuppertime, with the sundropping toward the western

horizon, that Jack at lastclimbed down from aloft toface the inevitable. Theforemasthands,finishedwiththeir day’s work, weregathered in the forecastle,sitting sprawled on their sea-chest seats, stretched out inbunks,oratthetablethatrandownthecenterofthespace.Bolingbrokewasthere,at thetable,alreadymakinghimself

quite at home when Jackclimbed through the hatchand down the ladder to thecramped, smoky, wedge-shaped cabin in theHancock’sbows.

“Tobias,” said IsraelFerguson. “New hand, hereforthestarboardwatch.JonahBolingbroke. Jonah, thishere’sTobiasHarwood.”

Bolingbroketurnedwitha

look that suggested not theleast interest in meetinganother human being, butwhen his eyes lit on Jack’sface, and a veritable SaintElmo’s fire of recognitionand comprehension flashedover his features, a smileappeared and he extended ahand.Jackreckonedthenthatthecatwasoutofthebag,butBolingbroke, he would soon

realize,was far tooskilled inthewaysof torment to let sopreciousanopportunitygoatthefirstblush.

“Harwood,isit?”hesaid,the smile now in full bloom.“Tobias?Yourservant,sir.”

“Bolingbroke,” Jackmanaged to mutter as heshooktheprofferedhand.

“Say, Tobias,”Bolingbroke continued,

unable towait for the fun tobegin.“Whichberthisyours,then?”

“Lower one, starboardside, forward there,” Jackmumbled and the smile onBolingbroke’s face just grewwider.

“Here’s the thing,Tobias,” Bolingbroke wenton. “The only berth left forme is the uppermost, aft

there, and it won’t answer,what with the draft from thehatch above and the peoplegoinginandoutandwhatnot.Not to mention theawkwardness of having toclimb into an upper bunk. Iwould reckon it a friendlygesture to a new shipmatewas you to letme have yourberth, and you take the oneaft.”

Jack’sberthwas in factaprimepieceof forecastle realestate, one he had covetedsince coming aboard. Witheach berth that came vacantas one hand or another leftthe ship, Jack hadmethodically improved hissleepingsituation,untilatlasthehad landed in thatone, asfar from the drafts and thenoise as one couldget in the

forecastle. And so it was tothe muted surprise of hisshipmates that he agreed toBolingbroke’s requestwithoutsomuchasawordofprotest.

If Hancock had beenbound for some port in theUnited States, an easy runbeforethetradewindsandtheprevailing southwesterlies,with a convenient lift from

the Gulf Stream, Jack mighthave been able to endure thebrief tyranny of JonahBolingbroke. But instead,Hancockwouldbesettingsailin the other direction, off totheAzoresandthentoLisbonagain before returning toPhiladelphia, five months atleast even if they wereblessed with quick passages.Jackwasallatseaastowhat

todo,whethertojumpshipinNassauorendurethetormentBolingbrokewoulddoleout.

Hewasstillponderingthedilemmabythetimetheyhadbrought their water aboard,won their anchor, and stoodout ofNassau harbor, and sothe decision was made forhim.

Bolingbroke, of course,did not relent, and he had a

genius forpushing Jack rightto the edge and no further.They were fortunately ondifferent watches,Bolingbroke in the starboardwatch and Jack of thelarbowlines, so with theirfour-hours-on, four-offwatchkeeping at sea theywere notso often in one another’scompany. But they werethrust together often enough

that Bolingbroke could havehis fun. Thus, on aparticularly cold, wet,blowingnightsomewherejustpast thirty-two degrees westlongitude Jack found himselfstanding watch and watch,taking the place of JonahBolingbroke, who remainedsnug in his prime berth. OrJack might find himselfhaving to surrender to

Bolingbroke his share of aplum duff, or patch a rent inhistrousers,orputanedgeonhisknife.

To the rest of the“Hardcocks”itwasamysterywhy young Tobias, perfectlyable to care for himself,would tolerate suchtreatment.But inthewaysofsailormen they minded theirown business and contented

themselves to look on withcuriosity. Israel Fergusonalone made discreet inquiryintoJack’sbehavior,andthatwent only as far as askingJack if he and Bolingbrokehad known one anotherbefore, towhich Jack gave avagueandunhelpfulanswer.

The Hancock was atanchor in the harbor ofFunchal, on the island of

Madeira, when Bolingbrokefinallymanaged topushJackbeyondtheedge.Itwasnotastoptheyhadplanned,butonleaving Lisbon the secondmate, a Boston buck namedTimothy Noddle, had comedown with a fever, and theoldman decided to put in toMadeirasothemanmightgetpropercare.

Thatwaswhathesaid, in

any event, though Jack wasmorally certain that he justwanted Noddle off the shipbeforethefevercouldspread.JacklikedNoddlequiteabit,reckonedhimafriend,andsostepped up to be part of theboat crew that pulled himashore and found thequarantine hospital at whichto deposit him. There wasnothing more he could do,

and when he bid Noddlegood-bye,hewasnotpleasedaboutit.Theywouldnotwaitonhim,ofcourse,butsetsailon the next tide, andNoddlewould have the devil of atime getting back to theUnitedStates.

And so Jack was in aparticularly ill humor whenhe returned to the Hancock,climbed the pilot ladder, and

helped sway the boat backaboard. He climbed sullenlythrough the hatch and downthe ladder to the forecastle,nearly blind in the dim lightafter the brilliance of theisland sun. He could see theshapes ofmen in the gloom,the hands stood down to ananchor watch. It would bedinner soon, and the men ofboth watches were crowding

below, enjoying a few freeminutes out of the officers’sight.

“Say, Tobias, there youare,” Bolingbroke’s voicecame from somewhereforward. “I’ve a thought totake a run ashore if the oldman gives us leave, but I’llneedmyshoesshinedupandI would be eternally gratefulwasyoutodothat.”

Jack looked in thedirection of the voice. Hiseyes were adjusting to thehalf-light and he could seeBolingbroke sitting at theforward end of the table,leaningwithelbowsbackandgrinning that grin of his, andJack realized then he wasmoresickofthistormentthanhewasafraidofbeingputonshore. Let the old man set

him on the beach, he andNoddle would make theirwayhometogether.

“Very well,” Jack said.“I’ll clean them up. Givethemhere.”

Bolingbroke snatched theshoes from the bench besidehimand tossed them to Jack.“Shine’emupgood,boy,thewaytheladieslike’em.”

“Special shine for you,

Bolingbroke,”hesaid.Heputthe shoes on the deck.Bolingbroke was lookingaway, confident that Jackwould do his bidding. Jackunbuckled his belt,unbuttoned his trousers. Hiseyes were now adjustedenough thathecoulddirectasteady stream of urine intoBolingbroke’sshoes.

Even as Jack felt relief

come over him, relief onmany levels, he sensed atension ripple through theforecastle, like the colddowndraft that presages asquall. He looked up just asBolingbrokesenseditaswell.Bolingbroke jerked his headin Jack’s direction, and Jackhad the great satisfaction ofseeingBolingbroke’sshockedexpression, his horrified

expressionatJack’sdefiance.But the look was gone asquickly as it had come, andBolingbroke was the pictureof composure as he slowlyrose from the bench andstepped aft. Jack quicklyrebuttonedandrebuckled.

Jonah Bolingbroke was abig son of a bitch, with fourinches and fifty pounds onJack,butJacknolongercared

about that any more than hecared about being set ashore,or much of anything at thatpoint.

What’smore, it had beentwoyearssincetheylastmet,two years during which Jackhad been hauling lines,sweatinglines,fistingcanvas,wrestling with recalcitrantships’wheels, coiling cables,leaning into capstan bars, or

heaving at the handspikes ofwindlasses, two years ofshoreside brawls, many ajolly good rough-and-tumble’o.Hewasnottheboyhe had been and he was notintimidated and he did nothesitateatalltostepforward,cock his arm, and drive hisfistintoBolingbroke’sjawsofast that Bolingbroke did notevenhavetimetoreplacehis

cocksure look with one ofsurprise.

Jonah stumbled back, hishands to his face, and Jacktried to ignore the pain thatexploded in his knuckles. Aknot of their shipmatescaughtBolingbrokebeforehehit the deck and set him onhis feet. His hands camedown and balled into fists.Therewasblood in thewake

of Jack’s punch, a split lip itlooked like. “You son of awhore, Biddlecomb, I’ll doyou for that!” Bolingbrokesaid,moreofagrowlthananarticulate sentence, and withthat he bounded across thedeck,straightatJack.

His right hand swungaround in an arc,making forthe side of Jack’s head. Jacklifted his arm to block the

punch and realized hismistake even as he sawJonah’s powerful left comeup from below and connectwithhisstomach,blowingthewindoutofhimanddoublinghim up. But Jack knew byinstinct that the knee wascomingnext,sohetwistedtothe side and whenBolingbroke made his move,hisknee foundonlyair.That

threw his balance off andJackstraightenedenoughthathe could give Bolingbroke alefttothestomachandarightto the side of the head thatsent him sprawling back butdid no worse, since Jack,understanding that his fistwould explode in pain withthe blow, had pulled thepunch.

Bolingbroke was more

mad than hurt, and he wasvery, very mad. His handwent around behind him andwhen it returned it wasclutchinghissheathknife,theblade glowing dull andmenacing in the gloom. Jackreachedaroundandpulledhisknifeaswell,andthenstrongarms grabbed him and heldhim immobile and he sawothers grab Bolingbroke.

“Noneof that, none of that,”Fergusonsaid,andthekniveswere wrenched from thecombatants’ hands and theywere shoved toward oneanotheragain,encouragedbytheirmatestobeateachotherhalftodeath,butnottofinishthejobwithblades.

Jonah swung, an uglyroundhouse, and Jack leanedback, felt the air of the blow

on his face like theconcussionofacannonblast.He stepped in and landed aquick jab with the right,another with the left.Bolingbroke stumbled backagain and then there was aloud knock on the hatchcombing overhead and thevoice of the firstmate calleddown,“Holloa,thefo’c’sle!”

WiththathailBiddlecomb

and Bolingbroke droppedtheir fists and melted backamongthemenmillingabout,and the rest tookonattitudesof nonchalance that wereludicrously insincere. Themate’s shoes, stockings,breeches, and then the restappeared as he came downthe ladder. He stoppedwhenhisheadwasbelow the levelof the deck, turned and

looked around. He was nofool, and he had been to sealong enough to know thatsomething was acting here,but in accordance with thehierarchy of the merchanttrade he would let theforecastle sort out theforecastle’sproblems,aslongasitdidnotinterferewiththeefficient and, more to thepoint, profitable running of

theship.“Harwood, where the

devil are you?” the matesnapped.

“Here, sir,” Jack said,tryingnottosoundlikeamaninthemiddleofafistfight.

“Get your dunnage andget aft. We have to leaveNoddle ashore, so the oldman’smovedDailey into hisberth and he wants you to

ship as third.” He took onelast glaring look around, andhaving said what he had tosay,hewasuptheladderandgone.

Andthatwasanendtoit.Becauseaspatheticacreatureas a third matemight be, hewas a mate nonetheless, andno one in the forecastle,particularly not as ill-considered a whore’s whelp

as JonahBolingbroke,wouldvoluntarily get athwart hishawse. He would not crosshim even after Jack, his seabag over his shoulder,heading up the ladder on hisway aft, pointed to the half-filledshoesondeckandsaid,“Bolingbroke, that’sdisgusting. Get that cleanedupandbequickaboutit.”

So their enmity, by no

meansended,wastableduntilthey reached Boston, theirnext port of call, andBolingbrokewaspaidoffanddisappearedinthemysteriousanddebauchedwayofsailorsashore. And Jack went onhating him, despite the factthat everything that JackBiddlecomb was, everythinghehadthusfaraccomplished,he owed to Jonah

Bolingbroke.

***

With hismove aft, JackwasnolongerHarwoodbutratherMr. Harwood, and once hehad left the Hancock inPhiladelphia and shippedaboard another as second hebecame Mr. Biddlecomb,which he remained until theblessed moment when he

becameCaptainBiddlecomb.And,asCaptainBiddlecomb,Jack spent much of his timebelow, laboring over bills oflading,andbillsofhealthandgeneral clearances andclearing manifests andinvoices, lists of passengers,lists of crew, lists of seastores.Hediscoveredthatthelife of ease he had alwaysimagined his former captain

Mr.Asquithenjoyedwasnotso easy at all, that it was, infact,moredrudgeryandpaperthan he had quite realized.That, despite the fact thatJack had always had a handin keeping the ship’s booksandaccountsinorder.

His days were spent penin hand, or arguing withchandlers and sailmakers andriggers and ship’s carpenters

and,moreobsequiously,withRobert Oxnard, as well asOxnard’s agent, WilliamDailey. Dailey, in particular,seemed to have an endlessassortment of papers for himtoconsider, andon theworstof their meetings Jack foundhimselfsigningformsforthisor that without evenunderstanding in anymeaningful way what it was

hewassigning.In the evening, when the

ship’s carpenters and theriggersandthelongshoremenwere done with their labors,and there was no one leftaboardinneedofsupervision,Jack and Stiles and a gaggleof sundry young gentlementook their pleasure inPhiladelphia,thegreatestcityin the burgeoning United

States of America. Like apack of feral dogs theyroamed the taverns, pursuingwomen and the endlessamusements that only athrivingportcitycouldoffer.

Philadelphia, capital ofthe United States, was nocreaky, arthritic, staid farmcommunity with itsentrenchedandhomogeneouspopulation, a churchgoing,

disapproving communityalwayskeepingaweathereyeout for impropriety, andquashing the first hint of it.This was a seaport, itslifeblood flowed from theAtlantic, up the DelawareBay to the wharves andanchorages on the DelawareRiver,andwhen itwas spentit flowed out again. Andcarried on that stream the

goods and the people of theAtlantic world, sailors withno communal ties who satedlong-pent desires, alwayswith the knowledge that, nomatter how debauched theybecame, no matter howquickly they ran throughthree, four, or six months’wages, their hard-wonabilities to hand, reef, andsteerwouldprovide for them

both their passport and theirbreakfast.

It was midmorning, aweek and a half after hisaborted duel withBolingbroke, Jack havinggiven up waiting for aninvitation to continue theaffair,thathereturnedafteraparticularly grueling andvexing time at Oxnard’s tothe wharf where Abigail

remained tied, fore and aft.JackhadmanagedtoinfuriateOxnard by returning to thechandleranentiredeliveryofsalt pork, ten barrels of it,meant to feed the Abigail’smen.Hisreasonforreturningit,areasonbyOxnard’slightsentirelyinadequate,hadtodowith its being rancid beyondwhat even a foremast handcouldbeexpectedtoeat.Jack

suspected that some teamsteralong the way had emptiedout most of the brine tolighten the barrels and makethemeasiertotransport.

“Nowseehere,Jack,yourforemast hand don’t needfancy cooking, none of yourFrench cuisine with saucesandsuch.Justgivethemtheirsaltporkanddriedpeasandarunashoreand they’remerry

as grigs,” Oxnard hadexplained. But Jack hadserved his time in theforecastle,hadeatenhisshareof rancid beef purchased, asthis no doubt had been, at agreatly reduced price, ortakenoffthechandler’shandsin exchange for some otherconsideration. For his men,Jackwouldhavenoneofit.

In the end he won that

fight, but it meant Oxnardhadlittleappetiteforthenextrequest.“And,pray,sir,don’tforget that I will need thatrôle d’équipage,” Jackremindedhim.

The rôle d’équipage. Itwas an innocuous documentbyanystandard—alistoftheship’s crew—but thanks to adecree by the Directoire ithad become very crucial

indeed. Since 1778, whenFrance had first joined theAmericans in their fightagainsttheBritish,theFrenchhad required American shipsto showapassport, nomore,toprovetheirnationality.ButnowtheDirectoire,furiousatthenewAmericantreatywithEngland,wasrequiringarôled’équipageaswell.AnyshipboardedbyaFrenchprivateer

that could not produce onewasconsideredafairprize.Itwas retaliation and a chancefor plunder, no more, butwhen one ship was armedwith heavy cannon and theotherwasnot, all the treatiesintheworldcountedforlittle.

Thiswasnotasituationinwhich Jack wished to findhimself, his own newlyinstalled great guns

notwithstanding. But for allthe importance that the rôled’équipage carried, OxnardgaveJack’srequestawaveofthe hand and a “Yes, yes, ofcourse,”bywayofdismissal.

And that in turn put Jackin a foul mood, which henursedandstokedonthewayback to the Abigail’s berth.He paused on the wharf andranhiseyesovertheshiptied

there. The bulwarks weredone now, the paint fresh;black from the rail down tothe gunnel, which was abrilliantred,thenthechiefofthe hull oiled down to thelowerwale,whichwasblacklike the bulwarks. Thegunports were neatly cut,three per side, and the greatguns came poking out likesome hibernating beasts

testingtheairforspring.Itwasallexcellentlywell

done, shipshape and Bristolfashion, and normally Jackwouldhavelookedonitwiththe same appreciation withwhich he might run his eyeoverthefinelinesofayoungwomaninasilkdress.Butthepresence of the guns, thrustupon him, still grated andmadehismoodfoulerstill.

With those irritantsalreadygnawingathim,JackBiddlecomb was not in anideal temper for the surpriseof finding, on entering hiscabin, a young gentlemansittingathis table,scratchingaway with a pen at somecorrespondence,asmallstackofpapers tooneside,aglassof wine at hand, a cigarsmoldering in a saucer that

belonged to a tea set hismotherhadsentaboard.

“What, ho?” Jack asked,toosurprisedtocomeupwithmore.

The young man lookedup. A smooth, close-shavenface, good skin, very pale.Hairthecolorofwetsand.HelookedtobeaboutJack’sage,perhaps a year or two older.The shirt and stock visible

around the periphery of hissilkjacketwerewhitebeyondanything Jack could hope toachieve with his own shirts.Indeed, they made the freshpaintof thegreatcabin seemyellowedincontrast.

“Oh,yes,”theyoungmansaid, showing none of thesurprise that Jack wasexhibiting. “My chest andbags are on the deck above.

Pray, fetch them down heredirectly.”He lifted the cigar,put it between his lips, andreaddressed himself to hiswriting.

“And you would be…?”Jackqueried.

Theyoungmanlookedupagain,andnowtherewastheslightest crease of irritationon his brow. “WilliamWentworth, Esquire. Of the

BostonWentworths.”“The Boston

Wentworths? Indeed?” Jackhad no notion of who theBostonWentworthswere.

“Indeed, yes. You’ll findthe name on my chest.Which, you may recall, Irequested that you bringdowndirectly.”

Jack took a step into thecabin. Wentworth leaned

back in his chair, regardinghimwithcuriosityandvagueamusement.“Andwhy,”Jackasked,“wouldyouexpectmetofetchyourdunnage?”

Wentworthtookapullonhis cigar and exhaled acolumnof smoke likeablastfrom a cannon’smuzzle.Hisamusement at Jack’seffronterymadehislipstwistupat thecorners. “Well, that

is what you hardy tarpaulinsdo, is it not? Fetch one’s‘dunnage’?”

Jacktookanotherstepandsat on the edge of his berth.Wentworth’s eyes followedhim, though his bodymovedhardly at all. “Fetchingdunnage is indeed what wehardy tarpaulins do,” Jackagreed. “Doling out soundthrashings to those who

annoy us is another, so onemust take care in ourcompany.”

Wentworth laughed outloud. He plucked the cigarfrom his mouth and tappedthe ash into the tea saucer.“Oh,mydearman, I suggestyou not try that, out ofconsideration for your ownhealth.Now,NedBuntlineorwhatever your name might

be,offwithyouandfetchmydunnage, as I asked.” Onceagainheturnedtohiswriting.Hemanaged to scratch out afewmorewordsinwhatJacksawwasanastoundinglyneatcopperplatebeforelookingupagain, the amusement quitegonefromhisface.

“I say, are you still here,Ned?”

“That’s Captain Ned.

CaptainJack,actually.”Wentworth leaned back

again, but his look of mildirritation did not alter.“Captain Jack. Captainof…?”

Jackhelduphishands toindicate their surroundings.“All that you behold beforeyou,”hesaid.

“Really?” Wentworthsaid. “Captain of this ship?

You are not the gnarled oldsea dog I had envisioned.Forgive me. I am terriblydisappointed.”

“I quite understand,” saidJack, who was alsodisappointed,havinghopedtogivegreaterdiscomforttothisloathsome intruder. “I fearyou will be moredisappointed still, MasterWentworth, when I tell you

thatyouareinmycabinandImust ask you to leave it atonce.”

AtthatWentworthsmiledagainandlookedaroundwithan expression approachingsurprise.“This?Themaster’scabin?Surelynot.”

“Indeed it is. The cabinsfor passengers, if such youare, and I dare say it islooking less and less likely,

but if such you are, thosecabins open onto thealleywayoutsidemydoor.”

“You know,” Wentworthsaid, tapping more ash intothe saucer, “I did look intothose rooms,but I took themto be pantries or closets orsuch. Though now that youmention it, each did seem tosport a singular manner ofshelving which might be

construedasasortofbed.”“Wehardy tarpaulins call

them ‘berths’ but yes, that istheverything.”

Wentworth shook hishead at the wonder of it.“And here I had beencongratulating myself ondoing the decent thing andtaking the mostunaccommodating space formyself, thinking sure there

must be finer cabinselsewhere aboard for themaster—yourself, apparently—andMr.Frost.”

Jack had heard the nameFrost recently but he couldnot recall where, and at themoment he did not care.Hispatiencewith thisbanterwasat an end, so he said, “Andwhy, pray, might you belookingforacabinaboardmy

shipatall?”By way of answer,

Wentworth dug through thesmallpileofpapersonJack’stable, extracted one, andhanded it to him. Jackrecognized immediately theflowinghandandostentatioussignature of Robert Oxnard,Esquire,andheread:

Dear Captain

Biddlecomb,This note shall bepresented to you byMr. WilliamWentworth, Esquire,of Boston, whom youwill kindly providepassage to Barbadoson your upcomingpassagethence,andinaddition…

The note went on toaddress such issues as cabinstores (Wentworth wouldprovide his own), manner inwhich Wentworth was to betreated(decently),andsundryotherconcerns.Bytheendofthe first paragraph Jack hadread enough to knowhewasstuck with Wentworth, andbetween the great guns andthis young scion of the

Boston Wentworths hewonderedwhatOxnardmightfoistonhimnext.Hehandedthe note back to Wentworthand shouted up through theskylight,“Maguire!What,ho,there,Maguire!”

A moment later the bigseaman stood crowding thegreat cabin door. “Maguire,pray fetch down Mr.Wentworth’s dunnage. Let

him take outwhat he’ll needfor the voyage, then see therest stowed down in theorlop. Mr. Wentworth mayhavehischoiceofanyof thecabinsforward.”

“Cabins, sir?” Maguireasked.

“Yes. In the alleywayoutside there.You know, theones designed for theconvenienceofthegentry.”

8

With the myriad ofconsiderations andannoyances great and smallthat were part of preparing

the Abigail for sea, JackBiddlecomb entirely forgotWentworth’sallusiontoaMr.Frost who would apparentlybe requiring a cabin, and agood one at that. And Jackcontinued to not recall thegentleman for the next fivedays, until the moment helaideyesonhim,ontheverymorningofthedaytheywereslatedtosail.

They had worked likedemons, he and Tucker andthe men. The flour andsundrycargo,indigo,saltcod,barrel hoops, casks of nails,had been stowed down; theguns lashed tight in place;powder, shot, and othergunner’sstores(Godhelpus!Jack had thought as theycameaboard)stoweddownaswell, with rammers, worms,

sponges, and the likemounted in a rack builtspecial on themizzenmast tohousethem.

Newhandshadbeenhiredto replace those who did notwish to ship out again, orthosewhomJackdidnotwishto ship again, or who wereunlikely to be sober or freedfrom jail by sailing time.Otherswhohadsignedpapers

and taken an advance weredragged from taverns andbrothels and deposited inAbigail’s forecastle. For thattask, Jack asked for andgratefully accepted the helpof his Uncle Ezra, whoseconnections and influence onthe Philadelphia waterfrontmade the task infinitelysimpler.

Decentfoodanddrinkfor

themen,decentbyshipboardstandards, in any event, hadbeen bullied out of thechandlers, a new fore topsailhad been cajoled out ofOxnardandbentonunderthesupervision of John Burgess,whom Biddlecomb hadnamed boatswain. Hatchessecured and battened down,mastsslushed,hawserstothewharf singled up, at last all

wasinreadiness,withthetideset to begin ebbing a littleafter noon and the wind,which was a fairly steadyeight knots out of thenortheast, enough to giveAbigail sufficient steerage asshe drifted on the river,though Jack could havewishedformore.

Jack and Oliver Tuckerwere aft discussing tiller

ropes and the longevity theymightreasonablyexpectfromthose currently rove whenthey heard the distinctiveapproachofacoach-and-four,and they looked up at thesound. An elegant carriage,not Oxnard’s, but one theydid not recognize, drew to astop just abeam of Abigail’sberth.

“Is Mr. Wentworth

aboard?” Jack asked, hehavingblessedlyforgottenallabouttheman.

“No, sir,”Tucker said. “Ihaven’t seen him this weekpast.Intruth,I’veneverseenhimatall.”

“Well, let ushope forhissake this is him.We’ll warpoutintothestreaminanhourwhether he’s aboard or no.”Jack noticed with some

dismay that there was aconsiderable quantity ofluggage lashed to the roof,and the coachman andliverymen scrambledupalofttounlashitandhanditdownjust as the door swung openand Wentworth steppednimblytothecobblestones.

Fore and aft he lookedevery bit the young dandy,from the shoes, black and

shiny as hot pitch, whichmadethesilverbucklesstandout in sharp relief, to the tallbeaver hat he settled socarefullyonhiscoiffedhead.He paused to take in hissurroundings with thedetached, slightly ironic,slightly amused disdain thatJack,intheshorttimehehadknown the man, had alreadycometorecognizeandloathe.

“Is that our Mr.Wentworth?”Tuckerasked.

“Indeeditis.”Tucker gave a low

whistle. “Now, ain’t he thefull-riggedmacaroni?”

BeforeJackcouldgivehisentire agreement, anotherfigure stepped around fromthe far side of the carriage.He seemed to beWentworth’s opposite in

every way, save for hisclothes, which were at leastasfine,ifnotsoshowy.Thisother fellow was a big man,and seemed to take up morespace than even that whichhis large frame occupied.HewasolderthanWentworth,inhis forties, Jack guessed.There was somethingembracing and open abouthim, a genuine smile on his

face, a look that took ineverything—the quay, theship, thestreet—with interestandenthusiasm.

“Oh, damn my eyes,”Jacksaid,remembering.

“What,sir?”“ThismustbeMr.Frost.I

puthimcompletelyoutofmymind.Hewastohaveacabinaboard, by Oxnard’s expressorders.”

“Oh, that,” Tucker said.“Mr. Oxnard sent a man afewdays ago,whenyouwasashore, and let us know.Forgiveme, I quite forgot totell you, but I had thecarpenter knock out abulkheadbetwixt twocabins,made one big one, and Mr.Frost is to be there, larboardside,andMr.Wentworthisinthecabintostarboard.”

Relief like a warm bathengulfed Jack, and he said,“Oliver, you have saved mybacon. I shall grant youwhatever you might wish.Youhavebuttonameit.”

“I guess I would begrateful wasmy salary to bedoubled.”

“No,Ifearthatwillneverhappen.”

“Oh.Well,youcould—”

“No, sorry, you get onlytheonerequest.Come, letusmeetourguests.”Jackledtheway ashore, over thegangplankand thecobbles towhere the two men werewaiting for the last of theirluggage to come down fromtheroofofthecarriage.

“Ah, CaptainBiddlecomb,” Wentworthsaid in a tone of obligatory

civility, with a touch ofresentment at having to becivilatall.“MayIpresent toyouMr.CharlesFrost?”

Biddlecomb extended ahandandFrosttookitinbothofhisandgaveawarmshakein reply.He smiled and said,“Captain Biddlecomb! Anhonor!MyfriendOxnardwasto alert you tomy coming, Ihopethatwasarranged?”

“Yes, sir, indeed,” Jacksaid. “My chief mate, Mr.Tucker…” Jack paused andindicated Tucker, and Frostshook the mate’s hand aswell, “has been the soul ofdiligence in getting things inorderforyou.”

“Not put you too far outof your way, I hope!” Frostcried,andTuckerassuredhimitwasnobother.

“Iwasstartingtofearyouboth would be left on thebeach,” Jack went on. “Wearesettowarpoffthedockinanhour,and…well…timeandtideandallthat.Waitsonnoman.”

“Indeed,” Wentworthsaid.“Prayforgiveme,Ihavenodoubttheaccommodationson the boat are charming inthe extreme, but I thought it

besttotakeroomsattheCityuntil the time of ourdeparture.”

“Iquiteunderstand,”Jacksaid. “We tarpaulins areunder way with our laborsquiteearlyofamorning,andif youwas aboardwewouldeither have to wake you orhave all hands go a’tiptoe,and neither would answer.I’msuretheCityTavernwas

moreaccommodating.”“It was dreadful,”

Wentworth said, lookingabout as if he was bored bytheconversation.“Itmademelongforamonk’scell.Ormycabin aboard your boat,even.”

“It must have beenhellish, indeed,” Jack said.Insulting Wentworth, hecouldsee,waslikestabbinga

crystal ball; no matter howsharp the point or direct theblow it always seemed toglanceoff.

AndthenFroststeppedin,all smiles and bonhomie andan expansive cheerfulnessthat seemed to draweverything around into itsvortex. “Mr. Wentworth, Ifearthesegentlemenhavetoomuch to do to be chatting

with landlubbers the likes ofus!We’veawholevoyagetomakeacquaintances,andIforone am looking very muchforward to it! Let us get tosea!” He put an arm aroundJack’s shoulders, and theother arm aroundWentworth’sandturnedthemboth and directed themtoward the ship. Neither oneresisted or even questioned

him. Such was the force ofCharlesFrost’spersonality.

Another twenty minuteswere consumed with gettingthe dunnage aboard, whichwas mostly Frost’s, thoughsome of it Wentworth’s, heapparentlyhavingnotbroughteverythingonhisfirstvisittotheship.Burgesstookchargeof the boat crew and ran thewarps,foreandaft,outtothe

warping posts, and Tuckersent men aloft to loosen offtopsails.

Oxnard and Dailey madetheir appearance dockside toissuelast-minuteinstructions,to see all was well, and towish them safe voyage. Jackhadmadehisfarewells tohisfamily the night before, ascenethatwasallbutroutineby now, but Ezra Rumstick

brought his brother,Nathaniel, down to the quayand they bid their farewells,then stood back towatch theevolutionofwarpingtheshipoutintothestream.

Frost and Wentworth,having seen their belongingsstoweddown, took a spot onthe quarterdeck from whichtowatchtheirdeparturefromthe city. Jack ignored them,

and ignored how shabby hisworkingcoat,shirt,andshoeslookedincomparisontowhatthose gentlemen wore.Well,idlegentlemenwillwearwhatthey will, he thought with adisdain he did not actuallyfeel.

“Ready,foreandaft,sir,”Tucker called from hisposition on the larboardcathead.

“Very well…” Jack ranhis eyes over the loosenedsails, the warps run out atobliqueanglestothewarpingposts. If the wind had beenhardagainstthem,orthetidesetting strong, they wouldhave run the warps to thewindlass, but in the presentconditions, fourmenoneachhawser, walking away withthe line,would be enough to

movethemintothestream.“Take up the breast and

quarter fasts, easeawayheadandsternfasts,takeuponthelarboard warps, walk awaywith them, now!” Jackshoutedand the lines runouttothedockwereeased,thoserun out to the warping postshauled upon, and theAbigaileased out into the DelawareRiver.

“’Vast, there, theAbigail,’vast, you great buggeringboatload of… buggering…”a voice came ringing downthe road, loud, insistent, andslurredandallheadsturnedinsurprise.NoahMaguirecamestaggering toward them, hiswalk more like a long,protracted fall, though theman stayed miraculouslyuprightasheapproached.His

breeches were torn, his shirtstained with what was mostlikely vomit, one shoe wasgone. “’Vast there, mydarling Biddlecomb, youcan’t sail the barky withoutol’Mr.Maguireaboard!”Hestopped at the edge of thequay, swayed a bit, thencollapsedinaheap.

Jack turned an angry eyetoward the mate. “Mr.

Tucker, I thought Maguirewassecuredinthefo’c’sle!”

“He was sleeping it offlastIsaw,”Tuckerprotested.“He must have snuck ashoreagain.”

“Oh,damnmyeyes,whata bother,” Jack said. Theywere too far from the dockfor the gangplank to reach,and with the wind holdingthem off theywould have to

run the fasts to the windlassto haul the ship backalongside.

“I’ll whip him aboard,sir,” Tucker said, guilty overhisfailureatkeepingMaguirecontained. He steppedforward and shed his coat,thencalleduptoLaceyinthemaintop, who was standingby to overhaul buntlines, tolower down the whip. Lacey

castoffthewhip,asinglelinerove through a block at theyardarm,andloweredittothedeck. Abigail was still closeenough to shore that the farend of her main yardoverhungthedock,soTuckermadeoneendofthewhipfasttoabelayingpinandwiththeother end swungmonkeylikeover the gap between shipand land, coming down right

beside Maguire’s motionlessform.

Tuckerworkedtheendofthe whip under Maguire’sbody, which was enough torouse him, cursing andbellowing, as Tucker madethelinesecureunderhisarmsand shouted “Haul away theteagueline!”

The men at the inboardendpulledwithawill,jerking

the spewing, cussingIrishman aloft. Tuckergrabbed Maguire’s belt,pulled him farther from theship, then let him go with ashove. Maguire’s thrashingand kicking disrupted theperfect arc of his swingacross the open water, andonce he had cleared thebulwarkthemenonthewhiplet go the line and the big

Irishmancamecrashingdownjust outboard of the mainhatch. They untied the whipandswungitbackforTuckerasMaguire pulled himself tohisfeet.

Maguire’s wild, drunkeneyes searched the deck untilthey met Biddlecomb’s. Themenwerehavingajollygoodlaugh at Maguire’s expense,and hewas not too drunk to

know it. He took a lurchingstep aft, his hands balled upintomassivefists.

“Maguire!” Jack shouted.“Lay below and sleep it off,you great Irish son of awhore!”

“Ah, Biddlecomb, youlittle rum bastard, I’ll do foryou!” He charged aft, Jackexpecting him to go downwitheachstep,buthedidn’t.

Maguire was accustomed tokeepinghis feetonamovingsurface, be it a rolling ship’sdeck or a swaying tavernfloor,andhemadeitcleanaftwithoutfaltering.Hepausedafew feet in front ofBiddlecomb, cocked his fistand swung, a potentiallydevastating blow. Maguirewas likely the strongest manaboard, far stronger than

Jack, to be sure, but he wasan awkward hand at a fight,evenwhen sober, relyingnoton any technique but ratheron strength and anextraordinary ability toendurepain.

Jacktiltedbackasthefistcame around. He felt theswishofairas itpassed,andwithitthesmellofMaguire’sbody and clothing, which

almost did what Maguire’sfist could not, that is, knockhim down. But instead, Jackstepped up and delivered ahard uppercut to Maguire’sstomach, which doubled himover,thenanothertohisface,which snapped him up againand tossed him back, so helanded with an impact thatcould be felt underfoot. Helayonhisback,groaned,and

thenwassilent.“Could we get some

hands here to secure thisdrunken pile of horse shit inthe fo’c’sle?” Jack called.“And see he stays secured,this time?” As Maguire wasdragged unceremoniouslyacross the deck, Jack calledfor the men to once againease away the starboardhawsers,takeupthelarboard,

and the Abigail resumed herslow, sideways motion outintotheriver.

“Forgive that nonsense,gentlemen.” Jack turned toWentworthandFrostwithhisapology. “Maguire’s a goodhandatsea,buttheverydevilwhenhegetsashore.”

“Indeed,” Wentworthsaid,and therewasaglintofgenuine amusement in his

eye. “But, forgiveme, surelyfisticuffs is … below thestationofaship’smaster?”

Jacklaughedatthat.“Thisis not the Royal Navy, Mr.Wentworth, and it ain’t anEast Indiaman. Just areasonably honest Americanmerchantman. If a thingneeds doing, and I am thebest man to do it, then it isnotbelowmystation.”

“How very republican ofyou,”Wentworthobserved.

“Well,Isaythatwasverymanlydone,”Frostsaid,withhis big smile. “Will youpunishtheman?Whatwillbehissentence?”

“Flog him, perhaps?”Wentworth asked. “A dozenlashes at the grating, is thathowyoutarpaulinsdoit?”

“I repeat, sir, this is not

the Royal Navy. I have noauthority to flog anyone. Icoulddockhispay, I reckon,but I wouldn’t bother. Itwould only make him sullenand I’d get less work fromhim. Forward, there, haulaway smartly!” That last heshouted to the hands at theforward warp, then turnedback to his passengers.“Besides, punishing Maguire

for being an ugly drunkardwouldbeakin topunishingawolf for killing a deer. It’sjust who he is, andpunishmentwon’tchangeit.”

“My,whataliberalfellowyouare!”Wentworthsaid.

“Andhowmightyouhavehandled such a situation?”Jackasked.

“I don’t know,”Wentworth said, and he

seemedtogenuinelyconsiderthe question. “I’m sure Idon’t know. Not fisticuffs. Isuppose I would have shothim.”

“Shothim?Indeed?”Jackasked. “Doyou always standreadytoshootaman?”

“One likes to beprepared,”Wentworthsaid.

Before Jack could makereply he heard Tucker sing

out,“That’swellthelarboardwarps!” and he saw that itwas time to shift the lines tothe next posts, thus endingtheir discussion. The warpswere moved farther out intothe river and the Abigailhauled bodily up towardthem, but they had not halfcleared the distance whenJack saw that he could bracethetopsailyardshardupona

starboard tack and clear thewarping post with ease. Heordered the sails sheetedhome and hands to thehalyards and a moment laterthe topsail yards began theirjerky travel up the well-greasedmasts.

The breeze found thecanvas, made it ripple andsnap, and then filled it andheld it in that long, gentle,

elegant curve that a well-settopsailmakes,ashapesofineandperfectthattothesailor’seye there is that same allurethat a shapely female formmightspark.Abigailheeledalittle to larboard. “Ease yourhelm a bit,” Jack said to themanatthewheel,anewhandbutonewhoseemedtoknowhisbusiness.

The bow swung a bit to

the left, the bowspritsweeping past the distantshorelikeanaccusingfinger.With a series of even jerksthe fore staysail crawled upthe stay and spread to thewind. The water made agurgling sound down thelengthof thehull.Theywereunderwayandmakingway,afair breeze and an ebbingtide,headedforthesea.They

were free of the land. AndJack was in command. AndJackwassupremelyhappy.

9

Rumstickwanted to speak toBolingbroke before Jacksailed. Jeremiah Tillinghastwas well aware of that.

Rumstick had a notion thatsomethingwasamiss, andhehadanoseforsuchthings.Ifsomething was acting, ifforces unknown to JackBiddlecombwereworking inthe shadows, then Rumstickwanted it known and fixedbefore Jack went to sea. ItwasTillinghast’sjobtobringBolingbroke to Rumstickbefore the Abigail cast off.

Healmostmadeit.He found Bolingbroke in

anastyexcuseforatavernontheSouthwarkwaterfronttwodays after the aborted duel,still telling the story of howJackBiddlecombhad backedout of an affair of honor.“Seen me with pistol inhand,” Bolingbrokeconcluded,“andthesorrysodturns and runs. Just runs.

Might have pissed himself, Icouldn’ttell.”

“Just shoot the bastard,”one of Bolingbroke’scompanions suggested, “justshoothimrightinthebackashe run. That’s how I wouldhave played it.” This fellow,Tillinghast could see, was alittle unclear on the “honor”partof“anaffairofhonor.”

Bolingbroke’s fellows,

these hangers-on, were theproblem.Bolingbrokeseemedto have money, more thanTillinghast would havethought him good for, andthat meant he had friendsaplentyeagertohearhistalesaslongashekepttheflowingbowl flowing. Tillinghastcould certainly have roundedupenoughcompanionsofhisowntosoundlythrashthelot

oftheminabrawl;hedidnotthink Bolingbroke’s friendswould be too eager to riskserious injury in his defense;but the business had to beconducted more subtly thanthat.

IfBolingbrokewaspartofsome bigger affair, thentakinghimupinamessywaymight send ripples of alarmthroughwhateverfactionwas

behindit.Bolingbrokehadtobeplucked likea tick fromadog’sneck.Ideally,hewouldbecoweringbeforeRumstickand eagerly spewinginformation before hisabsencewasevennoticed.

Tillinghast followed himback to the rooming housethat served as his temporaryresidence, but there was noopportunity to grab him

unobserved. He returned thenext day to speak with theparticularly unhelpful keeperof the rooming house, who,after a silver dollar, hardmoney, had rendered him abit more loquacious, wouldsayonlythatBolingbrokehadcleared out that morning,havingtakenaberthonashipjustthenloadingforJamaica.

It was a matter of half a

day’s inquiry to find theshipthat Bolingbroke had signedaboard, but that informationdid Tillinghast little good. Ifplucking him out of a tavernor a rooming house was atricky business, thenextracting him from amid aship’s company was all butimpossible.

That left Tillinghast withthesingularoptionofwaiting

to catch Bolingbroke byhimself, which he did at lastwhen Bolingbroke made asomewhat furtive exit fromthe ship. It was just shy ofmidnight,eightdaysafter themeeting with Jack, whenBolingbroke came slinkingdown the gangplank. AndTillinghast, happily, was ashe often was: lurking in theshadows,watching.

He followed Bolingbrokedown Second Street toSouthwark, then up SouthStreet anda left ontoFourth,the neighborhoods becomingmore notorious by degrees.They had gone another twoblocks before Tillinghastguessed at his destination,andwhenBolingbroketurnedinto a narrow alley strewnwithbrokenbarrelsandhalf-

stove packing crates andsundry garbage, Tillinghastsawhewasright.

Three granite stepsleadingtoasingledoorinthebackof oneof thebrick rowhouses, a lantern burningfeebly above it, marked theunlikely entrance to one ofthecity’smorewell-respectedbrothels. A knock, a fewhushedwordsthroughahalf-

open door, and Bolingbrokewasinside.

I’d reckon thisestablishment a bit rich forthat son of a bitch’s blood,Tillinghast thought.Tillinghastknewtheplacebyreputation only, but thereputation had always beenthat it was no half-dime-a-throwsortofhouse.

The creature seems to

havemoneytotossabout…Tillinghast found a dark

place not too far from thedoor from where he couldwatchandstillremainunseenintheshadows.Fromtherehesaw one man make hissheepish entrance into thebuilding, and two leave.NeitherwasBolingbroke,butoneTillinghast recognizedasa member of Congress. And

these damnable Republicandogs say our tax dollars arenot well spent, Tillinghastthought as theman stumbledoffintothedark.

It was not above forty-five minutes later thatBolingbroke appeared,stepping slowly, reluctantlyfrom the door.He looked upand down the alley with awariness that made

Tillinghast wonder if herealized he was beingwatched. It was pointless totry and sneak up on him, soTillinghast took the othertack, stumbling out of theshadows,weavingtowardthebrothel door, the leastsuspiciousofapproaches.

They passed one anotherjust ten feet from the door,and as they did, Tillinghast

straightened,turned,andsaid,calm and sober,“Bolingbroke? A word, if Imay?”

Bolingbroke stopped andturned. His eyes were wide,his face more panic-strickenthan Tillinghast would havethoughtwasquiteappropriatefor the pacific tone he wastaking with the man. Heshook his head, took a step

back toward the wall thatformed the east side of thealley.“No,no…”hesaid.Heturned,hisbackhunched,hishands resting on the edge ofthe remnants of a woodencrate.

“See here,” Tillinghastbegan, but Bolingbrokestraightened and turned inone motion, the crate in hishands, and smashed it into

Tillinghast’s shoulders andhead. Tillinghast felt alaceration open up on hischeekashestumbledback,aminorwoundcomparedtothehumiliation he felt atallowing this little puke tofoolhiminthatway.

He heard Bolingbroke’sfeettakingoffdownthealley.Hetossedoffthebrokenslatsofthecrateandranafterhim,

wondering if he had anychance against the youngerman in a flat-out footrace.But again Bolingbroke didwhat Tillinghast did notexpect, and rather than headfor the end of the alley hebounded back up the brothelsteps and through the door,Tillinghastrightbehind.

Bolingbroke was halfwaydownthehallbythetimethe

startled doorman, some greatheap of muscle in an ill-fitting suit, had taken twosteps in his direction. Hesucceeded in blurting out,“Here, now—” beforeTillinghast charged inbehindhim and rammed him in thesmallof theback.Tillinghastheard themangrunt and hadaglimpseofhimliftingfromhis feetandcomingdownon

some silly little table againstthewall,whichheturnedintokindling on his way to thefloor. Then Tillinghast waspast, his eyes onBolingbroke’s blue jacket,which had ducked into thesitting room on the side andwas just then leaping a sofabetween two startled youngwomen and their even morestartleduncles.

Tillinghast followed rightbehind, putting a foot on thesofa, launching himself overtheback.Hehadaglimpseofyoungwomenloungingaboutthe room, men of variousages with stocks undone andlegs splayed in casual reposejerking upright in surprise, acloudof smokehanging low,the sharp smell of liquor andperfume. And then he was

following Bolingbroke outthebackdooroftheroom.Hehad no more than a glimpseof Bolingbroke’s white ducktrousers as the mandisappeared through anotherdooratthefarendofthehall.

Whathemightfindontheother side of that doorTillinghast did not like tothink on, but he thundereddown the hall and swung

himself through thedoorandfound it was a set of stairsleadingtoanuninvitingcellarbelow.Hetookthestairstwoat a time, landed on the dirtfloor at the bottom. Therewere lanterns hanging fromlow floor joists casting aweak light around the place.Tillinghast looked right andleft. Bolingbroke was not tobe seen. He stepped

cautiously off to his left,around a pile of what heguessed was old furniturewithatarpdrapedoverit.Hecould feel cool, fresh airwafting through the mustyspace. He came around thetarp-covered pile. A doorhung open, and through itTillinghastcouldseethestepsthatleduptothestreetlevel.

“Of course there’s a

bloody back way out of aplace like this!” he said outloud, disgusted by the greatchain of blunders he hadcommitted that night. DamnBolingbroke, he thought, ofcoursehewouldknowwherethebackwayis!

He heard footfalls on thestepsbehindhim,andhadnodoubt it was the doorman,having recovered his breath

and coming for his pound offlesh. Tillinghast sighed andheaded for the door inBolingbroke’swake.

***

The tide carried the Abigailswiftly down the DelawareRiver, but the breeze pushedher more swiftly still, sorather than simply driftingdowntothebay,theyenjoyed

the benefit of steerage. Thatmade the passage lessstressful than it mightotherwisehavebeen,becausehaving control, howeverillusionary it might be, wasalwaysmorecomforting thansimply being swept along.Jack kept the quarterdeck,conningthevesselasneeded,thoughthewaywasclearandthe shipping not too

numerous and for the mostparthewasnotmuchneededatall.

He looked out over theshoreline, the stands of treesand the rolling fields turningan early-spring green.Windmill Island, LeagueIsland,Mud Islandwith FortMifflin and the newconstruction there. He couldnot pass that way without

thinking of the brutal weeksoffightingthathisfatherandUncleEzraandtheothers,thesailors of the ridiculousMosquito Fleet of 1777, hadendured in their vain attemptto keep the mighty RoyalNavy at bay. It was heroic,almost beyond description,nightafternight intheir littleships taking on the massivemen-of-war.Intheendithad

been for naught, though itwasheroicnonetheless.

But thatgeneration, thosewho had won independency,werenotlackingforadmirersand hagiographers, and Jackdidnotmuchfeeltheneedtoadd his hosannas to the rest.His father knew how he felt.Or he should, in any event.Thatwasenough.

“A propitious start to the

voyage, Captain, wouldn’tyou say?” Charles Frostcalled, emerging from theafter scuttle onto thequarterdeck and pulling Jackfromhisreverie.

“All’s well that beginswell,”Jacksaid.“No,forgiveme, that’s not how it goes atall. In any event, yes, a finestart,andwe’llcarrythistideforthenextfiveorsixhours,

Ishouldthink.Yourquarters,you find themaccommodating?”

“Goodness, yes!” Frostsaid with enthusiasm. “ThegoodMr.Tucker has seen todoublingthespace.I’vemademany a sea voyage, Captain,and I can tell you I havenever had so commodious acabin in so small a vessel.Begyourpardon,ofcourse,I

mean no disrespect to yourcommand,sir.”

“Nor did I take it assuch,” Jack assured him.“Abigail is of no great size,I’ll warrant, but she’s a fineseaboat.”

“She is that,” Frost said,and then, in a different tone,went on. “Mr. Wentworth,I’m afraid, was a bit put outthat my cabin was rendered

sospaciousandhiswasnot.”“Well,we canonlymake

somany changes, youknow.Whoknowshowmanycabinswe shall need for thevoyageback?” Jack, of course, hadhad nothing to do withaltering Frost’saccommodations, though hewassorryhehadnot thoughtofitfirst,sohecouldatleastgive himself credit for

Wentworth’sdiscomfort.As Jack had predicted,

they did carry the tide foranotherfivehours,butas theebbingcurrentbegantogrowweakwithagetheyfoundthewind began to fail as well.Jack could see that theywouldsoonbesweptbackupthebay justas theyhadbeenswept down, so he workedthe ship over to DeepWater

Point on the western shoreand came to anchor with thebestbowerinfourfathomsofwater.

He felt keenly anobligation to inviteFrost andWentworth to the cabin fordinner, at least once at thestartofthevoyage.Itwasoneof those duties owed by aship’s master to hispassengers when the

passengerswereof thebettersort. It was also true thatFrost was a particular friendof Oxnard’s, so it would doJack no harm to get in hisgood graces. On the otherhand,hefeltoppressedbythemany things still to be done,and did not feel he had thehours to devote to being aproperhost.

What’smore, it seemeda

bit silly, dinner at sea, whenthey were in fact at anchorwithin ten leagues of wherethey had started, at a placewhereamanwithagoodarmmightactuallythrowabiscuitonto the shore. And truly hedid not really want to dinewith them and play thesmiling,gracioushost,notforWentworth’s pleasure, inparticular, so he made his

excuses and bought himselfanextraday.

The sun rose thefollowingmorningonahazysky and a wind fair forclearing Cape Henlopen, sotheyweighedevenbeforetheturnofthetide.Withtopsails,topgallants, and the foresailsettheywereabletostemthecurrent with ease, and whenat last the tide began to ebb

theyfound themselveswithina mile of the Capes. Fromthere it was a matter of lessthananhour’stimebeforethewaters emptying from theDelawareBaysweptthemthebalance of the way to sea,withCapeMaypassingdowntheirlarboardside,and,muchnearerstill,CapeHenlopentostarboard.

Anhourafterclearingthe

Capes, Jack found himselfstanding by the middle gunon theweather side,one footon the gun carriage, hisadmittedly new favorite spotfrom which to look over theset of the sails. He waswrestling with a moraldilemma,butitwasnotmuchof a contest, since the easyway out, which he wouldhavepreferred,stoodonvery

shaky legs.He gave a barelyaudible sigh, spun around,and approached Frost andWentworth, who werestanding by the leewardquarter and watching theshoreline disappear in theirwake.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “Iwould be honored if youwoulddinewithme today inthe cabin, four bells in the

afternoon watch? Twoo’clock,”headded.

“Delighted, CaptainBiddlecomb, delighted!”Frostsaid.“Wentworth,whatsayyou?”

Wentworth gave a smallnod of his head in Jack’sdirection. “I should behonored, Captain,” he said.“But let me check mycalendar.Oh,no, it appears I

am quite free these next sixweeksormore.”

“Very well, then,” Jacksaid, annoyed byWentworth’stoneofnoblesseoblige, such condescensionbeing the master’sprerogative, not hispassengers’,buthesaidonly,“Itwillbemypleasuretoseeyouattable.”

It would have been a

nightmare,infact,hostingthegentlemen passengers in thecabin ifJackhadbeen left tohis own devices. He had putno thought into cabin storesand would have contentedhimself with the same saltpork and salt beef and driedpeas and ship’s biscuits andsuch that were served out intheforecastle.

Had he considered the

possibility of having toentertain, he would havethought vaguely thatsomething could be done todressuptheseamen’srationsinto a meal acceptable to amore discerning palate, andwould have thought nomoreabout it. That is, untilconfronted with the horriblereality that nothing could bedone to render a seaman’s

fare edible to any but aseaman.

Such a transubstantiationcertainlycouldnothavebeenperformedbytheship’scook,a former seaman ofindeterminate but advancedage named Israel Walcott, aman whose chiefqualifications for the job ofcookwerethathewaswillingto do it, he could boilwater,

he had been taught how tomakeaplumduff,andhewastoolametodoanythingelse.

Nor would his stewardhave been of any help, ayoung man named BarnabusSimon foisted on Jack byRobert Oxnard for reasonsJackdidnotquiteunderstand,but which had nothing to dowith Jack’s convenience orcomfort. In their short time

together Jackhad formed theimpression that Simon waslazy,incompetent,ignorantofhis duties, sullen, anddishonest. Once they hadcleared land and theinevitable dinner with thepassengers was behind him,Jack was determined to sendhimpackingtotheforecastle.

It was Jack’s mother,Virginia Biddlecomb, who

had seen to it that dinnerwould not be an utterhumiliation. Unbidden, shehad sent aboard cabin storesconsisting of cured and freshbeef, hams, vegetables,chickens in portable coops, agoodly supply of wine,brandy, and port, cheeses ofvarious descriptions, realbread as opposed to ship’sbiscuit, along with well-

fruited spice breads, driedfruit, butter, jam, and evensome dishes prepared byMaurice the day beforesailingandpackedtotravel.

Each of those dishes wasmade in quantities to feedupward of half a dozenmen,as ifVirginiahadanticipatedthis very situation, which, infact, she had. She had neverasked for Jack’s input or

permission,becausesheknewhewouldhavehadnothingofvalue to add, would havedismissedtheverynotionandthendeeplyregretteditlater.

At noon, after Jack hadfixed their position,triangulating off the Capes,he commenced to badgeringSimon to prepare the mealand set the cabin in order toreceive guests. One of

Maurice’s dinners, anasparagus soup and rabbitfricassee, was heated in thegalley on deck, and sinceSimon was not to be trustedwith such a task itwas doneunder the watchful eye ofLucas Harwar, whom Jackhadshippedassecondmate.

Andso,afterconsiderableeffort and forethought by anumber of people, none of

them Jack Biddlecomb, arespectablemealwas laid bythe time a seaman on deckrang out four bells, the lastnote just dying away whenFrost knocked on the cabindoor.

“Come, come, welcome,”Jack said with all thegraciousnesshecouldmusteras he led his guests aroundthe narrow confines of the

cabin and seated them at thetable. “Simon! Some wine,here, Simon!” he called andsoon the steward appearedwith a bottle, fromwhich hefilled each glass with all thegrace of a gin-house keeperfilling glasses for his drunk-for-a-pennycustomers.

Despite thewant of goodservice, dinner passedtolerably well, Frost doing

more than his part to upholdthe conversation and keep iton course, straight and true.Wentworth dipped heavilyinto the wine, and in truthJack had the impression hehad been doing so evenbefore arriving for dinner,making free with his ownprivatestores,whichrenderedthe generally taciturn youngman more taciturn still. But

sincehewasunlikelytohaveanything to say that Jackcared to hear, it was not aproblem.

“So, pray, what bringsyougentlementoBarbados?”JackaskedasFrostservedoutthe last of the rabbit. “Mr.Oxnard never indicated youwould be returning in thisship, so I assume you areboundforanextendedstay?”

Wentworthmadeasortofnoncommittal face andpoured the remains of thewine into his glass. Frostlooked up from his task.“Business, this and that.Some work for thegovernment. I have anynumber of friends in theadministration. I help outwhere I can, on an informalbasis,youknow.Butstill,the

lesssaid…”“Oh, of course,” Jack

said, embarrassed to haveappeared to be prying. ThenSimon stepped up and tookthe empty serving dish,sloshing juice on thetablecloth, and Jack was foronce happy for thedistraction.

The meal had beencleared, only a single plate

and one wineglass droppedand broken, cheese and portwerelaidout,andcigarsfiredup when Frost asked, “Whatofyourman,Captain,thebigIrish fellow?Maguire? Is heupandabout?”

“Oh, certainly, a goodnight’s sleep on a soft deckand he’s right as rain. Ibelievehe’sstandinghistrickat the helm as we speak,”

Jack said. The skylight waspartially open and Jack hadbeen keeping tabs on whatwas taking place topside,sometimes without evenrealizinghewasdoingso.

“No punishment?” Frostasked. “No consequences forhisactions?”

Jack shrugged and took apuff of his cigar. “No,” hesaid. “It would be pointless,

as I said at the time. If hewere a poor seaman I wouldleave him on the beach, butsince he’s a most excellenthand once he’s beyond thereach of liquor, I amwillingtoforgivehisfoolishness.”

“Foolishness, indeed?”Wentworthasked.“Andwhatifhehadstruckyou?Whatifhis fist had connected, hadknocked you to the floor in

frontofyourmen?”“Idon’tknow,”Jacksaid,

and he genuinely did not, ashehadneverthoughtonthat.“It’s never happened.Amanmust be pretty well in hiscups to swing at a ship’smaster in that way, and thustheir punches are generallyprettyeasytoavoid.”

Wentworth made agrunting sound and took

anotherpuffonhiscigar,thenremoved it from his lips andregarded it. “It’s all sowonderfully in keeping withthis spirit of republicanismthatseemstorunamuckthesedays,”hesaid.

“Now, Mr. Wentworth,”said Frost, and Jack couldhearjustahintofalarmastheconversation wandered intothe shoals of politics,

“CaptainBiddlecombhas hisways,youknow,whichcomefrom being at sea many ayear.”

“No, truly,” Wentworthsaid, looking up from hiscigar.“Wasitnot theworthySirFrancisDrakewhosaid,‘Imust have the gentleman tohaulwiththemariner,andthemarinerwith thegentleman’?Suchagoodrepublicanspirit

thatreignshereatsea.”“Don’t believe it, sir,”

said Jack. “On a small shipsuch as this, themastermustwade in more than aboardsome grander vessel, butdon’tmistakethisforanysortof democracy. When we areat sea, this is as great atyrannyasyouwillfindintheChristianworld,andIamtheabsolutetyrant.”

“Ha! A benevolentmonarch, I have no doubt!”Frostsaid.

“Well I am pleased tohear it,” Wentworth saiddryly. “Withall theseFrenchnotions spreading like a poxacross thecountry,oneneverknows. Hah! French pox,there it is.”HewavedSimonover,whowaslurkingbytheforward bulkhead, and

signaled for his glass to berefilled.

“A ship cannot be run inthat manner, Mr.Wentworth,” Jack said.“There needs a chain ofcommand that is notquestioned.”

“Norcanacountryberunin that manner,” Wentworthreplied,after takingahealthysip of the port. “There is a

classofmenwhoareborntolead,andaclasswhoarebornto follow. And yet here weare, with the middling sortsnatching at the reins ofpower, every self-importantshopkeeper, every bladewhofarms a few pathetic acresthinkinghimselfworthytobeasenator.”

“Now, sir,” said Frost,“surely the War for

Independencywasnot foughtso we might replace onearistocracyforanother?”

Wentworth shifted hisgazetowardFrostwithalookthat Jack thought was partsuspicion and part—a largepart—intoxication. “TheWarfor Independency? Madeofficers of men quiteunworthy of the rank, andnowthoseofficerswouldput

themselves over the rest ofus.IwishtoGodtheyhadallgone back to the plow, asWashingtondid.Most Iwishwouldhavestayedthere.Thatrascal Jefferson would dowell to keep to his farm,spouting off about theinjustice of slavery as hisdarkiestendthefields.”

Jack, like his father, wasnofanofJefferson,andwhen

he thought on it, which wasnot often, he tended to leantoward the Federalist camp,with its belief in the strengthof the new federalgovernment and a strongnavy. So, apparently, didWentworth. Where Froststood,Jackcouldnot tell.Heseemedmostconcernedthatabattle between politicalfactions not break out in the

greatcabin.Having spent half his life

on shipboard, Jackunderstood hierarchy asmankind’s central organizingprinciple. But a growingnumberofAmericansloathedtheFederalists,andsuspectedthem of trying to create aBritish-style aristocracy inAmerica. Jack andWentworth were ostensibly

on the same side of thispolitical divide, but listeningtoWentworth reminded Jackof why it was so easy todespisetheFederalistfaction.Even he was ready to takeoffense.

“Men unworthy of therank of officer?” Jack said.“Wouldyouputmyfather inthatcompany?”

“Your father?”

Wentworthsaid.“Youhaveafather? You didn’t seem thetype.”

“Youdon’tknowwhomyfatheris?”

“No, should I?”Wentworth asked. “I believeyou said you were fromRhodeIsland.”

“His father—” FrostbeganbutJackcuthimoff.

“Hewas anofficer in the

war. Naval officer. One ofyourmiddling sorts, elevatedwell beyond his naturalstation.”

Wentworth lifted hisglass.“Icongratulateyouandyour family then, sir, and Iam delighted to find you soelevated.Liberté,Égalité,andallthat.”

“Pray, sir,” Frost said toJack with a tone that

suggested a desire to changethe subject, “butwhydoyoulook at the barometer so?Forgive me, but I could notfail to notice you stealingglances in its direction. Iwould be sorry if we weresuchdullcompanyastomakeitsofascinating.Idaresay,ifyouwerelookingattheclockthe same way I should beworried.”

Jack smiled. He was notaware that he had beenglancing at the barometer,anymore than hewas awareof monitoring the goings-onon deck. It was a lovelymahogany instrument craftedby the renowned JesseRamsdenofLondon, its longcylindrical body gimbal-mounted and swaying withthe roll of the ship. It had

been a present from hisfather,giventohimjustafewdays before he sailed. Itspolished beauty alone mighthave been enough to attracthisattention,butitwasinfactthe fall of the glass, not theaesthetic quality of theinstrument, that had gainedhisnotice.

“Forgive me,” Jack said.“The conversation has been

delightful in theextreme,butthere is nothing that cancommand a shipmaster’sundivided attention, save forhis ship. And I’m afraid myeye has been drawn to thesteady fall of the glass thishourormore.”

“Falling quickly, is it?”Wentworth asked. “I onceknewwhatthatmeant.‘Whenthe glass goes high…’ No.

Whatisityoutarpaulinssay,now?”

“‘When the glass goeshigh, let your sails fly,whenthe glass goes low, you’re infor a blow.’ I believe that isthe bit of doggerel you aresearchingfor.”

“Ah, yes!” Wentworthsaid.“Whatpoeticbladesyouare!And the glass goes low,yousay?Isitfallingfast?”

“The glass is indeedgetting lower,” Jackconfirmed, “but not at anygreat rate, which is moreworrisome. You see, whenthe glass falls quickly, itmeans youwill see a violentstorm, but one thatwill soonpass by. But when it fallsslow, as it is doing now, itmeans we may be in for anasty time of it, a storm of

someduration.”“Well, then, wemust see

all is secured in our cabins,what,Mr.Wentworth?”Frostsaid.

“I shouldn’t think thatwillbemuchofaproblemforme. I didn’t find room forabove half a dozen items inmycloset.Mycabin,Imean.A long and nasty storm, yousay,Captain?”

“It seems likely. But donot fear, Mr. Wentworth,Abigailisasoundship.”

At that Wentworthsmiled,asgenuineasmileasBiddlecombhadeverseenontheman.“Oh,Iamnotafraid,sir,”heassuredJack.“IthinkI would take the thrill of anear drowning over the slowdeathofamonotonousoceanvoyage. Perhaps even an

actual drowning would bepreferable.” He signaled forSimon to refill his glass, andJack wondered that anyonecouldbesoboredafterbeingunderwayforjustabitmorethan two days. IfWentworthdid not find the foulweathersufficiently thrilling, wouldhe throw himself overboardbefore they even raisedBarbados? Jackknew thathe

coulddonomorethanhope.

10

Dinner over, WilliamWentworth made hisawkward way around thetable in the ridiculously

small, cramped great cabin,thankingBiddlecombwithallthe enthusiasm he couldmuster for that tediousaffair,whichwasnotmuch.

He wondered vaguelywhere the dinner had comefrom. A rabbit fricassee andasparagus soup that wasreally quite good, certainlybeyondtheabilitiesofanyonehe had observed aboard that

wretched boat. Well beyondthe abilities of those whocould only facetiously becalled the cook and steward.If Wentworth had been ableto bring his own wine, anddine alone, he might haveactuallyenjoyedit.

Havingspentanhouranda half in the cabin, nearlychoking on the smokeproduced by Biddlecomb’s

noxious seagoing cigars, hefelt the need for a turn ondeck and some fresh airbefore he could return to thecramped but blessed privacyofhis cell.Hemadehiswaydown the alleyway ontowhichthegreatcabinopened,thewallsofwhichformedtheinboard side of his andFrost’s cabins, then up thecompanionway and through

thehatchtotheweatherdeck.Hewas not steady on his

feet, and moved fromhandhold to handhold toavoid taking an ignominioustumble. He had consumedquite a bit of wine, a bottlecumulatively during dinnerandthebetterpartofabottlein his cabin beforehand,fortifying himself for thatordeal. But still he had to

guessthatthiswasnotallthedoing of the alcohol, thatsurely themotionof the shiphad changed, and not for thebetter.

When he emerged ondeckhe found that themilkywhite sky of the morninghourshadbeenreplacedwithsomething altogether morethreatening.Thesunwas lostbehind a thick cover of

clouds, a variegated blanketthatwasgrayinplacesandinothers closer to black. Thesea was gray as well, a dullpewterstretchingoffineverydirection, the mounting chopcrested with whitecaps thatroiledandflashedcleartothehorizon. When Wentworthhad last been on deck theCapes were just astern ofthem, but now land was

nowhere to be seen. Itwas abitunsettling.

Having been born andraised in Boston, to a fatherwho owned a fleet ofmerchantmen, William wasfamiliar with shipping, or atleast that part that involvedtheshipbeingtiedtothedockand discharging a cargo. Hehad never actually been tosea, save for a few short

coasting voyages. Neverbeyond the sight of land.Other than knowing whatships looked like and asmattering of nomenclature(whichhedidn’treallycaretoknow,sinceafamiliaritywithwords like “yardarm” and“windlass” had such atradesmanqualityaboutit)heknewnothing of theways ofthe sea. That put him at a

terrific disadvantage onshipboard, and WilliamWentworth did not generallyenter into situations inwhichhewasatadisadvantage.

Despite his studiedindifference to the ways ofthe sea, however, he foundhimself irresistibly curiousabout thegoings-onondeck.The ship was tilted to oneside, and the high side, the

windward side, what thetarpaulinscalledthe“weatherside,”seemedtoofferabettervantage, so he walked up tothatsideandgrabbedon toathickblackrope,ignoringthetar that would invariably getonhishand,andlookedaloft.

Therewere twomennearthe top of the foremast andtwo near the top of themainmast and on each the

yardarms were all askew, asif something had gone verywrongwiththem.

No, not the yardarms,that’s not the word …Wentworth thought. He hadbeen corrected once in thatregard.Theseweretheyards.The yardarmswere a part ofthe yards, the very ends, heseemed to recall.Thosewerethetopgallantyardsonwhich

theywereworking.The Abigail bucked and

plunged and rolled in themounting seas and the tallmasts described wild circlesagainst the gray sky but themenaloft seemed toworkasif they were standing on theground.Wentworth had seencountless men working aloftbut always at anchor, or tiedto a wharf. It had not

occurred to him how verymuchmore difficult itwouldbe to do thatworkwhen theshipwasrollingso.Ifhehadthought about it he wouldhave realized that such wasobviouslythecase,buthehadneverthoughtaboutit.

The men aloft weremoving fast. The yards roseand tilted until they werenearly vertical, and then

together, like achoreographed dance, theywere lowered away towardthedeck.Themaintopgallantyard reached the deck first,byamatterofseconds,andafewofthetarpaulinsgrabbedit in their arms and eased itdown the rest of the way.They let out a cheer as theydid, and William realizedthey had been engaged in

some sort of competition,foremastagainstmainmast,toseewhichcouldgettheiryarddown to the deck thequickest.

Whyshouldtheygotoallthis effort to take the yardsdown, he wondered, whenone assumes they will justhave to put them back upagain?

As the fresh air and the

bracing wind and theoccasional shower of spraycleared his head he realizedthat there was considerablymore activity on deck and inthe rigging than he hadinitially thought. Men werealoft with great tendrils offuzzy rope, like enormouscaterpillars, and they seemedto be wrapping them aroundvarious thicker ropes. Others

were hovering around theanchorsforward,thoughwhattheymightbedoing,Williamcouldnotimagine.Surely thewater is too deep for theiruse,hethought.

He looked aft. CaptainBiddlecomb was there,conferring with the mate, aman named Tucker, herecalled.ThenTuckernoddedhis head and stepped off

forward, leaving Biddlecombalone by the helm, handsclaspedbehindhisback,eyesaloft. He had none of thesupercilious look of a self-important mechanic thatWilliam had come toassociate with Biddlecomb.The fellow styled himselfcaptain though he wascertainly younger even thanWentworth’s two and twenty

years. He was the sort whomightape theconventionsofa formal dinner with no realunderstanding of how such athing was to be executed.Now, that facile look, thatpretentiousquality,wasgone,andinitsplacewasalookofcommand,andWilliamfounditintriguing.

Despite himself he let goof the rope and stumbled his

way aft. The cannons, henoticed, had been quitethoroughly lashed in place.Whereas before they hadsimplybeen runoutwith theblock and tackle attached totheir sides hauled taut andmade fast, now thebreechings were also hauledtaut and seized, and variousother ropes wrapped aboutandsecuredtotheeyeboltsin

thebulwark.Better those should stay

where they are, he thought,touchinghishandtothecold,wetironofoneofthebarrelsas he passed. Biddlecombpulled his eyes from therigging for amere second asWentworth approached,enough to give a nod of thehead and the greeting, “Mr.Wentworth,” before looking

aloftagain.“So,Captain,pray, is this

your storm?” Wentworthasked,speakingloudoverthewind.

Biddlecomb gave him acurious look, a hint of smileplaying on his lips. “This?The storm? No, sir, nothingof the kind. If a storm wereone’s wedding night, thiswouldbebutthefirstkiss.”

“Indeed,” Wentworthsaid, refusing to giveBiddlecomb the satisfactionof appearing shocked at sobawdy a metaphor. He hadbeen a perfect ass toBiddlecomb,ofcourse,whichhe did not necessarily regret.He considered himself underno obligation to be kind tothose below his station, andonlyforreasonsofduty,self-

interest,andsocialobligationwashepolite to those fewatorabovehisstation.Butsucha policy had itsinconveniences, like now,when he was looking foranswers and foundBiddlecomb disinclined toconversewithhim.

“But tellme,”Wentworthpersisted,“whyarethosementakingtheyardsdown?Don’t

you need them up to safelynavigatethestorm?”

Biddlecomb again turnedhiseyestoWentworth.“Haveyou never been to sea, Mr.Wentworth?”heasked.

“No, indeed, I have not,not beyond sight of land atany rate,” Wentworth said,surprising himself with hiscandor even as the wordswere leaving his lips. This

curiosity about something asbase as the seaman’s tradewasunseemly,buthewasnotable to help himself, like agluttonattable.

“Well, here’s how thematter lies,” Biddlecombsaid, his patronizing tone sosubtle it might have beenmissed ifWentworthhadnotbeen looking out so keenlyfor it. “A ship is a carefully

balanced thing, theweightofher top-hamper, that is, hermasts, rigging, sails, andsuch,thepressureofthewindonhersails,actingagainsttheweight of her hull. Inmoderate weather, thatbalance is just right with thet’gallantgear inplace,butasthe wind builds we muststrikeitalltodeckorwewillbe … one might say top-

heavy, for want of a betterterm.”

Wentworth followedBiddlecomb’s eyes aloft andsaw thatnow themenon thefore andmainwere loweringthose upper masts down aswell. “And the next level ofmasts, will those also betakendown?”

“Tops’l yards andtopmasts? No, indeed. The

tops’lsareourmostimportantsails,we shall keep those foraslongasweareable,thoughyoucansee they’re reefedasdeep as can be. Again, thebalance is the critical thinghere.Ifwereducetheweightaloft too greatly, well, then,ratherthanenjoyanice,slowroll, the ship will roll veryquickly. In that case shemightrollsoquickshe’llroll

themastsrightoutofher.”“I see…” said William,

and though he had in factonlyunderstooda fractionofwhat Biddlecomb said, hewas not about to ask forclarification.

“But never you fear, Mr.Wentworth,” Biddlecombcontinued,“wejollytarshaveit well in hand, and there islittle chance that the

gentleman will have to haulwiththemariner.”

With that not so subtledismissal, andnotwishing toexpose himself to thepossibility of insult he couldnot ignore, WilliamWentworthnoddedhisthanksfor the information andresumed his place at theweather side. The shipseemed abnormally crowded,

and he realized that ratherthan allow half the crew toloiter intheforecastleaswasthe usual custom,Biddlecomb must haveorderedallthehandstoworkon the deck. This seemed toWilliam a reasonable enougharrangementandhewonderedthatitwasnotmoregenerallythecase.

After some time of

watching the activity aloftandalow,Williamfoundthatthe motion of the ship, theheavy meal, and the winewere all conspiring to makehim drowsy, so he quit thedeckandmadehiswaybackto his cabin. The tiny spacegalled him, and hewas quitecertain that Biddlecomb hadpurposelydoubledthesizeofFrost’scabin,andnothis,for

justthatreason.Hecouldnot,of course, complain about it,as that would make himsoundtoopetulantbyhalf,sohe resolved to endure it untilsuch time as he could exactsomerevenge.

In this case, however, hewas too tired to be muchupset with his sleepingarrangement, so he floppeddown in his coffinlike bed

andclosedhiseyesandsoonhe was quite dead to theworld.

Hewoke some time laterto a heavy thud and atrembling that jarred himawake,asifGodhimselfhadrapped on the outside of thehull.Helayquiet,eyesopen,though he could see nothing,thedarknesshavingsetin.Hethought at first there was

something wrong with hishead,orperhapstheeffectofthe liquor had somehowmultiplied as he slept,becauseeverythingseemedtobe moving, rising up andswooping down and tossingside to side. He could hearcreaking such as he had notnoticed earlier in the voyageand again and again thesmacking on the hull,

sounding for all theworld asif something had collidedwiththeship.

As William shook offsleep he realized that thestorm had intensified, andwhat he was feeling andhearingwastheshipworkingin the mounting seas andwind. He braced himselfagainst the sides of his bedand in doing so realized that

the criblike nature of thething, which he hadconsidered absurd at firstglance, actually made somesense.

This is absolutemadness,he thought. From the soundof it, it seemed impossiblethat the ship was not beingtornapartbytheseas.Hewasnotafraid,ofcourse.WilliamWentworth was genuinely a

stranger to fear. His wealthand standing were such thathehadalwaysbeenshelteredfromthecommonanxietiesoflife, never wanting for thebasics,ortheluxuries,either.He was naturally strong andathletic, which had alwaysgivenhimadominanceinanysortofphysicalendeavor.Hewasanexpertwithpistolandsword,andsothosefewtimes

when his behavior had beenso inexcusable as to result inan affair of honor, concernover the outcome had nevergivenhimpause.Norhadheever been scratched by bladeorball.

And so, lying in his darkcell,listeningtothefearsomepounding that the cockleshellof a ship was receiving,holding on with hands and

feettokeepfrombeingtossedto the floor,he felt a thrill, afiringofallhisnervesthatherarely experienced in thewell-ordered, luxurious,tailored life of breeding thatwas the birthright of anyWentworth of the BostonWentworths. He would notcall it fear, but itwas a nearrelativeof that emotion.Andhelikedit.

Movingcarefullywiththerolloftheship,heswunghislegsovertheedgeofthebed,held himself in place as theship rolled to starboard, thenlet themomentumof the rolltolarboardpitchhimout.Hefound a handhold on thecabin bulkhead and steadiedhimself, let his legs get thefeel for the motion of theship.

Sea legs, that’s what thetarpaulinscall it,he thought.Imustgetmysealegs.

The Wentworths’ familybutler, who had packedWilliam’s numerous trunks,had had the good sense toincludeanoilskin jacket,andWilliam had had the goodsensetotakeitfromthetrunkbefore it and the rest werestowed below. He felt along

the cabin wall until his handfellontheslicksurfaceofthegarment. He lifted it off thehook, felt for the cabindoor,and stepped out into thealleyway.

Itwasnotsodarkthere.Alantern hung at the far end,where the alley opened ontothe main deck, a wildlyswinging tin lantern, ametalcylinderperforatedwithholes

that gave off the feeblest oflight, but after the blacknessof the cabin it seemed quitebrightindeed.

William stopped belowthe lanternandsortedouthisoilskinandshruggediton,noeasy taskwith themotion ofthe ship threatening to tosshim to the deck, and forcinghim to grab for a handholdevery few seconds.Once the

coatwas on and buttoned hestaggered forward, grabbingat the ladder that led upthroughthescuttlejustastheAbigail took a sickening rolltoleeward.

He steadied himself andlooked up, and for his effortreceived a great bucketful ofwater in the face, such acascadedownthescuttle thathe might have thought

someonehad flung it onhimpurposely, except that it wasagreaterdelugethananyonebucket could hold. He spitand shook his head andthoughthowcomic thatmusthaveappeared,histakingthatwater in the face, and howverymanypeoplewouldhavedelighted to see him soincommoded, JackBiddlecomb foremost among

them.Wentworth wiped his

eyes, grabbed hold of eitherside of the ladder, andclimbed slowly up throughthe small open scuttle andonto the weather deck. Andtherehefound,tohisgenuineastonishment, that what hehadthoughtwasawildscenedown below was cigars andbrandy in the parlor

compared to the worldtopside.

11

Theairwasfilledwithwater,driving sideways, andWentworth would have beensoakedinstantlyifhehadnot

been soaked already. Heblinked and squinted. Hecouldnottellifitwasrainorspray or both. What rigginghe could see was either bartautorwhippingwildlyinthewind. The ship took a hardroll to leeward and Williamstaggered and felt himselfgoingdown.Heflungouthisarms,flailingforsupport.Hishands fell on a rope, waist

high and hove so tight thatwereitnotforthecoarsefeelof the fibers he might havemistakenitforanironrail.

Now that’s damnedconvenient, he thought as heclung to the rope, holdinghimself upright on the slickdeck as the ship rose andplunged. He could not recalltherope’sbeingtherebefore.Hewonderedwhatpurposeit

served.Out of the dark a shape

materialized, a man movingaft, his hand on the ropeWilliam gripped.A bigman.The Irishman Biddlecombhad knocked senseless, herealized.

“Beg pardon, sir,” theman said, loud, his voice adeep growl, the wordsrespectful but the tone pure

irritation. He stepped aroundWilliam and continued aft.Williamrealizedthenthattherope was there for just thethinghewasusingitfor,asahandholdformovingforeandaft.

Well, I guess even thetarpaulins don’t have theirsea legs about them all thetime, he thought, and thethought made him feel a bit

better about his own failuresin that regard, the stumblingandthewaterintheface.

Aftereventhefeeblelightofthehold,ittookhiseyesamomenttoadjust tothealienworld on deck, but slowly itall seemed to resolve itselfout of the dark, worse eventhan he had thought. Thegreat, black, curling wavescame rolling up out of the

night, rolling up under theAbigail’s starboard bow,lifting the ship up, up, as ifshe might be tossed aside,then moving under her andsending her bow down in asickening, twisting motionintothetrough.

And then the blunt,unyielding bow would strikethe sea, the ship and oceanslamming into one another

like some ancient contestantsfor this patch of wateryterritory. The ship wouldshudder to thedeepestplacesof her oak-and-yellow-pinebeing, and then shoulder thesea aside, sending a greatsprayofsaltwaterhighintheairanddippingtherailunderuntiltheseasraninchesdeepdown the deck, breakingaround the legs of the men

working there, breakingagainst the great guns fixedby their lashings, like surfagainst outcroppings of rockonsomejaggedcoast.

Wentworth stared. Hecouldnotpullhiseyesaway.The sight was magnificent,frightening and awe-inspiring, wonderful andsickeningall atonce.Hehadneverseenanythinglikeit,or

felt the wild surge of powerthe great seas bore on theirbacks. He smiled, got amouthful of water, half rain,half spray, and spit it out onthedeck,aware that thatwasprobablythefirsttimehehadeverspitinpublic,evenifnoonewaspayingattention.

He turnedand lookedaft.There was the faintest oflights there, and William

guessed that the fellowsteering the ship neededillumination of some sort bywhich to see the compass.Two fellows, actually, thewheel was double-mannednow.Hecould justmakeoutthe shape of JackBiddlecomb, perhaps twenty-five feet away, standingpretty much where he hadbeen standing when William

hadlastbeenondeck.Has he left that spot at

all? William thought. Jackwas now wearing an oilskincoat and a hat, and Williamwondered if he had gonebelow stairs to fetch themorif he had that horrible littleweasel of a steward bringthemondeck.Hecouldmakeout something odd about therigging on the mizzenmast,

but it took a minute ofsquintingandblinkingbeforehe realized that theyhad tiedaclothofsomedescriptiontothe heavier ropes, and thatmust be providing somedegree of shelter toBiddlecomb and thehelmsmen.

For the second time thatday Wentworth’s curiosityoverwhelmed his natural

inclination to avoid the likesof Biddlecomb, or to giveBiddlecomb the satisfactionof showing himself to beignorant on any subject.Hands on the taut rope, hemadehiswayaft, pausing asthe ship rolled hard towindward,threateningtopullhis grip free, then tumblingalong as the ship plungeddownagain.

It took what seemed aninordinately long time tocover the twenty-five feetback to thehelm,buthewasrewarded with a look ofsurprise on Biddlecomb’sfacewhenthecaptainrealizedwho it was moving aft.Wentworth stepped into theleeofthecanvaslashedtotherigging and suddenly thenoise and the flying water

diminishedbyhalf.“Captain!” Wentworth

shouted.“Itwouldappearyouhaveyourstormnow!”

“A damp evening, Mr.Wentworth, to be sure!”Biddlecombshoutedback.

“Haveyou…”Wentworthbegan, paused to spit out amouthful of water, beganagain.“Haveyoueverseenastorm so fierce as this?” he

shouted.Once again Biddlecomb

gave him that curious look,thelookofvagueamusement,and Wentworth felt himselfflush with irritation andannoyance for allowingBiddlecomb the upper hand.“We’restillcarryingforeandmain tops’ls!” Biddlecombshouted, as if that was somesort of an explanation. “This

is far fromwhat Iwouldcalla terrific storm. But if it isany comfort to you, itpromises to get tolerablyworse in the next few hours.Weshallbehanding the foretops’ldirectly.”

“Handing?” Wentworthshouted.

“Furling! Tying it up totheyard!”

Wentworth looked up,

toward the foremast, but thesailwas lost in thenight.Hecould see someone comingaft along the lifeline and hethought it to be Mr. Tucker,the mate. Wentworthstaggeredas theAbigail tooka particularly ugly roll,releasedthelifeline,andleaptfor the weather shrouds,taking a firm grip on theheavy,tarred,unyieldingrope

as Tucker came aft.Biddlecomb was shouting toTucker, thoughnomore thanafewfeetseparatedthemen,and Wentworth heard himsay, “Let’s hand the foretops’l,Mr.Tucker, andwe’llseehow long she’ll bear thatfores’l!”

“Handtheforetops’l,aye,sir!” Tucker shouted andheaded back the way he had

come.ItwascleartoWentworth

evenfromthefewwordstheyhad thus far exchanged thatBiddlecombwas in nomoodfor conversation, whichWentworthcouldunderstand,even if he didn’t care.“Captain!” he shouted.“Surely you don’t mean themenwillclimbupthere?”Hepointed in the general

directionoftheforetopmast.“Ido. Iknowofnoother

waytohandasail.”“That’s madness!”

Wentworth shouted. He hadnever really thought aboutwhat the tarpaulinswoulddoin a truly biblical storm,because he never put muchthought into what the lowersort did, as long as theycontinued to do it. Had he

thought about it he wouldhave guessed they would allhuddle below and drinkthemselves to insensibilityuntil either the storm passedor they all drowned. Butapparentlynot.

“Will you go up there?”Wentworthshouted.

“That is no longer myplace, Mr. Wentworth!”Biddlecomb replied, also

shouting above the shriek ofthewind,awkwardconditionsfor discourse. “I am one ofyour middling sort who nowthinks himself a gentleman,and as such I will not haulwiththemariner!”

Wentworth opened hismouth to protest butBiddlecombcuthimoff.“Seehere, Wentworth, I have notime for this! It would be

better was you to go below,but if you will not, prayunderstandthatifyou’rehurt,atbestwecanstuffyoudownthe hatch. If you gooverboardwecandonothingatall.Now,pleaseforgivemydiscourtesy!” With that heturnedandworkedhiswayafew feet aft to where thehelmsmen wrestled with thewheel and, leaning close to

the binnacle, studied the setofthecompass.

As a matter of reflexWentworth ran those wordsoverinhismindtodetermineif they called for hisdemanding satisfaction. Theywere dismissive, to be sure,butwere they insulting?Andif they were, couldWentworth forgive them,based on the fact that

Biddlecomb’s ship wasclearly falling apart aroundhim, and he was no doubtextremely frightened.Generally,Wentworthdidnotfeel extenuatingcircumstances should excuseanother’sbehavior.

The ship rolled again, adeep, stomach-turning,twistingrollthatsetthemaststo swaying and the rigging

slatting and banging, andWentworth recalled thatBiddlecomb had claimed themen would actually beinduced to climb up into therigging and hand the foretopsail, those drunken,miserable insubordinatemalingerers risking theirnecks to save a bit ofOxnard’s canvas. Wentworththoughtitveryunlikely.

He waited until the shiphit the trough and the seascascadeddown thedeck, andas she rolled back, as shecameontoanevenkeel forasecondor two, ready to crestthe next roller, Wentworthlaunched himself from themizzen shrouds and grabbedup the lifeline and staggeredforward. When the Abigail’smen refused to obey orders

and knocked Tucker on thehead and retreated below,Wentworth wanted thesatisfactionofseeingitall.

He moved forward. Thestorm, he realized, wasindeed growing worse. Thenote that thewindmadeas ittore through the rigging waspitchedhigher, themotionoftheshipmorepronounced.Asthenextrollercameupunder

herandherbowrosetomeetit,ithungthereforalonganduncertain moment, as if shipand sea were pausing todecide if this should be anend to it. And then the bowplunged down again, theangle more pronounced, theimpact with the sea makingthe vessel shudder in a wayshehadnotdonebefore.

Onceagaintheseascame

overthebow,notinchesdeepthistimebutfeetdeep,agreatRed Sea on the charioteersarrayed around thedeck, andeven Wentworth, standingamidships, found himselfburied up to his knees. Hisshoes, stockings, andbreeches were soakedthrough, and though hisoilskin had been doing anoble job of keeping the

water at bay, it, too, waslosingthebattle,thecoldrainand spray working its waydown his collar, soaking hiscoat,waistcoat,andshirt.

The foremast hands werestanding in clusters, a clusterto larboard, a cluster tostarboard,agroupatthebaseofthemast.Thewaterrushedalongthedeckandthemenatthe larboard rail were waist

deep in it as the newbulwarks held the boardingseas in like a cistern beforethey could gush through theopengunports.Themenwerehauling on the rigging,pulling, swaying, staggeringfromtheimpactofthewater.Wentworth looked aloft andhe thought he could see thesail being hauled up like acurtaintotheyard,butitwas

so dark it would have beenhard to seeeven if the flyingwaterwasnotblindinghim.

Whatever ropes the menwerehauling,theyapparentlyhad hauled enough. Theymade them fast and thenbegan working their way upto the weather side, movingslowly and deliberately fromone handhold to another,seemingly oblivious to the

seas crashing around theirlegs and sometimes swirlinguptotheirwaists.

If that sail is hauled up,I’m sure there’ll be no needfor them to climb up there,Wentworth thought,but evenasheconsideredit,thefirstofthe men grabbed hold of theweather shrouds, climbed upon the pin rail, up onto thebulwark, then stepped onto

the ratlines and made hislaboredwayaloft.

My dear Lord …Wentworth thought as hewatched another and anotherof the men make the sametricky move from deck toshrouds.Hehadseenthemdothisbefore,whentheweatherwas fair, and theyallbut ranas they headed aloft, but thiswassomethingverydifferent.

Each step was a laboredmotion, and when the shiprolled to weather andthreatened to fling them offthe ropes and into the blackcauldrontheyclungtightanddid not move, and when theshiprolledtheotherwayandpressedthemintotheshroudsthey scrambled up, one, two,three ratlines, using theslingshot motion of the ship

toeasetheirway.Andsotheywent,nearlyallthehands,byWentworth’s count, up alofttobattlewiththeforetopsail,whichhecouldhearfloggingand slamming in a mostdiscomfortingmanner.

But toWentworth, itwasall discomforting. Anyreasonable man, of course,would have beendiscomforted by the fact that

theshipwascaughtinanepicstorm, laid nearly on herbeam ends with everymassive wave, shipping tonsof water that ran like aswollen river down her deckand threatened to carry allaway before it. But none ofthose things bothered him,not really. He was botheredby the sight of the menclimbing aloft, and the

thoughtthathehimselfmightnothavethenervetodoit.

Nonsense … he toldhimself.Ifitwashisbusinessto climb up into the riggingthen he would climb up intotherigging.Ifheremainedondeckitwassimplybecausehewas born to a higher station,andamanofhispositionandnative ability did not debasehimselfwithbrutelabor.

An excuse, a weakexcuse…he chided himself.Of course he could climb upthere with them, the damnedbloody tarpaulins—theremost assuredly was nothingthey could do that he couldnot.

Biddlecomb is notclimbingaloft…heremindedhimself. Even he feels it’sbelow his station. But

Biddlecomb’s words hadsuggested that he had, in thepast, gone aloft in such astorm. Wentworth loosenedhisgriponthelifeline,tookastep toward theshrouds, thenstepped back again andrenewedhisholdontherope.

No.Hewouldnot.But not for want of

courage.Hewassatisfiedthatitwas not fear that kept him

on deck. Rather, it was theabsolute certainty that oncehe was up aloft he wouldhavenonotionofwhattodo,a humiliating circumstance.He could face the possibilityof an ugly death, butembarrassment was morethanhewaswillingtorisk.

Soon the men climbingaloft disappeared into thedarkness and Wentworth

turned andmade his way aftoncemore.Thewindwaslikeasolid thing thatpushedhimsideways, hard against thelifelineashestruggledalong.What little regularity therehadbeenintheship’smotionseemed gone now, and sherolledandbuckedandheeledwith no method to themadness.Thegreatseasliftedherbowand tossedheraside

and she lay down on herleeward side, the waterboiling up through thegunports, themasts groaningeven over the cumulativenoisesofshipandstorm.

Wentworth was thrownagainstthelifelineastheshiprolled farther than she hadrolledyet.Hehungthereandthey paused, man and ship,and Wentworth wondered if

shewould comeupagain, orif shewould lie there on herbeam ends until another searolled her over completely.But then, with a slow anddeliberate motion, a fighterknocked down but unwillingto stay down, Abigail shookoff the tons of seawater onher deck and slowly stoodagain,readyforthenext.

William had nearly

reached the mizzenmastbefore he could make outBiddlecomb standing wherehehad lefthim,onehandonthe lifeline, unmoving, andWentworth resisted a naturaltendency to find somethingcomforting in the captain’sstolid aura of command.Wentworth paused, not sureof where he should go. Hecouldnotstandthethoughtof

going below with all thishappeningondeck,buthedidnot think he was particularlywelcome on the quarterdeck.Wentworth,however,didnotmuch care where he waswelcome and where not, sohe made his way further aftand resumed his place at themizzen shrouds, sheltered bytheclothlashedthere.

Biddlecomb did not

move, only glanced over athim, then turnedandshoutedsomething to the helmsmen,but the words were whippedaway fromWentworth’s earsby the banshee wind. Theystood there, Wentworth andBiddlecomb, unmoving savefor the constant effortrequired just to keep theirfeet. The ship rose and themen at the helm turned the

wheelhard,easedit,turneditthe other way. The bowplunged down again,scoopingtheseasandsendingthem cascading down thedeck until, to Wentworth’sastonishment,therewasneveraplank tobeseen, theentiredeck was submerged, mastsand fife rails rising up as iffromthebottomofthesea.

Incredible…

Abigail rolled and thewater broke against thebulwark and jetted out thegunports around the muzzlesof the guns and everythinggroaned and clattered androared and screamed. Thenthe ship rolled again, rolledhardasabigcombercameupunderherbow,rolledfaroveron her beam ends soWentworthwassurethemain

yardarm had gone in thewater. She hung there, thenrolled back, and as she didanother wave broke over herweather bow and a greatsurge of black water cametearingdownthelengthofthedeck. Wentworth twined anarm through the mizzenshrouds and grabbed holdwith both hands. He heardBiddlecomb shout a warning

tothehelmsmen.Theboardingseasmashed

against themainmast,againstthemizzen,buriedthefiferailin tumbling foam, hit theguns with a terrific force,burying them, too, rollingover them, sinkingBiddlecomb and thehelmsmen up to theirwaists,Wentworth on the weatherside up to his knees. The

Abigailstaggeredlikeshehadtaken a blow to the head,righted herself in a groggyroll, shed the seas from herdeckswithawaterfallsound.

Wentworth let out hisbreath, which he realized hehad been holding.Biddlecomb was shouting tothe helmsmen. The shipbegan to rise again on thenext wave and suddenly

Wentworth caught a motionto leeward, like some greatanimal waking up.Biddlecomb saw it too,lookedoverquick,andabovethe wind Wentworth heardhim shout, “Oh, damn myeyes!”astheybothrealizedinthat instant that theaftermostgun had broken clean out ofitslashings.

12

A loose cannon … Williamhad heard that expressionoften enough, had used ithimself. It meant someone

who was unpredictable, adanger.Buthehadnoideaofthe real implications of theterm.Untilnow.

The water poured offAbigail’s deck as the bowclimbed on the next roller,and the gun, which certainlyweighedaboveatonandwasmountedonwheels,began tocareen aft, rolling downhill,as it were. Biddlecomb

allowed himself a second ortwo at most to evaluate thesituation, then he duckedunder the lifeline andstumbled toward the gun,slipping, falling, pullinghimselfup.

Stupidbastard,whatdoeshe hope to achieve?Wentworth thought but he,too, was moving in thatinstant. He let go of the

shroudandtheshiprolledandhefelthisfeetcomeoutfromunder him as he went down,slamming shoulder-first intothe deck. He tried to pushhimself up but themotion oftheshipheldhimflat.Hehada sudden vision of being runover by the cannon, butremembered that the skylightandtheraisedoverheadofthegreatcabinwerebetweenhim

andit.He put his hands against

the wet deck planks andpushedandthentheboardingsea rolled over him, swirlinghimaway, tumblinghim likea toy boat in a stream. Hismouth was full of salt waterand his legs and arms flailedfor something to grab. Heslammed into someunyielding thing, felt the

sharp pain in his side fromthe impact, but he grabbed itand held on as the waterdrained away. Some sort oflow wooden device with aheavy rope wrapped aroundit.Hefeltahandonhiscollarand before he quite knewwhat was happening he waslifted to his feet.He grabbedhold of the bulwark and thehelmsman who had picked

himupsaid,“Keepaweathereye out for them boardingseas!”

He nodded and lookedtoward the leeward side.Biddlecomb was splayed outover the skylight and the biggun was rolling forward. Itslammedintooneofitsmatesand staggered to a stop andBiddlecomb pushed off andwentafterit.

Wentworth’sheadclearedand he waited until the shipwasmoreupright, then racedforward,grabbing the lifelineand ducking under it. Thebow rose and the gun begancareening back again and hejumpedupontheraisedcabintopasBiddlecombleaptontooneofthestationarygunsandthe great iron brute rolledpast, knocking the wheel off

another gun carriage andslewingsideways.

Wentworth’s hand fell onthe rail around themizzenmast.Therewerecoilsof rope there that seemed tobe serving no purpose so hesnatched one up and foundthe bitter end. He was nomariner,nojollyjack-tar,buthe had considerableexperiencewithhorses,some

of them quite wild. He leaptasthegunslammedtoastop,tookseveralturnsoftheropearound the muzzle, and heldtight.

“Belay that! Belay it!”Biddlecomb shouted butWentworth could only shakehis head to indicate that hedid not understand. Then thebowplungeddownagainandthe gun rolled away and the

rope tore throughWentworth’s hands, whichwerenaturally soft andmadesofter still by the constantsoakingofthepasthours.Heshoutedwith pain and let goandthegunslammedforwardagain, smashing into themiddlegunandthreateningtotearthatonefreeaswell.

Where in all hell iseveryone? Wentworth

wondered. Why are webloody all alone? And thenhe realized that the restmuststill be aloft, and thehelmsmenunabletoletgoofthewheel.Therewas no oneelse.

He picked up the ropeagain, ignoring the burningagonyofhispalms.“Ifitrollsaway it’ll smash through theside!” he shouted to

Biddlecomb.“Damntheside,letitgo!”

Biddlecomb shouted back.“Wemuststopitfrom—”

He managed to say nomore than that. The ship hitthe trough and twisted androlled and the seas camecrashing aft and WentworthandBiddlecombcoulddonomore than hang on to keepfrombeingsweptaway.Then

thebowbegantoriseandthegun began to roll aft,smashing into the raisedhatch, bouncing off, movingfaster as the deck slantedsteeper and steeper.Biddlecomb leapt forwardandloopedaropearoundthegun’s cascabel andWentworth got his ropearoundthemuzzleagain,andhe saw that rather than hold

the rope,Biddlecombtwistedit around a substantial-lookingwoodenbeam,lettingthewood take the strain, nothishands.

“Belay your line! Tie itoff!” Biddlecomb shoutedand Wentworth lookeddesperately around forsomethingtotieitto.Thelineonthecascabelcametaut,thegreat gun tipped and pivoted

on the steep wet deck.Wentworth tried to hold hislinebutevenifhishandshadnotbeenflayedhewouldnothave been able to do so, andhe let it go before it didfurtherdamagetohisflesh.

The gun twisted on thelineBiddlecombwastending,the barrel cleared the raisedoverhead, spinning under itsown weight. In the binnacle

light Wentworth could justmake out the looks of terroronthefacesofthehelmsmenand then they released thewheel and leapt clear,larboardandstarboard,asthecannon swung around andsmashed into the wheel, twotons of gun and carriagehitting the fragile steeringgear and smashing it tokindling.

“Damn it!” Biddlecombshouted and he dropped thelineandranaft.“Grabuptherelieving tackle!” hescreamed as loud as he wasable, and he could just beheard above the wind.Wentworth looked around.He did not know whatrelieving tackle was. Andthen he realized Biddlecombwascalling to thehelmsmen,

nothim.Abigail fell off the wave

andherbowcamedownandthegunstaggeredandswayedand lifted on its two leftwheels. It hung there for anawful moment and thentoppledover,hittingthedeckwith an impact thatWentworth could feel in hisshoes,evenwithalltheothershuddering and banging of

the ship in the seaway.Withpalpable maliciousness thegun began to slide forward,swinging around as ifreachingoutforWentworth’slegs. He glanced up butBiddlecomb was yelling atthe helmsmen and pointingforward and paying not theleastattentiontothegun.

Wentworthleaptupastheship rolledunderhimandhe

camedownon the cabin top.Theropehehadmadefasttothe muzzle was still there,and as the barrel swungtoward him he jumped overit, snatched up the rope, andleaptbacktosafety.

Abigail was twisting androlling in a way she had notbefore, turning sideways totheseas,themonstrouswavescoming not so much on her

bow as right amidships, andtheship in turnrolledfurtherand further and the straincame on the rope as the gunreacted to the increasingslopeofthedeck.

But now Wentworth wasready. He jumped from thecabin top, clawed hisway tothe weather rail, the deckbecoming more vertical, andjustasthegunwasstartingto

build genuine momentum inits slidehewrapped the ropearoundthebeamthatwastheopposite number to the oneBiddlecomb had used. Theline came tight, the beamcreakedundertheweight,butthe gun ceased its downhillslide.

Wentworth looked forBiddlecomb, hoping to sharehis triumph, but Biddlecomb

wasnowheretobeseen.Hashe abandoned his post?Wentworth thought, but amotion above caught his eyeand when he looked up hecouldjustmakeoutthefigureof a man—Biddlecomb, hewas sure—clinging to themizzen shrouds above hishead, one hand holding theshroud, the other flailing outwithaknife,cuttingthelines

thatheld the sail lashed tighttothemizzenmast.Witheachlinehecut,moreandmoreofthe sail, the mizzen sail,Wentworth believed it wascalled, spread to the wind,floggingandbeating.

Abigail continued to roll.Thiswas not like before, thedip and rise with the seasmovingunder.Shewasgoingover now, with the defeated

feel of a ship thatwould notbe coming back up.Wentworth clung to theweather shrouds and tried tokeep his feet. The ropeholding the gun popped andthe gun slipped a few inchesand Wentworth knew that itwouldnotholdforlong.

More ropes, moreropes … he thought, ascoherent an idea as hismind

could form. There wasanother,rightunderhishand,and he grabbed it up and letgo of the shrouds. He halftumbledandhalfsliddowntothegun.Hisshoescamehardagainst the carriage andstoppedhisplungetowardtheleescuppers.Hewrappedtherope around the wheels,aroundthebarrel,thenturnedand crawled back toward the

weather side, crawled up thesteeplyslanting,wetdeck.Heclawed at the pin rail, pulledhimself up. He hauled theslack out of the rope as bestas he could and wrapped itaround the beam where hehadtiedtheother.

Biddlecomb was back ondeck.Hehalfsliddowntothecabin’s raisedoverhead,usedit to break his slide, then

scrambled aft. He climbedonto the smashed remains ofthe helm, reached up to theboom above his head, andyanked a coil of rope fromacleat there.Withadeftmovehetossedtheropesoitpayedout straight and draped overthecabintop.

“Haulonthat,Wentworth,haul for all you’re damnedworth!”heshouted,hisvoice

cracking with the effort, andthenBiddlecomblaidintotherope, heaving it out withquick jerks, and inchby inchthe corner of the floggingmizzen sail was draggedsnapping and beating to theendoftheboom.

Wentworth once againslid down the deck, stoppinghimself on the cabin top.Hesnatched up the rope and

shoutedinpain,confidentthewindwouldwhisk that showofweaknessaway.Hepulledas hard as he was able, butBiddlecomb looked over hisshoulder and shouted, “Withme!Hey,ho!”andashesaid“ho!”hejerkedtherope.

“Hey, ho!” Wentworthcaught on to the rhythm.“Hey,ho!”On thatnote theyhauled away, the wildly

beating sail coming undercontrol. The Abigail wasstanding more upright.Wentworth had one foot onthedecknow,oneonthesideof the raised overhead. Thewaterwasuptohiswaistbutitwasswirlingaway,rushingaft,crashingoverthetransomandthetaffrail,spewingfromthegunports.

“Hey, ho!” He had no

idea why they were pullingthis sail out, but they were,and it seemed to be helping.Then there were more handson the rope, men swarmingaround, and Wentworth sawthat the tarpaulins had comedown from aloft and nowtheywereputtingtheirweightintothepull.Biddlecombleftoff hauling and Wentworthdid aswell and soon the sail

washauledout,thelinemadefast.

Abigail’s motion wasmuch improved, her bowturned partially toward theseas, which broke aroundthem and sometimes overthem, sending the familiarrushofwateralongthedeck,but she did not seem indanger of turning over, andshewasnotmakingsowilda

corkscrew motion. He heardBiddlecombusethewordslieto and he guessed that waswhat they were doing,stopping, as it were, in themiddle of the storm, lettingtheship ride likeacorkovertheterriblewaves.

Andwiththat,Wentworthsensed the worst of theemergency had passed. Agang of men went forward,

morewentafttoexaminetheshattered helm. No one wassteeringbecausetheredidnotseem to be anything withwhich to steer. Biddlecomb,quite distracted by the manythings that required hisattention, finally noticedWilliam once again at themizzen weather shrouds. Hetook a step toward him.“Thankyou,Mr.Wentworth,

for your help,” he said.William nodded, a humbleacknowledgment of the facthe had doubtless saved theship. Then Biddlecombturned andmade his way aftto the rudder head, leavingWentworthtofeel, thoughhewouldneverarticulateit, thatmore might have been madeof his quick thinking andthoroughly seamanlike

actions.

***

For two days they remainedlying to as the storm blewitself out, and JackBiddlecomb did not like tothink on what a close runthing it had been. Suchdisasters,orneardisasters, inthis instance,were rarely theresult of one big blunder.

Theywere the result of littlemistakes built upon littlemistakes,likepilingstonesona board when those worthiesof old put someone to deathbypressing.

He had, without a doubt,held on to the fore topsaillonger than he should have,making every inch ofprogress he could on theproper course before he was

forced to turnand runwithadeepreefedforesailandmaintopsail and the wind betwixttwo sheets. A bully drivingcaptainhe,eagertobeknownasaboldyoungblade,willingtokeeptheshiponhercourselong after more timid soulswouldhavehadherscudding.Hehadnearlykilledthemallinprovinghimselfsuchafinefellow.

And because he had heldontosailforsolong,itcalledfor nearly all hands aloft totake it in, and aloft they hadbeen when the gun, thecursed gun, had torn free ofthe bulwark. That, at least,could not be laid at his feet.The lashings, which he hadinspected,hadheld, tightandtrue, while the ringbolts putin by those poxed dogs in

Philadelphia, who calledthemselves carpenters, hadtorncleanoutoftheside.

Wentworth had made adecent try of helping, Jackwouldnotbegrudgehimthat.Butifhehadhadthesensetobelay his line rather thantrying to hold it in his soft,barehands,tryingtostoptwotons of wood and iron fromcareening around the deck,

then it might not have takenthe helm clean out. And notjust the helm. The damnedthing, the damned viciousbeast had smashed throughthe helm and taken out thetiller behind it. If the tillerhad been spared they mighthave steered with therelieving tackles, but therewasnomorethanabarestubleft projecting from the

rudder head, and no relief tobefound.

And thus, in amatter forthirty or forty seconds, theship had gone from a vesselriding out a brutal storm inrelatively good order to onewith steering gone, turningsidewaystothemassiveseas,rollingonherbeamendsandbeyond, with a two-toncannon charging around the

quarterdeck and all hands upaloft, save for two seamenand some macaroni of alandlubber.

They that go down to thesea on ships, and do theirworkongreatwaters…

Jack had never beenaboard a ship that had comethat close to rolling cleanover.LucasHarwarandJohnBurgesshadbeenatthehelm

and he sent them forward tohaul up the weather clew ofthe foresail while he set themizzen in hopes that thatbalanceofsailwouldturntheship like aweathervane intothewind.

In truth, he had notthought it would work, ormore accurately, he felt surethe Abigail would roll cleanover and take them all down

before the sails could haveany effect. Even as he wasslashingatthemizzengasketswith his knife, Jack figuredhe was just killing time,amusing himself for a fewseconds before that last wildrideastheshiprolledover,ashe found himself clinging tothe shrouds, the sea roilingaround him, his own shipdragging him down. Would

he kick for the surface? Hecouldswim,anoddityamongmariners, but would he havesenseenoughtonotbother,tojust take that big lungful ofwaterthatwouldenditall?

But that opportunity, thatchance to discover what hewas made of when standingon the thresholdofmortality,would have to wait. Oncethey had hauled the mizzen

out,theshipactuallybehavedas he thought she might,turning slowly up into thewind, shaking off the waterthatfloodedherdeck.

Two reasons now to hatethedamnedguns.Thefirst,ofcourse,was theway thatoneof that tribe had tried tosmash every bit of deckfurniture aft, and had takenthe steering out in the

attempt. The other was thebulwarks required to mountthem. When Abigail hadsportedrailsaroundherupperworks the seas had washedright over her, unimpeded.Now the bulwarks held theboarding water in, like herdeck was some sort ofwooden mill pond, tons ofsalt water that left the shipwallowing and unresponsive

as it slowly and laboriouslycleared.

They had trimmed themizzen, trimmed the maintopsail,hauleduptheforesail,set the fore topmast staysailand finally found the rightbalanceofcanvas thatwouldkeepAbigail shouldering theseas with her rudder gone.Theywereatthemercyofthewindandthebreakingwaves,

driven in whatever directionthe storm chose, and whileJack had only a rough senseofwhereonthewateryglobethey were, he was fairlycertain that there were manyhundreds of leagues of deepwater between his ship andthe nearest hazard tonavigation.

There was no chance ofmoving the wayward cannon

in those conditions so theytrebledthelashinguntil therewas a ridiculous amount ofrope holding the thing inplace, andpreventing it fromfurther movement. With thatsecured, they turned to thenext most dire problem,which was the fact thatAbigail had no means bywhichshecouldbesteered.

Indriving rain andwinds

thatgusted to sixtyknots, byJack’s well-practicedestimate, with seas stillrunning feet deep along thedeck, he and Burgess, whowas a hand with tools, andHarwar and Tucker hadpoundedthestumpoftheoldtiller out of the rudder head,hadshippedthenewtillerandrigged therelieving tackle.Afour-hour job in fineweather

hadtakenthemtwodays,andjust as the storm was rollingpastandtheseasreturningtoa human scale, they onceagain were able to steer theship.

Jackhad spentamajorityofthestormondeck,inmanyinstances as the only one ondeck. When the ship wasriding properly and no sailsneeded attending to, there

was little reason for anyoneelse to be topside, save toman the pumps, which theydidquiteabit.ButbyJack’sreckoning, the deck waswhere the captain belongedwhen the ship was in suchperil, and standing watchwhile the others were belowhelped mitigate the guilt hefeltatputtingtheshipinperilinthefirstplace.

Two days, and then thewindbegantobackandblowwith less force, leavingAbigailtowallowinalumpy,confused sea. With the newtiller shipped and thewreckageofthesteeringgearcleared away, and Jackreasonably certain that noserious damage had befallenthe rudder, they shook a reefoutofthemaintopsail,setthe

fore topsail and foresail, andfelt the motion of the shipchange from somethinghelpless and buffeted bystorm to something makingpurposeful headway, movingof its own volition, pushingthe seas aside with theinsistenceoflife.

The sun emerged, and sodid William Wentworth,though in truth he hadmade

the occasional appearance ondeckduring the twodays theship had been lying to. Hehad stripped off the ruined,bedraggled clothes he hadbeen wearing and arrived onthe quarterdeck in a freshshirt, coat, and breeches. Helooked as if he was off tosome gathering of the bettersort onBeaconHill, save forhis hands, which were

thoroughly wrapped in clothbandages.

“Good day, Mr.Wentworth,” Biddlecombsaid. The fact thatWentworth’shands,whichhewas sure had never known aday’s labor, had been soterribly torn up through theman’s own ignorancedelighted Jack to such anextent that he found himself

capableofcivility.“Good morning, Captain.

Wearesailing,Isee.”“Indeed we are,” Jack

replied. “And if ever the sunrevealsitselfImaybeabletodeterminewherewe are, andin which direction we mustsail.Howareyourhandsthismorning? Has Dr. Walcott’ssalvebeenofanyuse?”

Wentworth sniffed and

lookedathisbandages,whichwere absurdly bulky. Jackwas certain that IsraelWolcott, ship’s cook andsurgeon when required, haddeliberately wrappedWentworth’s hands in thatway for the pleasure ofmakinghimlookridiculous.

“Ah, yes, Dr. Wolcott!”Wentworthsaid.“Ishouldbecurious to know which

medical school he attended,one that does not requireliteracy, apparently. I suspectthat his ‘salve’ as you call itwas simply beef fat withsomething indescribablyhorribleaddedtoit.”

Itwas indeed beef fat, ofthatJackwasmorallycertain,butwhatthecookmighthaveadded to it he could notimagine, and did not care to.

“Youwill not be playing thepianoforte for awhile, I takeit?”

“No,” Wentworth said,“and happily there are nosuch marks of civilizationabouttomakemelongforit.”

Any further sparring wasinterrupted by Charles Frost,whodidn’tsomuchstepfromthescuttleasburstfromit,aswashisway.Hehadnotbeen

much in evidence during thestorm, which was fine withJack. Passengers were betteroff below in foul weather.Saveforhismomentofglory,Wentworth had been aninsufferablepain.

“Ah, CaptainBiddlecomb!” Frost said inhis expansive manner, armswide as if embracing theworld. “Tops’ls are set and

drawing, God is in Hisheaven and we are underway,Isee!”

“Conditions are muchimproved, Mr. Frost,” Jackagreed.

Frost looked around as iflooking for some familiarlandmark, but there wasnothing but lumpy gray sea.“Doyouknowwhereweare?Were we much blown off

course?”“I’ve had no opportunity

for a sun sight,” Jack said,“butbymydead reckoning Idon’t think we’ve lost muchground.”

“Excellent! Glad to hearit!” He nodded toward thecannon,which still layon itsside on the quarterdeck, tieddown like a rogue elephant.“This beast will be put back

in its proper place soon, I’llwarrant?”

“As soon as the seas aresuchthatwecansafelymoveit,” Jack said, “I intend topushitovertheside.”

Frost frowned and hiseyebrows came together, andthen his face brightenedagain.“Youarepracticingonme, Captain, I perceive,” hesaid.

“Indeed I am,”Biddlecomb said. “As muchas I would like to give it aburial at sea, it is still Mr.Oxnard’s property and I willseeitbackinitsgunportwithringbolts properly fastenedthistime.”

“Good,good!There’snotamomenttolose!”

“Indeed,” Jack said, andthen realizing that perhaps

they were thinking ofdifferentthingsadded,“Notamomenttolosedoingwhat?”

“Why,exercisingthemenwiththegreatguns!Drill,sir,gunnerypractice.”

“Gunnery practice, Mr.Frost?”

“Certainly, gunnerypractice.I’msureOxnardtoldyou that I had a certainexpertiseinthesematters.”

Jack searchedback in hismemory. Yes, Oxnard hadmentioned it. Or so hethought. Either way, Frostwas a particular friend ofOxnard, who was the ownerof the Abigail and Jack’semployer, and that meantJackwasnotinclinedtoarguewiththeman.

“Yes, Mr. Frost, I dorecall,”Jacksaid.

“Wellgood.We’resailinginto dangerous waters youknow, French privateers,Frenchnavyforallweknow,looking for the main chanceto snatch up an Americanmerchantman. Oxnard won’thave it, and I am fully inagreement. We must defendourselves.”

“Defend ourselves…”Jackechoed.

“Exactly! So as soon aseverwecan,wemustgetthisgun remounted and we mustbegin exercising the men.Loading and firing, loadingandfiring.Andthenwe’llbeable to show Jean Crapeauwhat we are made of! Whatsayyou?”

13

Jonah Bolingbroke had beenfeeling like quite the cleverblade,buthewasfeelingthatno longer. Lying in a dark

room, hands bound, bodyaching from various bruises,withnonotionofwhyhewasthere or what fate might behis,itwashardtomusterthatcock-of-the-forecastleconfidence thathadgenerallycarried him though mostawkwardsituations.

The Lady Adams wasbound to sailon themorningtide and he aboard her as

second mate. And if he wasnot aboard her, as wascurrently thecase, shewouldsail anyway, and leave himon the beach. He had beensafewithinherwoodenwalls,secure in the tiny closet thatwashisprivatecabin,privatesave for the sailmaker withwhom he shared it. A cabinhad once seemed a luxurybeyondhisdreams,butithad

been his, until he decided topushhis luck to thebreakingpoint.

Secondmate. That was aloftier position than he hadeveraspiredto,atleastinthefirst years of his seagoinglife.Elevenyearsold,sailingas ship’s boy, his life hadconsistedofconstantlaborofthemostvile,dangerous,andexhaustingkind;barelyedible

foodandnotmuchofit;andaregularboxingon the sideoftheheadbythevariousbrutesintheforecastle.

That was a long time inhis past. Since those days hehad grown a foot and a half,puton120pounds,nearlyallofithardmuscle,hadlearnedto dominate a forecastlerather than cringe in thecorner. With the authority

concomitant with his newberth, the money from hisadvance on pay, and theconsiderable sum given himon his agreeing to injureBiddlecomborkillhiminanaffair of honor, he had beenfeelingaflushofsatisfaction,wealth,andpowersuchashehadneverknownbefore.

Asfarasemploymentwasconcerned, the job of doing

major hurt to JackBiddlecomb was one of thebetter opportunities that hadcomehisway.Indeed,hehadenvisioneddoingsuchathingfor free for some years,though the main chance hadnever really presented itself.Butthenthereitwas,andthepayhadbeenexcellent.

There would have beenquiteabitmore,ofcourse,if

he had managed to fire abullet intoBiddlecomb’sgut,butOxnardhadput a stop tothat. Still, there had beenenough in that first paymentto underwrite several nightsin the finest nunnery inPhiladelphia, a place wherehe would have found nowelcome before, but where,with specie in his pocket,they had treated him very

wellindeed.His nights away from the

ship carried with themconsiderable risks, andcatching a dose of the poxwas the least of them.Someone was looking towaylay him, he found, butwho itwashedidnot know.There were a number ofpossibilities—Bolingbrokeseemedtocollectenemiesthe

way some men collectedartwork or butterflies—so hecould not be entirely surewhotheaggrievedpartywas.By his best guess, it wassomeone connected to thisBiddlecombbusiness.

Bolingbroke, no fool orstranger to such things, sawthemwatching, following, ashe made his way throughSouthwark. They nearly had

him once, that night in thealley.Thathadputarealfearintohim,andhedidnotleavethe ship after that. Not, atleast, until the night beforetheywereslatedtosail,whenarrogance, lust, and theerroneous impression that thewatchershadabandonedtheirposts allowedhis passions tosupersede his native sense ofpreservation.

The last time he hadpatronized that establishmenttheyhadbeenwaitingforhim—some big bastard, big as abear, had chased him rightthrough the door and downthebasementsteps.Hekeptaweather eye out the secondtime,moving cautiously, andthe way had seemed clear.Butitwasnot.

Bolingbroke had been

halfway down the alley withits lanternabove thenunnerydoor when one of themstepped from the shadowsand called his name. Therewas light enough forBolingbroketoseethatitwasnot the same bear who hadchased him before, whichmeant he might use hisbasement escape route asecond time. He turned and

flewupthebrothelstairsandthrough the door, past thehulkingdoormanandthroughtheparlor.Therewerenot somanypeople there thatnight,makingthewaymoreclearashe leapt over the sofa anddown the hall. He took thestairs to the cellar two at atime, leaping to the floorfrom three steps up andbounding along the way to

the cellar door, a path thatwas always well lit since hewas hardly the only patronwho found need for asecondaryexit.

He ducked under thelantern, around the variousobstacles, out the back door,and up the few stairs to thestreet level. And then hisconsiderable momentum wasstopped cold, like a ship

running aground. A blow tothe stomach doubled himover, a blow so solid hewassure he had run into ahitchingpostorsomesuch.

But then a massive handgrabbed him by the hair andpulled him straight, craninghisheadbackatanunnaturalangle, and he found himselflooking into the face of thetwo-legged bear, an animal

smartenoughtonotbefooledtwice,apparently.

“JonahBolingbroke?” theman said, and Bolingbrokecould not help but note theodd combination ofthoughtfulnessandmenaceinhis tone. “A word with you,sir,ifyouplease.”

In theend, thewordshadbeen few. Indeed, if thisfellow had wanted

information fromBolingbroke, he hadneglected toask.Mostof thecommunicationwasofatypewith which Bolingbroke wasmore familiar; kicks, blows,curses, though far from theworst of those he hadexperienced. Bolingbrokewas shoved to the floor of acarriage and brought aroundto the place where he was

now. Where that place was,hedidnotknow.

Nor did he know howlonghehadremainedtrussedandlyingonthefloor.Quiteawhile,itseemed,thoughtimepassed very slowly in suchcircumstances. There were afew things he could discernabout his surroundings,despite the absence of light.He was lying on a carpet of

some sort, and it was soft,and that told him somethingabout the quality of theestablishment. That and thesmell. Or absence of smell.Therewasnoodorofboilingfood or unwashed men orsmoky firesoranyother sortof dank corruption, none ofthesortofsmellstowhichhewas most accustomed. Therewasahintofcandlesrecently

burned, wax candles, not thecheap tallow dips that gavefeeble illumination to themiserable haunts he morehabituallyfrequented,thesortof places where one wascontent with deep shadowsandwasnoteagertoseewhatwas in those corners wherethelightcouldnotreach.

Very well, some wealthycove, then, Bolingbroke

thought. He was not entirelysure how to feel about thisrevelation.Relief,on theonehand. The wealthy sort didnot tend to dole out painfulandbloodyretribution,andhewas pleased about that. Onthe other hand, pain wassomething he wasaccustomed to, and couldenduretoasurprisingdegree.The rich, he knew, could

arrange for punishment farworse and of much longerduration. He feared men ofpower, because he did notknowwhattheywerecapableofdoing.

He was lost in thatcontemplationwhen the dooropened and the sound madehim jump. He shifted andturnedhisheadintimetoseeapairofwell-wornshoesand

woolstockingssteppinguptohim, and felt big hands grabhim under the arms and lifthim to his feet. It took apowerfulman todo that, andthis fellow, Bolingbrokenoted,seemedtohavenottheleastbitofdifficulty.

A hand on the backpropelled him toward theopen door, into a room welllit with the wax candles he

hadguessedat,andabigmanin a suit of clothes far finerthan that of Bolingbroke’shandler.Heworeawaistcoatwith some sort ofembroidered pattern runningaroundtheedges,butnocoatover that. His sleeves wererolled up and, for all hisrefinement, Bolingbrokecould recognize a formerseaman,amanraisedonhard

workwhowasnowapingthegentleman. He would haverecognized thosecharacteristics even if he didnot recognize the man, butrecognizehimhedid.

“Mr.Tillinghast,youmayfree his hands, I shouldthink,” the seated man said.Bolingbroke felt the coldsteel of a knife blade againsthis skin, an upward

movement, and the lashingswere cut free. Hemoved hisarms gratefully, rubbed hiswrists.

“Sit, Bolingbroke,” theman said, and Bolingbrokelookedaroundandthensatinthechairindicated,facingtheman, while the one calledTillinghast, the two-leggedbear who had been in hiswake the past few weeks,

steppedintoviewonhisleft.“So,Bolingbroke, do you

know who I am?” the mansaid,his toneflat,whichwasmore frightening toBolingbroke than angerwouldhavebeen.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes,CaptainRumstick.”

The big man nodded.“AndnodoubtyouknowthatJack Biddlecomb is my

godson? Jack Biddlecombwho you tried to kill afortnightpast?”

Bolingbroke sat a littlemore upright. “Oh, I know.Everyone knows, no damnedsecretatall.”Hehadintendedtobe silent, toyieldnothing,butonceheopenedhismouthitwas like the side of a shipstove in, the words gushedlike green water. Rumstick

was a powerful man, and hehad influence andconnections at whichBolingbroke could onlyguess. To save himself,Bolingbrokehadtobeclever,which he considered himselfto be, all evidence to thecontrarynotwithstanding.

“If something happens tome,” Bolingbroke went on,“there’llbenoquestionabout

who to look to.” It was agoodplay,hethought,thoughstill his panic seemed to risewith every word he uttered.“It was an affair of honor,straight up, I did nothingwrong and Biddlecombwasn’t touched. Hell, wenever even came to blows.Everyoneknowsit. I toldthecaptainof theLadyAdams, Isaid, ‘Anything happens to

me,it’sBiddlecomb’sfriendsto look to,CaptainRumstickandthem.’”

Hestopped,panting,as ifhe had just sprinted threeblocks. Rumstick andTillinghast remained silent,looking at him. There was aclock ticking somewherebehindhim; in the silencehehearditforthefirsttime.

“Are you done?”

Rumstick asked as if he didnot actually care about theanswer.

“Yes,sir.”“Good. Because I am

really not interested in you,you miserable little worm. Iwant to know who paid youtochallengeJacktothisaffairof honor…” his tonesuggesting, quite correctly,that honor played no part in

theaffair.“No one paid me,”

Bolingbroke said, and feltsome of the old defiancecreep back into his heart.What, really, couldRumstickdotohim?“Itwasanaffairofhonor,” he spat. “Maybeyoudon’tknowhow those thingswork.”

For all his airs,Rumstickwasstillmoreforecastlethan

quarterdeck, Bolingbrokeguessed, more whorehousethan counting house. In hisyounger days, Rumstickwould no doubt have beathim to death, but now,precisely because he wastryingtobepartofaworldtowhich he did not belong, hewould do no such thing, andprobably would not letTillinghastdoso,either.

Rumstick had theinfluence to see thatBolingbroke never shippedout of Philadelphia again, orNewport, or maybe Boston,but there were seaports theworld over, and anexperiencedmariner likehimwould never want foremployment. No, what intruthcouldthiswhoresondo?

But Rumstick, far from

beingangryoroffended,wassmiling at Bolingbroke’sdefiance. “Honor, you say?Pray,tellmewhopaidyoutosuddenly discover this greatstore of honor, because Iknowdamnwell youdidnothitonthisideaofyourown.”

“If there was someone, Iwould not tell you, but therewasn’t.” Bolingbroke wassure if there was violence in

theoffing,itwouldhavebeenhull up by now, but he sawnoneonthehorizon.

Rumstick sighed. He andTillinghast exchanged wearylooks. “Bolingbroke, do youknow of the British frigates,patrolofftheCapes?”

Bolingbroke shifted,unsurewherethiswasbound.“Yes…” The size andcomposition of the lurking

squadrons changed, but therewas generally some RoyalNavy presence hanging offthe Capes of the DelawareBay. And the Chesapeake,and New York, and Boston,forthatmatter.

“Do you know why thecaptains do not molest myvessels, or those of myfriends?” Rumstick askednext. “Let me tell you. It’s

because I see to it that theyare amply supplied withseamen. If someone playscleverwithme,thenIarrangeforhimtobeemployedinHisMajesty’s navy. That makesthecaptainsofthoseshipsmydear friends.Wouldyou careto serve the king,Bolingbroke? It’s a job youmay keep for life, howeverlongthatmightbe.”

Bolingbroke felt a washoffeargothroughhim,anditextinguished any growingconfidence that wassmolderingthere.Maimingorkilling someone carried aconsiderable risk of beingfound out, and Rumsticklikelydidnotwant tochancehaving the law come afterhim.But this threat, thiswasdifferent.

It was well withinRumstick’s power, and itwould indeed put him in thegoodsteadofthecommanderof any British man-of-war.He, Bolingbroke, woulddisappearwith never a trace.Hemightget a letterback tosomeone in the States, butwhatthehellgoodwouldthatdo?Hewould disappear intoatormentfarworseandmore

prolonged than a simplebeating in a back alley. Acannonball through the gutwould be the least of hisworries, and the least likelyfate to befall him. Floggingthroughthefleet,hangingforinsubordination,aslowdeathfromyellowjackintheWestIndies, those were the moreprobable outcomes of hisbeingpressed.

“But…” Bolingbrokestuttered, flailing for someresponse. Unfortunately, allhefoundwasthestupidestofpossiblearguments,andevenmoreunfortunately,hesaiditout loud. “But I’m anAmerican!”

At that Rumstick andTillinghast laughed. Not acruel laugh, but one ofgenuine mirth. “And so you

are, Bolingbroke!” Rumsticksaid. “You have papers toproveit?”

“I do,” Bolingbroke said.No seaman would venturefrom an American portwithoutthem,forallthegoodtheymightdo.

“You have them on you,then?” Tillinghast asked.Bolingbroke looked at him,looked at Rumstick, said

nothing. He did not need tospeak.Theyknewtheanswer.

“Very well,” Rumsticksaid, “that’s enough of that.Tell us, Bolingbroke, whopaidyoutodowhatyoudid.”

Bolingbrokesaidnothing.Somemight have felt honor-bound to keep their mouthsshut, but in Bolingbroke’scasehewassilentbecausehedid not know the answer to

Rumstick’s question. He didnotknowwhohiredhim.AndhedidnotknowhowtomakeRumstickbelievethat.

“Eight bells,” Rumsticksaid. “Time’s up. Mr.Tillinghast, pray take ourfriend on a boat ride. Mycompliments toCaptain JohnCarney, who commands thesquadron presently at theCapes.”

Tillinghast let out a lowwhistle. “Mad Jack Carney’sthere,ishe?”

“The very man to teachyoung Bolingbroke here thewaysoftheking’sservice.”

Tillinghast grabbedBolingbroke’s collar and thewords came tumbling fromBolingbroke’s mouth like asluice gate had been openedup. “Stand off, stand off, I’ll

tell you, damn you,” he allbutshouted.Tillinghastletgoofhiscollar.Rumstickleanedback and folded his arms.Bolingbroke glanced aroundfornoreasonatallbuttostallforasecondmore.

“Seehere,”hebegan,“thetruth is, I don’t knowwho itwas. Some villain from thedocks.Notatalkativecove,Inever even got his name. I

don’tknowwhosenthim.”Rumstick shookhishead.

Tillinghast grabbedBolingbroke’s collar. Morewords exploded fromBolingbroke’s throat. “Wait!There was…” He reachedback desperately into hismemory, which was reallyrather good. “There was aname, this son of a bitch didsay one name once, it’s all I

know.Ness. ItwasNess.Hesaid, ‘Mr.Ness knowsyou’dfancyputtingabullet inJackBiddlecomb, and he’ll evenpay you to do it.’ That wasthe only name he said, andonlytheonetime.”

“This fellow who wasspeaking for Ness, wherewould we find him?”Rumstickasked.

“Don’t know. I swear I

don’t know. Never seen himbeforeorsince.”Bolingbrokewas not sure what real,sinceretruthsoundedlike,buthehoped that it sounded likethe words he blurted out,becausetheywereindeedthetruth,andheknewofnootherway to convey that fact.Rumstick and Tillinghastexchanged glances.Bolingbroke thought he saw

Rumstick give a little nod,barelyperceptible.

“Bolingbroke, I certainlyhope you’re telling me thetruth,”Rumsticksaid.

“I am, I swear to God Iam,” Bolingbroke said, tooquickly and too emphaticallytolayclaimtoanyremainingdignity.

For a long and terriblemomentRumstickjustlooked

at him, looked right into hiseyes. Bolingbroke tried toholdhisgaze,but itwas likelooking into the sun, toopainful toholdfor long.AndthenRumsticksaidthewordsBolingbroke most wanted tohearofanyintheworld,saidthemsolowthatBolingbrokealmostdidn’thearthematall.

“Get out of here,Bolingbroke. And do not

crossmypathagain.”And the next thing

Bolingbroke could recall, hewas running down the dark,predawn street toward thewaterfront, the frantic dashfrom Rumstick’s parlor andout the door forever lost tohismemory.

14

It had taken less than aminute for the aftermost sixpounder on the larboard sideto break free, and with the

momentum of sixteenhundredweight of iron looseon a heaving deck, it tookonlyaminutemoretodestroythe Abigail’s steering gearand tiller. It took nearly twodays to get the hated thingback in place. Where theringbolts had torn clean out,the bulwark had to berepaired and reinforced, noeasy task on the still rolling

deck, with spray liketorrentialrainflyingaftasthebow shouldered the confusedseas.

Thefirstorderofbusinesswas to sort out the steeringgear. Happily, while thewheel,drum,andmountshadbeen torn clean out of thedeck they had not beensmashed to shivers, whichmade repairs a simplematter

of remounting the helm andreinforcing it where it hadsuffereddamage.

Abigail was too small tocarry a carpenter, a singleindividual with the expertiseand authority to take chargeof this task, so every manaboardwho knewwhich endofasawtoholdandcouldtellapieceofoak fromaballofoakumdesignated himself an

expert,andappointedhimselfto the role of carpenter orcarpenter’s advisor. Theyhammered, sawed, argued,and undermined one anotheruntilJack,whoknewasmuchabout woodworking as anyman aboard, which was nogreat amount, stepped in andtook personal oversight, andfrom there the workprogressedmuchquicker.

Once the wheel wasremounted they turned to thewaywardgunanditsgunport.Not only did the damagedbulwarkneedrepair,buteachof the other guns had to beunlashed and the ringboltscarefullyinspectedtoseethatsuchathingcouldnothappenagain.When Jackwas at lastsatisfiedthatallwaswell,andthat they were reasonably

safe from any further errantordnance, they unlashed thetruant gun and withhandspikes and handy-billysthey hove it back onto itswheels. Then slowly,carefully, laboriously theybullieditbacktoitsassignedgunport.

In the course of the fortyorsohoursthatthatevolutiontook, the seas settled down,

the wind came fair anddropped to a steady twelveknots, and the sun made awelcome appearance. SoontheAbigail lookedmore likea floating tenement than aship, with clothing andbedding flogging in therigging and drying in theblessed heat. Jack took anoon sight and found theyhad been driven a hundred

miles or so to the northwest,not so bad as he had feared,and if the wind held theywouldlosenomorethantwodays’sailing.

The loss of two days,however, seemed of greatconcerntoMr.CharlesFrost,who hovered over Jack’sshoulder as he walked hisparallel rulesacross thechartand marked the fix with his

pencil.“Two days, you say?”

Frost asked, not for the firsttime. “Two days delay inwhen we might makeBarbados?”

“Two days. Maybe less.Butyou’renostranger to thesea, Mr. Frost. You knowwell enough there’s nopredicting these things. Thewindsareasreliableaswinds

will be this time of year, butwe could still have a calmthatseesuswallowingforthebetterpartofaweek.”

“Of course, of course,”Frostsaid.Helookeddownatthechartagain.“Yourcoursewillbewhat,then?”

The correct answer was“whateverdamnedcoursethewindwill allow for us to gettoBarbados,”butJacksensed

thatFrostdidnotwanttohearthat, so he traced an arcedline with his finger from thelatest fix to their destination,avoiding all obviouslandmasses along the way.Frostnodded,andhe seemedpleased. “Good,good, let thegod of storms send us a fairwind,then!”

“Indeed,” Jack said withwhat enthusiasm he could

find. He was not at allcomfortablewith this, anyofit. A ship’s master, he felt,should maintain a certaindegree of aloofness.Aloofness,ofcourse,wasnothisnature.Itwassomuchnothis nature that he had had topurposelycultivateitwhenhebecameafirstmate,anofficethatalsorequiredonetostandapart from both the herd in

the forecastle and the bettersortinthepassengers’cabins.

Aloof captains did notdiscuss their navigation orintended routes with anyone,passengers foremost. HadWentworthevenaskedtoseethe chart, Jack would havegiven him such a display ofaloofness as the world hadnot yet witnessed. But Frostwasdifferent.Hewas,forone

thing, a known friend ofOxnard’s, which Wentworthwas not. How muchdeference that should buyhim,Jackwasnotsure.

And there was also theundeniable fact that he likedFrost, liked his open, jocularmanner. But Jack alsoharbored a naturaldefensiveness, the result ofhis age and the fact that he

wasonlyafewweeksintohisfirst command. He wassensitive, very sensitive, toany hint of Frost telling himhowtorunhisship.But thusfar the passenger had saidnothing to cause offense. Itwas a very confusingsituation, social rocks andshoals through which Jackfoundthenavigationtrickyintheextreme.

The runaway six pounderhad been secured, the menfedtheirdinner,theafternoonwatch settling in to theirstations, when Frostapproached Jack with thesuggestion that they beginexercisingwith theguns.Tryashemight,Jackcouldthinkofnoexcuse tonotdoso,sohe told Tucker to call allhandsaft.Theoffwatchwas

engaged in ship’s work, somost of the company wasalreadyon deck or aloft, andit took little time for them toassemble just forward of themizzen.

“See here, men,” Jackbegan. “I suspect you’venoticed that the Abigail nowboasts a broadside of guns.We’re standing into theCaribbean, and it’s no secret

the Frenchies have beenmaking prizes of Americanships. We won’t let thathappen to us. We’ll defendourselves.And to seewe areable to do that, Mr. OxnardhassentalongMr.Frosthere,whoyouknow,andwho isahand at the great guns. Wewill commence now withexercising them, and Mr.Frostwillinstructyouinwhat

you need to know so youdon’t all end up rotting insomeparlez-vousprison.”

Jack looked out over hispeople, pleased with thedegree of inspiration he hadmanaged to bring to hiswords,confidentthatbeneaththe looks of vagueindifference the men weregenuinely ready to take onthis new task. He looked to

his right and sawWentworthleaning against the bulwark,theexpressiononhisfaceoneof smug amusement, andJack’sgoodfeelingcollapsedlike a waterspout. He wasnever too comfortable withrousing oratory, and heguessed that Wentworthfoundhimridiculous,andthatin turn irritated him greatly.“Verywell,Mr.Frost,Ileave

themtoyou,”hesaid.Frost stepped forward,

clappedhishandsandrubbedthem together, and with thatsingle gesture grabbed themen’s attention as if he hadhypnotized them, becauseFrost was a man whocommanded attention. Jackcould see all hands perk upwith interest, and he knewFrost had several advantages

over him. The men knewFrost and liked him, hehaving already made hispresencefeltforeandaft,andthey had no reason to fearhim as they had to fear theircaptain.Hewas a passenger.Hehadnoauthority.

What’s more, this was anovelty, playing withcannons.Asarule,sailorsdidnot much cotton to novelty,

theydidnotcareforanythingwith which they were notentirely familiar. Anyonewho tried to serve themfoodthatwashithertounknowninthe forecastle, for instance,would soon learn as much.The sea was changeableenough for any man; thosewho sailed it did not needother surprises visited uponthem.Butthiswassomething

else, because it involvedfiring guns and it took themaway from the chipping ofrust and tarring and slushingand rousing out casks of thisor that, the daily tedium andbaneofthesailorman’slife.

And Frost knew how toinstruct in the exercising ofthe great guns. In his grand,jovial, embracing way hetook the men through the

steps, set up a model guncrew, used them todemonstrate to the otherscasting loose the guns,leveling the guns, removingthe tompions, loading withcartridge, shot, andwadding.Whenallwasinreadinessthegun was run out and Frostjabbedtheprimingwiredownthe vent, filled the vent withpowder, touched it with the

glowing match. With ashattering, satisfying roar thesix pounder bellowed andleapt back against itsbreeching, blowing ahorizontal column of smokeand flame and iron shotstraightoutover the sea, andthe men, despite themselvesand their studied cool,cheered as if Frost hadperformedanactunparalleled

inthemodernage.Then, with his expansive

bonhomie undiminished,indeed rather augmented bythe men’s enthusiasm, Frosttook them through spongingthegunwiththeventsecurelycovered,whichbrought themright around to once againloading with cartridge. Thisthemenweremorethaneagertodo,eagertoseethebiggun

roar to life again. But Frosthad other plans, and ratherthan reload the gun, hedivided themen into theguncrewssothattheymighteachtryahandattheexercise.

This proved moredifficult. Abigail hadseventeen souls aboard,passengers included.Biddlecomb, as captain, hadnobusinessmessingwith the

guns.Forpurposesofcombathe designated Oliver Tuckeras helmsman and set LucasHarwartojoinoneoftheguncrews. Barnabus Simon, thesteward, was given thespongefortheaftermostgun,and the cook, IsraelWalcott,was driven from the cabooseand made to act the part ofpowder monkey, supplyingthe guns with the tight-filled

flannelcartridges.Thishedidat a sullen, shuffling pacewhileissuingasteadystreamof curses, protests, andinvectives, loudenoughtobeheard, not so loud as toconstituteinsubordination.

With Frost joining inthere were thirteen men toman a single broadside ofthree guns with a grudgingpowder monkey to supply

them all. They could fire thelarboardgunsorthestarboardguns,butnotbothatthesametime, andeven then theyhadbarely enough to make thegunsspeakandnoonelefttosee to the sails or any othertask that might be required,but there was nothing for it.Oxnard, in the way ofmerchant ship owners theworld over, wanted his ship

protectedbutdidnotwant toputoutthemoneyrequiredtodoso.

William Wentworth didnotvolunteertojoinin.WhenJack turned to him again,Wentworth held up hisridiculously bandaged hands,gave an ironic smile, andsaid,“Myapologies,Captain,but, doctor’s orders, youunderstand.” Beyond that he

did not utter a word duringthe entire exercise, simplywatched the goings-on, andsave for that one flash ofamusement at Jack’s speech,his expression wasinscrutable.

In dumb show the menloaded, ran out, fired,sponged, reloaded. Nogunpowder was burned, nomatch glowed orange, there

was no sound save for thegrunt of themen hauling thegunsuptheslopingdeck,thesqueal of the gun carriagewheels,andtheeternalsoundof slapping rigging, creakingspars, and water rushingdownthesides.

Charles Frost had animpeccable sense for themood of the men, and hegauged themoment perfectly

when they were done withthat nonsense for the day,when the novelty was gone,when the change of routinemoved from engaging toirritating. When he saw thathappen he ordered one lastround, a live round, withgunpowder and shot, andonceagaintheentiresituationwas changed up, the interestrenewed.Andwhen that one

rolling broadside was fired,slowly, with ampleprecaution to avoid crushedfeet or arms blown off, thenthegunsweresecuredandthemenleftwantingmore.

And that was good,because more they got, thenextday,andthenext,andonafterthatasFrostdrilledthemin the afternoonwatch, fromthe end of dinner to the start

of the first dog watch. Themen moved happily to theirassignedstations,eagertoseewhat new incentive Frostmightofferup—asilverhalf-dollar to each man on thefastestgun,thechancetofireat an empty barrelwith a totof rum to the gun crew thatfirstblewitoutofthewater.

This act of going tofighting stations, Jack knew

from a long and oftenunwilling association withnaval affairs, was called“quarters.” A list of suchstations,ifhewasinclinedtomake such a thing,which hewas not, or if he thought itnecessary, which he did not,would be called a “quarterbill.”He knew that a quarterbill would designate somemen to double as sail

trimmers, some to go to thepumps if needed, somesingledoutforboarders.Sucha thing might make senseaboardaman-of-war,withitscrew numbering in thehundreds, most of whomwere simply interchangeablepartslikethecomponentsofaguncarriageoratrebleblock,but it did not make senseaboard the diminutive

Abigail.Asitwas,all this loading

and running out and firingand general martial activitywas getting far closer to theworld of Isaac Biddlecombthan Jack Biddlecomb caredtoget.Hehadquitepurposelysailed a reciprocal coursefromtheGreatMan,acourseonwhichhehadbeen set byJonah Bolingbroke not so

many years before, though itsometimes felt to Jack likeseverallifetimespast.

***

The trouble had started atJack’s birth, or before that,possibly.

Whatever it was thatmade Isaac Biddlecomb themanhewas,thehardandthesoft of him, strength and

weakness, brilliance andfolly, that was the stuff ofwhichhissonJackwasmadeaswell.Thefactthattheyhadbeen born into differentworlds did not change thattruth. Isaac, born to a formersoldier turned farmer of asmall part of Rhode Island’ssandy soil, was orphaned attheageoftwelve.Hismotherdied inchildbirth.His father,

wreckedbygrief,rejoinedhisregiment and took a Frenchbullet at Quebec. Isaac wasthen takenunder thewingofWilliamStanton, but Stantondid no more than give himwork in the man’s world ofthe forecastle until Isaac’snative genius for drivingships and men had revealeditself, and he took his firststepsontothequarterdeck.

Isaac Biddlecomb wasborn in theBritish colony ofRhode IslandandProvidencePlantations. Jackwasborn inthe state of Rhode Island intheUnitedStatesofAmerica,in the middle of a war todetermine if those unitedstates would remain asovereign nation or return totheirformerstatusascoloniesof England. Jack’s mother,

Virginia Biddlecomb néeStanton, William’s daughter,was heir to a great fortunethatthewardidnotdiminish.Indeed, through the quasi-patriotic and thoroughlyprofitable enterprise ofprivateering, Jack’sgrandfatheractuallymanagedto increase hiswealth duringeightyearsofconflict.

By the time Jackwasold

enough to have someunderstanding of the widerworld the war was over, hisfather was lauded as a greathero of that war, and hismother had somehowproduced a baby sister. Jackwouldnotcometoappreciateuntil many years later justhow comfortable theirsituation was, particularly inlight of the great fiscal

devastation visited on somany others by the War forIndependency.

In his ignorance heenjoyed a childhood freefrom want. During much ofhis younger days his fatherwas gone, off to sea, butwhen Jack was eight Isaaccame ashore permanently tobe with his family andoverseethegrowthofStanton

andBiddlecomb,Merchants.Isaac, naturally, wanted

everything for Jack that hehimself had not enjoyed: afamily home, education,social standing, and thegraces expected of one whooccupied that station. Jack,naturally, wanted none of it.Likehisfather,helongedforthe sea. A series of tutorsmanagedtoplanttheseedsof

Latin, sprout translations ofCaesar, the words ofShakespeare, husband theyoung shoots of anappreciation for music, buttheyfoundthesoilrockyandinhospitable.

Mathematics alone tooksome hold, not out of anyacademicinterestbutbecauseJack understood thatmathematics was central to

navigation, and navigationwas one of those things thatseparated themenwho spenttheirlivesheavingoncapstanbars and hauling on bracesfrom those who gave theorders to do so, and Jackknew enough to know hewishedtobethelatter.

And so, at the age ofeleven, with his fatherdespairing of his ever

pursuing amore gentlemanlylife,Jackwasapprenticedtoaship’scaptain,atrustedfriendof Isaac Biddlecomb.Virginia, despite being thedaughter and wife of seacaptains, or perhaps becauseof this, objected to thearrangement. Her objectionsmanifestedinhershriekingather husband and hurlingvarious objets d’art at him,

weeping, and directing thesame barrage at her father,who sidedwith Isaac on thisissue. It was the only timebefore or since that Jack hadseen such behavior from hismother, theonly timehehadever seen her lose thatcomposure and air of coldcommand thathewould latercome to admire in the bettership’s masters under whom

heserved.Eventually Virginia was

convinced by Isaac and byWilliam Stanton that Jackwas of such a temperamentthat ifhewasnot sent to seawithsomeonetheycouldtrusthewouldrunawaytoseaandfindhimself inasituationfarworse. This was true; Jackwas alreadymaking alternateplans if his father should fail

to win the day; and whenVirginia saw the truth of itsherelented.

As his peers among thesons of the Rhode Islandgentry were stuck with theiramo, amas, amat, Jack andhis three trunks of gear, hisnotebooks, sextant, portablewriting desk, ditty bag,oilskins, envelopes, sealingwax, all the things that a

mother deemed her youngapprentice to the sea mightneed,weredelivereduptothe354-tonmerchant vesselCityofNewport,tiedtoawharfinhernamesaketown.

The master of the vesselwas a venerable man namedAmos Waverly, whom Isaachad known for many years,they both being members ofthat exclusive fraternity of

respected Rhode Islandseafarers. Waverly stood onhis quarterdeck as theyapproached,tallandrail thin,whitehairlikeadandelioninseed under a tall hat. Hishands were clasped behindhisback,hisfacewaslockedin an expression of seriousintent. He looked more likethe ship’s figurehead than itsmaster. They went aboard,

Isaac and Jack, atWaverly’sinvitation,downtheladdertothe great cabin, where asomewhat cowering youngsteward served themenwineandJackaciderroyal.

The three of them, Isaac,Jack, and Captain Waverly,discussed the comingapprenticeship, the places towhichtheywouldvoyage,thethingsthatwouldbeexpected

of Jack, the things he wouldlearn. “We’ll see youngMaster Biddlecomb broughtup to the sea as a gentlemanshould be,” Waverly assuredIsaac, and both Biddlecombsknew that whatever theirparticular wishes might be,such an approach was verymuch what VirginiaBiddlecomb wanted, and sotheretheywere.

The ship was Jack’sclassroom, from the keelsonto the truckof themainmast,and there he would learn allthesailors’arts.Hewouldbetaught to hand, reef, andsteer,tolongspliceandshortsplice, to draw and knotyarns,makespunyarn,foxes,and sennit, to box thecompass, to set, trim, andtake in sail, to navigate with

deduced reckoning and leadline and sextant. He wouldlearn bills of lading andkeepingalogandthefineartofnegotiatingforacargoinaforeignport.Hispenmanshipand table manners andclothingwouldbeattendedtoaswell.Inshort,allthethingsthat would make him acompetent mariner and agentleman would be passed

on in the time-honoredtradition of master andapprentice.

And Jack was a willingstudent. For all his bold talkhe was as frightened as anyeleven-year-oldboywouldbeto leave everything he hadknownandsallyforthintotheworld ofmen, ships, and thesea. Waverly made him lessfrightened. The idea of not

beingthrustintothatworldsomuch as ushered in by thelikes of such a man asWaverly made the entirethinglessterrifying.

Being a ship’s master,Waverlylivedaliferemoved,both physically andspiritually, from the menunder his command. Acaptainsensitivetothemoodsofthemen,theatmosphereof

the ship, can know a greatdeal about how things areacting,evenwhennoonewilltell him what specifically istaking place,which is nearlyalwaysthecase.

But Amos, Jack woulddiscover, was not a sensitiveman. His only concern wasthat the ship’sworkbedone,done right, and done quick.Hewasexactingandhewasa

driver and he had shipped amate who saw those wishescarried out, who mademanifest Waverly’sphilosophy that the menbefore the mast were not tobe coddled in any way.Waverly had little sense forthe attitude in the forecastleand cared even less. Thismuch Jack would discover,months later, and to his

profoundregret.

15

The education of JackBiddlecomb, ship’s boy,greenhand,apprentice,beganimmediately, before the City

of Newport even was underway, bound for Lisbon withsalt cod, rum, ginger, andgeneral merchandise. With afewwords of encouragementand a manly handshake hisfather left him in the care ofCaptainAmosWaverly,whowasstillbelow.Isaactookhisleave to return to the familyhome in Bristol, whereVirginia remained, having

made her tearful, thoroughlydramatic good-byes there,thus sparing her son thehumiliation of doing sodockside.

Jackwasleftaloneonthequarterdeck,andheremainedthere, unsure of what to do,for a full twelve minutesbefore he decided a climb tothemain topgallantwouldbeinorder.

Forallhis lowlystatusasboy, his rating of apprentice,Jackwasnostrangertoships.Indeed, he knew quite a bitfor a boy of eleven, havingmade several short coastingvoyages with his father andUncle Ezra, both of whomhad been eager teachers, andhaving sailed boats inNarragansett Bay and readwhatever he could lay hands

on, including Mountaine’sThe Seaman’s Vade-Mecumand Falconer’s UniversalDictionaryof theMarine.Hehad been aloft more timesthanhecouldevercount,buthis familiarity with a ship’srighadnotbeensoobvioustothe mate who ordered himdowninavolumeandtoneofvoice that made hisdispleasure clear. Waverly

used the same tone, thoughquieter and thus moreintimidating, when Jackreported to supper a fewhours later in torn stockingsandtar-stainedclothes.

“Master Biddlecomb,”Waverlysaid,hiswordswerelike those of a strictschoolmaster, not the kindlysort, “you have no businessclimbingaloftunlessyouare

ordered aloft, and when youare quite ready you will beorderedaloftforwork,notforskylarking. You are agentleman and your place isaft and I’ll thank you to notforgetthat.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said,sensible enough to say nomore.

They were under waywith the next tide, and with

the boat away passing thewarps to the warping posts,Jackwaseagertolendahandat the windlass, butWaverlyrestrained him. “You stay onthe quarterdeck,” he ordered,“and see how this is done.Heavingonahandspikeisnotagentleman’swork.”

And so Jack remainedonthe quarterdeck and watchedan evolution with which he

was already quite familiar,and danced from one foot toanother in his eagerness tojumpinandlendahand.Buteven when the order wasgiven to loosensailJackwasnotallowedtothetopgallants,which were boys’ work, buthad to remain aft while thesingleboyintheforecastle,abiggish fellow a few yearsJack’s senior named Jonah

Bolingbroke, and anotherrated boy though he wouldcertainly never see twentyagain, made the long climbuptothelightyards.

As the City of Newportplowed her way east andsouth, so Jack’s educationwasalsofullunderway,withWaverly driving that as hardaseverhedrovehisship.Asmuch as Jack would have

wanted that education toinclude the most tarry,marlinspike aspects ofseamanship, Waverly’sphilosophy ran more towardnavigation, mathematics, andeven, to Jack’s chagrin, asmattering of Latintranslationandliterature.

Thedayspassed,andthenthe weeks, and the crewsettledintotheirwatches,and

bit by bit Jack was able tofindreleasefromhisbooksinthegreatcabinandengageinthoselessonsinwhichhehadrealinterest.ForthisWaverlyputhimunder thecareof theboatswain, a Boston mannamed Henry Hacking whowas everything Jack thoughtaboatswainshouldbe;oldfora seaman, gruff, generallyunpleasant, thoroughly

competentwith anything thatfell under his purview;willing to teach if hedidnothave to even pretend to bekindlywhiledoingso.

Jacksoakeditupwiththeenthusiasm of his youth. Hehadcomeaboard thinkingheknew quite a bit. He soonlearned that he knewpractically nothing, but heworked hard to change that.

Threeweeks into the voyagehe turned twelve, but he didnot mention it to anyonebecause one of the things hehad learned was that no onewouldmuchcare.

But for all the progressJack was making in hisseagoing education, he wasstill just a boy, onewho hadgrown up in privilege, wellsheltered from theworst that

theworldhadtooffer.Hehadno sense for how thecompany of the City ofNewportfeltabouthim.Sincehe generally liked everyone,he assumed everyonegenerallylikedhim,anditdidnot occur to him that hewaslooked on as the spoiled,pampered son of a greatwarheroandwealthymerchant,asilk-stocking little puke who

spentmostofhis timeonthequarterdeck or in the greatcabin and played at being asailor-man while they wereworked near to death byWaverly,theharddriver,andthe mate who enforcedWaverly’swill.

Indeed, Jack would havebeen shocked to know theyfeltthatway,sincehehimselfhated standing aloof on the

quarterdeck or poring overLatintextsortrigonometryinthegreatcabin.The timeshewas most happy were thosetimes he was doing themeanest or most dangeroustasks, side by side with themen.

They were still a coupleof hundred leagues shy ofLisbon when Jack came tounderstand the reality of his

placeaboardtheship.Hehadspentthemorningwithpagesof Cicero and it was a greatrelief to takehisdittybagupinto the foretop to replaceratlines that had becomedangerously worn. There hefoundBolingbroke,alreadyatwork.

For some time now Jackhad the idea that he shouldspeak to Bolingbroke, seeing

as theywerenear in age andwere the only boys aboard,save for the one older greenhandratedboy.Theyhadhadfew interactions, becauseBolingbroke was generallyoffdoingsomelowlyjobandJack, by Waverly’s orders,was not allowed into theforecastle. Bolingbrokeseemed tobe shunnedby themen forward—Jack had seen

him cuffed and kicked onmorethanoneoccasion—andBolingbrokeneverseemedasifhewouldwelcomeanysortofcontact.

Jack pulled himself intotheforetop,hunghisdittybagfrom the stretcher, cut theseizing of the old ratlineaway, and worked the clovehitches loose with hismarlinspike. “Are you from

Rhode Island?” he askedBolingbroke, by way ofconversation.

“No,” Bolingbroke said,andhesaidnomore.

Jackwas seizing the newratlineonand trying tocomeupwith someotherapproachwhen Bolingbroke spoke atlast. “You are, ain’t you?FromRhodeIsland?”

“Yes.Bristol.”

“Of course,” Bolingbrokesaid,withasneerinhisvoicethat took Jack by surprise.“Son of the great CaptainBiddlecomb, of the War forIndependency.”

Jack felt himself flush.“Yes.That’sright,”hesaidatlast.Hewasnotsurewhyheshould be embarrassed bythat,buthewas.

They worked in silence.

Then Bolingbroke said,“Your fatherpayingWaverlyforyoutobehere?”

“No,”Jacksaid,alertnowto danger of some kind. Intruth he did not know whatarrangement his father hadmade.

“But you ain’t a sailor,”Bolingbrokecontinued,“withyour books and your whitestockingsandall.”

“I’m a sailor,” Jack said.“I’m just not a dog, to bekicked and boxed around thedeck.”

Now it was Bolingbrokewho flushed red. He turnedfrom his work and lookedJack in the eyes. “Are yousayingIam?”

Jack shrugged.He turnedand worked the new ratlineinto a clove hitch around the

shroud. He heardBolingbroke turn back to hisown work. They were silentfor some time, knotting,splicing, seizing, as theforetop moved through itseasy sway and roll and theCityofNewportmadeeastingunder all plain sail. Jackpulled a length of spun yarnfrom a ball he had carriedaloft, ran his eyes over

Bolingbroke’s work. “Wherethat clove hitch crosses, itwants to be outboard andslant up, aft to forward,” hesaid helpfully. ButBolingbrokewas not lookingforhelp,apparently.

“Shut your mouth,” hesaid. That minor conflict,unpleasant as it was, mighthavebeennoworse ifHenryHacking had not chosen that

moment to appear over therim of the foretop, take onequick look around, then cuffBolingbroke on the side ofthe head and explain to him,in a voice loud and studdedwithprofanity, that the clovehitches had to slant up fromaft forward. “LikeBiddlecombtheredoneit.”

Jack made no comment.He did not have to. And it

wouldbesometimebeforeheunderstood how completelyBolingbroke’s enmity hadbeen cemented at thatmoment.

As Jack continued tosubtly liberate himself fromWaverly and the great cabin,so he came increasingly intocontact with Bolingbroke. Inthe merchant service as wellasthenavytherewerecertain

jobs that were designated asboys’ work. Those jobs—sweepingforeandaft,coilingdown the lines, slushing themasts, loosening or furlingthe light sails, and a dozenother tasks—were too trivialor mean for the able-bodiedmen, or even the ordinaryseamen, to bother with, atleast if a boy was availablewhentheworkneededdoing.

More often than not Jackwas not available, being inthe care of Captain Waverlyandsettomoreeruditetasks.Butwhenhewasaboutship’swork, he and Bolingbrokemight find themselves side-by-side in the slings of theyardwhilereefingtopsails,orhigh aloft, laid out on thetopgallant yards, looseningoffthosesailsorwrestlingthe

canvas back onto the yard, ajobthatcalledforadegreeofcooperation that increasinglyneitherfeltlikegiving.

They worked high abovethedeckordeep in thehold,places where conversationscould not be overheard, andBolingbroke probed andpulled and worked his wayintoJack’sspiritlikeagaleofwind tuggingat a furled sail,

looking for that flaw in thestowthatwouldallowit,withrelentless malice, to pull thecanvas from its gaskets andshred it to ribbons. Heneedled Jack about hisfamily’s wealth, about hisfather’s fame, about hiseducation, about how easyJack had it as a child. Theycut Jack, each of thesethrusts, but Jack turned them

aside with his own verbalparriesbeforethewoundwasdeep.

ButwhenJonahsuggestedthatJackwaslittlemorethanapassengeraboardtheCityofNewport, that his place hadbeensecuredbyprivilegeandnot merit, that he was onlyplaying at sailors, his bladefound its mark. Bolingbroke,sensingasmuch,continuedin

that vein, waxing on abouthow he himself had beenhired on with no assistancefrom anyone, having no onein the world interested inhelping him, whereasBiddlecomb was aboardthrough the influence of hisfather and would never beabletoshiftforhimself,weretheapronstringscutfree.

Jack had little to say in

response because secretly heworried that it was true.Certainly his father hadsecured his position aboardthe ship, and he was nottreated like a foremast handor a typical ship’s boy. Noone in the forecastle, orindeed any of the mates,would dare to cuff him asthey cuffed Bolingbroke.Naïve and generally unaware

as he was, this came as astartlingrevelationtoJack.

Worse was whenBolingbrokeassuredJackthathe was despised by theforemast hands for theprivileged place he heldaboard the ship. And withthat came Jack’s suddenappreciation for the subtle,muted disrespect, borderingon loathing, with which he

was indeed held. Jonah hadpulled a curtain back. Jackdid not like to look at whatwasbehindit.

Years later, thinkingbackon that time, after thememoryofhisapprenticeshipaboard the City of Newporthaddulledenough thathenolongertriedactivelytoforgetit,JackunderstoodthatitwasWaverly the men hated, not

him. It was Waverly, withdiscipline so taut itapproached maniacal, and amate who delighted inenforcing it. Waverly, whorarely gave a Sunday off atsea or a run ashore in port,who laid in food that wasremarkableinitsbadnessandpaucity, who was neversatisfied and not shy aboutsayingso.

Jack’s only experiencewithshipmastersupuntilthatvoyage had been with hisfather and Rumstick.Watching Waverly incommand, thinking Waverlythe very model of the idealmaster,hehadconcludedthathis father and Rumstick hadbeentooeasyontheirmen.Itwouldtakesomeyearsatsea,andtheexperienceofserving

manysortsofcaptains,beforehe understood that theoppositewastrue.

But more than his harddriving, it was Waverly’sattitude that set the men off.Seamen could stand a driver,they could stand a screamerand a mean son of a bitch.Any man who had gone toseaforanylengthoftimehadseen all those andmore. But

Waverly’s imperious quality,his utter disdain for theforecastle, worked on them.No sailor expected to betreated as an equal, butneither would he toleratebeing regarded as a slave.Aboard theCity of Newport,however, thegreat cabinwasvery much the big house,Waverly was the master, themate the overseer, and those

forward littlemore than fieldhands.

The same attitude thatmade Waverly seem thegentleman mariner ashoremade him the insufferabletyrant afloat. And JackBiddlecomb, in the eyes ofthe foremast hands, wasWaverly’s boy, a younggentlemantheretobemoldedin the image and likeness of

themaster.All this Jackwouldcome

tounderstandyears later, butatthetimeitwasamysterytohim, bewildering andheartbreaking that he was soshunned by the men helongedtojoin.Andwhenhisverbal sparring withBolingbroke finally andinevitably turned toviolence,there was no one there to

standwithhim.They were in the cable

tier,sweeping.Itwashot,thework was dusty, the dustclingingtothesweatontheirfaces, getting under theirshirts.Bolingbrokewasgoingon about the rotten foodforward and asking Jackabout the dinner he hadenjoyedaftinthegreatcabin.Jack, done with the nasty

insinuations, turned andhurled his broom atBolingbroke, and had thesatisfaction of seeing himflinchinthedimlight,seeingthe handle of the broomglanceoffhishead.

“You little shit!”Bolingbroke hissed. “Youwaituntilwegetarunashore,I’lldoyouforthis!”

“Why wait?” Jack asked.

“Youwant satisfaction,well,comealongand I’llgiveyousatisfaction!”

“Sure, and one screamfromyouandherecomesthemate to box me good, andcarry you back to the greatcabin!”

“All right, then, you tellmewhere.”

Therewasonlyoneplaceaboard that small

merchantman that might bereasonably secure fromWaverly and the mates,where two men might beateach other senseless with nointerference. That was theforecastle, the forbiddenplace, forbidden to Jack. Buthe was in the grip of angerand despair now, and theboundaries set by Waverlywerethelastofhisconcerns.

And so, just minutes aftereightbellshadrungoutinthenightwatch,afterthelarboardwatch, Bolingbroke’s watch,was relieved, Biddlecombmadehissilentwayoutofthecabinhe enjoyed aft, crossedthedarkandrollingdeck,andclimbed below to theforecastle, his first visit tothatwickedden.

There were half a dozen

menthere,justtheoffwatch,and the steward and cookwhohad heard about the funand turned out to watch.Biddlecombclenchedhisfistsso that no onewould see hishands shake. He hoped hewouldnotpuke.Hehadneverbeen more frightened in hislife.Climbingaloftatseaforthe first time was nothing tothis.

Jack’s feet hit the deckand he turned and lookedaround the fetid space.Therewasonelanternhangingfromtheoverhead,spillingafeeblepool of light on the planksunderfootandleavingmostofthosequarters, theberthsandthe sea chests and the gearhanging from hooks, in deepshadow.

Bolingbroke stood on the

other side of the patch oflight. He looked bigger thanJack remembered. But Jacknoted with some satisfactionthat he stood alone, that therest of the crew seemed notmuchinterestedinhissuccessorfailure.Ifhe,Jack,wasanoutcasthere, if themenwereindifferent to his fate, thenthe sameapparentlywas trueforBolingbroke.

Jonah took a step towardhim. “I’ll give you a chanceto apologize to me, here, infrontoftheothers,”hesaid.

“Sod off,” Jack said, themost foul invective he couldmake himself say, though bythen there were few profanewordshehadnotheard.

Bolingbroke took a stepforward and swung and Jackstepped back and made a

feeble swipe in return.Bolingbroke dodged it withease, stepped in again. Hemade a jab with his left,which Jack deflected. ThenJack felt Bolingbroke’s rightfistconnectwithhisstomach,connectwithenoughforce tolifthimfromhis feet,andheknewhewasintrouble.

He landed, doubled over,and staggered back until he

hit the bulkhead, whichhelped hold him upright. Heknew he had to stand, to gethis arms up to ward off thenext blow, but he could notmakehisbodydothat,andsoBolingbroke’s fist wasunimpeded as it struck himright across the face, twistedhim around, and depositedhimonthedeck.

The pain was radiating

outfromtwopointsnow,andJack had the idea that hemight lie thereon thedeckabit, but Bolingbroke’s shoeconnected with his stomachandblewthewindoutofhim,so that now along with theagony of the blows he wasgaspingforbreath, flailing todraw air into his lungs.Anotherkick,thistimetothechest,andJackwascurledup

inaball.He opened his eyes and

from that odd angle sawBolingbroke coming at himagain, but before his cockedleg could deliver anotherblow he was grabbed by afewoftheothersanddraggedback. Jack heard someonesay,“That’senough,youbeathimtoobloody, thatsonofabitchWaverlywillhaveusall

forit.”There it was. The

foremastjackswouldseehimspared because he wasWaverly’s boy, underWaverly’s protection. Jackfelt a rage run through himthatdrovehimtositup,drovehimtogainhisfeetand,withblood spewing from hismouth, still half hunchedover, fling himself at

Bolingbrokeonceagain.Hedidnotgetfar in that,

maybe two steps before hewasgrabbedby thewatchingmen as they had grabbedBolingbroke. “Well,”someone said, “ain’t he thelittle hero, just like olddaddy!”Theyshovedhimupthe ladder and they werelaughing as they did. Thefight had earned him no

respect in the forecastle, andwhen Waverly asked himabout the bruises, and heswore toall thatwasholyhehad fallendownahatch, thatboughthimnorespect,either.

He earnedonlyone thingfromthatfightandthatwasanickname, Little Hero. Fromthat night on, whenever hewas out of the earshot ofWaverly or themate, hewas

Little Hero, a mocking,hatefulsobriquet.LittleHero.Isaac Biddlecomb’s son,AmosWaverly’sboy.

It was humiliating andintolerableandtherewasonlyone way out, one way thatwould relieve him of thatawful name and the self-doubt Bolingbroke had soskillfully and viciouslyplanted. He could think of

onlyone coursebywhichhemight discover if he reallywas nomore than the son ofIsaac Biddlecomb, child ofprivilege, unable to navigatethe wicked world asBolingbroke did, or whetherhecouldmakehiswayonhistermsalone.

Thepassagehadnotbeenunfruitful. Jack now hadknowledgeenough to shipas

an ordinary seaman, and hewoulddo sooncehehad theyearsandthesize.Untilthen,boyswhoknewtheheadfromthe halyard were alwayswanting aboard. He wasencouraged, as they stoodinto the harbor in Lisbon, toseethevastarrayofshippingat anchor there, and thenumber of vessels of all sizethatflewtheStarsandStripes

atthemizzengaff.In casual conversation

with Waverly he discoveredthat they would not belightering the cargo off butrather warping alongside adock, when the space wasready to receive them.Whenthey did, and when Waverlyhadgone ashore for businessor drinking or whoring, Jackdid not know which, Jack

packedup one suit of decentclothing, his ditty bag, hisblue jacket and his tarpaulinhat, a blanket, and eatingutensils,wrapped them all inhis oilskins and bound themwell.

Knowing where Waverlykept thespeciehecarriedforbusiness purposes Jack paidhimself what he reckonedwere fairwages for thework

hehaddone.Onceitwaswelldark and he was sure thesteward would not surprisehim,heclimbedoutthesternwindow, and from there itwaseasyenoughtoreachtheafter dock fast and climb,monkeylike,toshore.

In canvas trousers and achecked shirt, a tarpaulin hatonhishead, Jackwasallbutindistinguishable from the

hundreds, perhaps thousands,of other sailors who roamedthat port city, who movedwith ease from ship to ship,forecastle to forecastle, withnothing but their labor andknowledge to sell, nocommunity to which theymust answer, save for thefree-flowing community ofmariners who washed up ineveryplacethatborderedsalt

water. The seamen’s cockyswagger, the way they woretheir clothes, cocked theirhats, theway thehalf-fathomof ribbon on the hat’s crownhungovertheirlefteye,thesewerenot things thatcouldbefaked, but Jack was a full-fledgedmember of that tribenow, and there was nothingfalseinhiscarriage.

He headed off down the

quay, determined to remakehimself, authentically, in theimagehehadembraced.

16

Thestormthatsweptupfromthe Caribbean and wrenchedtheaftersixpounderfromitsnew-made gunport on the

Abigail’s side visiteddestruction on a number ofothervesselsunluckyenoughto also be at sea and in itspath.

A dozen fishing boats,whose captains thought theyhad time enough for one lasthaulofthenetsbeforeracingfor thesand-fringedsafetyoftheir harbors, were lostwithoutatrace,vanishedasif

they had never existed. ASpanishsnowcarryingsugar,rum,andfruitwasdismasted.Her listing hulk was seenthree days later by ahomeward-boundEnglishmanand towed into Antigua, hercrew insensibly drunk, mostofthempassedoutamidwinebottles, pools of rum, andpilesofplantainskins.

And the small French

corvette L’Armançon,originally attached to thenaval base at Brest, nowmaking its home at Port-au-Prince, losthermain topmastand main topsail yard. Moreinexcusably, her foresailwaspulled from its gaskets andbeaten to rags before any ofthe reluctant, argumentativecrew, illiterate seamen nowmarinated in revolutionary

fervor, could bemade to layaloftandrestowit.

But unlike the fishingboats, the generally well-found corvette had survivedthe storm, and with the seasgonedownandtheCaribbeansun once again baking thewhite planks of her deck,repairswerewell underway.By the mizzen fife rail,silentlywatchingtheprogress

aloft,stoodCaptainJean-PaulRenaudin.Once,asaprisonerof theEnglish,RenaudinhadseenaPunch-and-Judyshow,and he had to admit that thework going on inL’Armançon’s maintopresembled nothing so muchasthat.

At another time hemighthave found himself fullyengaged in the frustrating,

ultimatelyfutiletaskoftryingtogetthementomovefaster.They had been hours justgetting the topgallant mastand yard down, and anotherhour sending the remains ofthe old, shattered topmast todeck, an absurd waste oftime. But in this instance hedid not look on it as hisparticularproblem.

Pierre Barère,

L’Armançon’sfirstlieutenant,had taken it upon himself todrive the men on, shoutingorders from the deck,personallytakingabaronthecapstan to raise the shatteredmast enough to remove thefid, reminding the men oftheir duty to the Revolution.Renaudin could not help butsmile. Five months before,Barèrehadbeenachiefmate

aboard some miserable,inconsequentialmerchantman. He had beengiven this great elevation tonaval officer, and a firstlieutenant, no less, more forhisrevolutionaryzealthanforhis seamanship, which wasminimal, or for his fightingprowess,whichwasuntested.Barère did not know what areal man-of-war’s crew was,

butitwasnotthis.Now Barère left off the

supervision and came aft.“Citoyen Renaudin,” he said,andRenaudinwas certain hesaiditasmuchtoirritateastosolidify theegalitariannatureof the ship. “I thinkwe shallsee the topmast downdirectly. We were fortunatewe did not lose more top-hamperinsuchastorm.”

“Thetopmastwasrotten,”Renaudin said. “Itwas rottenwhenthedockyardputitin.”

Barère made adisapproving face. With thenaval dockyards fully underthe control of therevolutionarygovernment,hedid not like to entertain thethought that those in chargemight be corrupt,incompetent, self-serving

maliciousswine,eventhoughthey clearly were. Hecertainlydidnotcaretohavethat suggestion spoken outloud.

Renaudin wished verymuchtoberidofBarère,buthe had no ideawhen or howthatmighthappen.

L’Armançon had sailedfromBrest late in the seasonin’93,justasLaTerreur,the

Terror, was spreading outfrom Paris like the cancer itwas, before the sans-culottesof the Parisian ArméeRévolutionnaire had arrivedin Brest to set up theirSurveillance Committee andtheir Revolutionary Tribunal.That timing had beenfortuitous. Despite his yearsof good service, Renaudinwas not sure he would have

survived long in that fetidatmosphere. Not because ofwho hewas—a good, active,andexperiencednavalofficer—butbecauseofwhohehadbeenborn.

When Citoyen Renaudinhad begun his naval careerand his impressively quickrisetocommand,hewasstillknown as Jean-Paul,ChevalierdeRenaudin,atitle

henolongerflauntedorevenmentioned, thebetter tokeephisheadfirmlymounteduponhis neck. His career hadbegun with his appointment,at age fourteen, as enseignede vaisseau aboard the 104-gun ship-of-the-line Ville deParis, commanded byFrançois-Joseph Paul deGrasse-Rouville, Marquis deTilly, Comte de Grasse, a

dear friend of Renaudin’sfather, the Comte deRenaudin.

Young EnseigneRenaudin had served assignal officer during theBattleoftheCapes,thatgreatmelee that had ultimatelydecided the American Warfor Independency. He wasstill aboard Ville de Parisduring the less successful

engagement called the Battleof the Saints, and had spentsomesmalltimeasaprisonerof war to the British beforebeingparoledbacktoFrance.

Barèrewas talking again.“Ihaveexplained to themenwhat our mission is, itsimportance, and now theywork faster,” he said. “Freemen will work hard if theyknowthereasonofit.”

They’ll work hard if theyknow there’s a damnedgoodflogging waiting for them iftheydon’t,Renaudinthought,but he did not say as much.Insteadhesaid,“Perhapsyoushould tell me what ourmission is. Then perhaps I’llworkharderaswell.”

Barère smiled, thatinsufferable smile of his.“Ah, Citoyen Captain,” he

said, “you know what youneed to know, and anymorewould only serve to distract.Wemust find the American,that is what you need toknow.”

Renaudinjustnoddedandsaid nothing. He was notreally listening to Barère’swords.Hewas toodistractedby the anodyne thought ofshootinghim in thehead.He

had seen enough men shotthat he could picture itperfectly; the hole in theforehead, the instantaneouslook of wide-eyed surprise,the spray of blood and bonefromthebackoftheskull.Hefound the image lovely andcomforting.

Unfortunately, the warmfeeling that came with suchdaydreamswascooledbythe

knowledge thathewouldnotreally do such a thing,because doing so wouldlikely lead him right to theguillotine.Unlessitwasdoneunderthecoverofadesperatebattle.

Barèrewasmorethanjusta first officer. He was thehandpicked representative ofthe revolutionarygovernment, the Directoire.

He was there because mensuchasRenaudinpresentedadilemma for the Jacobins.Throughbloodytrialtheyhadfound that any man whocould march, who could befilled with the fire ofrevolution, and was not acomplete imbecile could bemade into a soldier. But thatwas not the case when itcametomanningtheshipsof

theFrenchnavy.It took years of

experience to make a goodsailor, and more to make agood naval officer. But theFrench navy, even more sothan the British, had beenofficered by the aristocracy,and they had madethemselves scarce when theRevolutionturnedugly.MostofRenaudin’sfellowcaptains

(as well as most of hisfamily) became émigrés. Inpost-revolutionary France,experienced naval officerswererarebirdsindeed.

Renaudin remained partof that small and endangeredflock.Hewas a good officerwho rose to capitaine defrégate under the AncienRégime. Having absorbed agood deal of the philosophy

oftherightsofmanwhileonthe American station, andhaving seen GeorgeWashingtonhimselfwhenthegreat man visited de Grasseaboardtheflagship,Renaudinhad genuine republicanleanings. He supported theEstates General in 1789 andthe National Assembly afterthat. Renaudin was secondcousin to theMarquis de La

Fayette though he was nomore likely to mention thatrelationshipnowthanhewasto mention his title. Yearsbeforeheandtheyoungherohad enjoyed longconversationsaboutquestionsoflibertyandequalityandallthat.LaFayettehadhadabigimpact on Renaudin’sthinking.

By the time the fleets of

Great Britain andrevolutionaryFranceengagedinwhat theBritishcalled theGloriousFirstofJune,andtothe French was known asCombat de Prairial,Renaudin was thirty-one andcommander of the lovely620-ton, twenty-eight-gunfrigate Médée. Being afrigate,Médée did not standin the line of battle with the

great capital ships, but ratherhung on the flanks andrelayed signals and got inwhat blows she could. Still,some glory from thatengagement, in which bothsides claimed victory, shoneuponRenaudin.

It shone, but not so verybrightly. Bright enough,perhaps, tokeephisneckoutofaguillotineatatimewhen

somanyoftheSecondEstatewere being loaded into thetumbrelsandrolledofftothecity squares. Through it allRenaudin remained true towhat he was, a naval officerof France. At first heremainedbecausehebelievedin the Revolution. Later,whenhecouldnolongerdenythe grotesque turn themovement had taken, he

stayed on because he stillloved thenaval service ashelovedhishome.

And finally, though hewouldnotadmit it tohimselfexcept in the most obliqueandcursoryway,heremainedbecause he was afraid to go,afraidtostay,paralyzedbyaninabilitytotakeaboldstepinanydirection.

The Directoire did not

trust men like Renaudin butthey needed them, becauseRenaudin knew his business.Being stationed in theCaribbeanhadsparedhimtheworst of the horrors onFrench soil, la Terreur.Indeed, the fact that he nowcommanded a vessel asinsignificant as L’Armançon,a corvette mounting tentwelve pounders and two

sixesonthebowaschasers,apunishment for his suspectheritage, may have helpedhimescapenotice.Everyyearor so some unnamedbureaucrat in the navaladministration sent a newfirst officer of knownallegiance to therevolutionary government toreplacethepreviousonewhohad been recalled, or died of

yellow jack, or met withsome other fate. That newofficer would assiduouslymonitor Renaudin’s loyaltyand that of his men, untilsomething untowardhappened to end hiscommission.

Barère was the latest ofthesebuthewasdifferent, inthathecarriednotjustordersbutsecretorders.Whetherhe

was genuinely instructed notto share themwithRenaudinuntilhefelt itwasnecessary,or if hewas doing so just toplumeuphisownimportanceRenaudin did not know, buttheendresultwasthesame.

“Wehavenotlostsightofthelaunch,havewe?”Barèreasked. Renaudin looked athim with curiosity. Heseemed to be growing

increasingly anxious, waitingfor the events he had put inmotion to unfold. Renaudindidnotknowthemanwell,sohedidnotknowifthiswasagenuine character flaw, or ifhis mission was such thatfailure was a path to theguillotine.

“Masthead, there!”Renaudin shouted. “What doyou see of the launch?” The

mostthatBarèrewouldrevealwas that they were to patrolthe Mona Passage and keepwatch for an Americanmerchantman.Tocovermoreterritory Renaudin had senthis second officer, RenéDauville,offwiththelaunch,with instructions to staywithin sight of L’Armançonand keep an eye on the farhorizon.

The lookout was settledon the fore topgallant yard,now the highest spot aboardthe corvette, and he swunghis glass off to the north.Therewasamoment’spausebefore he reported, “Launchis making for us, it lookslike.”

Renaudin pressed his lipstogetherandstifledanalmostphysical need to scream his

displeasurealoft.Theidiotonlookout should have reportedthe very instant the launchaltered course to interceptL’Armançon, but he waslikely dreaming of the daywhen the leveling effect oftheRevolutionwouldseehimmade an admiral, and wearshoesonhisfeet,andsowasnot paying attention.Revolution, republicanism,

these thingswere tailor-madefor the malingerers, whiners,and sea lawyers of the lowerdeck and they took to it liketheytooktosaltwater.

“Thelaunchismakingforus?” Barère asked. “Whatcouldthismean?”

“Many things, CitoyenBarère,” Renaudin said.“Theymaybeoutof foodorwater.Theremaybesomeone

chasing them. Or they mayhave seen your American.Patience,patience,Citoyen.”

That last Renaudin saidspecifically to annoy Barère,because he knew thatBarère’s patience wasseverely limited, at leastwhere this mission wasconcerned. The lieutenantlooked out toward thedirectionofthelaunch,which

was not yet visible from thedeck.Evenwith the tolerablebreezeblowing itwould takehours for the open boat toreach them. “Should we notclose with the launch?”Barèreasked.

“We should, but…”Renaudin said, looking up atthemaintopmastandgivingashrug. “Perhaps if you leadthe men in a chorus of ‘La

Marseillaise’ it will inspirethemtoworkfaster.”

“Perhaps, CitoyenRenaudin, you are not asloyaltotheDirectoireasonemightwish,”Barèrereplied,athin veneer of calm over therage and anxiety. “PerhapsthislackofcooperationmightbeofinteresttoParis.”

Renaudin smiled.“Perhaps it would,” he

agreed.“ButfirstletmeseeifIcaninspirethementomovea bit quicker.” He steppedforward and looked aloft. Itwasnot fearofBarère or theDirectoirethatdrovehim,butrather a genuine sense ofduty, and the understandingthat his petty lack ofcooperation was childish, nomore.

“Gohier!” he shouted up

to the boatswain, who wasfacingoffwiththecaptainofthe maintop, gesticulatingwildly to make whateverpoint hewas trying tomake.“Why in all bloody hell isthat damned topmast not inplace?Whatsortofwhoresonincompetent blunderer areyou? Get it up now, youmiserable son of a bitch, orbyGod, I’ll know the reason

why! I will set that maintopsailintwentyminutesandthe halyard will be wrappedaround your neck if it is notready!”

The boatswain, Gohier,hadbeen in thenavalservicelong enough that herespondedtosuchcommandslike a dog that has beentrained with a stick, allthoughts of Liberté, Égalité,

Fraternité quite forgotten.Renaudin wished that hissecond lieutenant, RenéDauville, was there to drivetheworkalong.Dauvillewasagoodofficerandathoroughseaman, which, of course,was why Renaudin had senthim off in the launch. That,andbecauseBarèrewouldnothave gone, for fear of somemischiefinhisabsence.

Still, Renaudin’s sharpwords, in the old-schoolmanner, inspired theboatswainandtheothersaloftto work at a less leisurelypace.Renaudinalteredcourseto the northward and set themizzen topsail, and half anhour later the main topsailwent up, Gohier’s neck wellclear of the halyards.L’Armançon and her launch

were on converging courses,and it was less than an hourafter that that the big boatswooped up alongside thecorvette’s leeward side andDauville scrambled up theboarding steps, his blue coatblackwiththespraytheyhadtakenoverthelaunch’srail.

DauvillesalutedRenaudinand began his report in thesame instant that the wildly

impatientBarère said, “Well,Citoyen,whatdoyouhavetosay?”

“Gunfiretothenorthwest,sir,” Dauville said, directinghis words to Renaudin andeschewing the “Citoyen”nonsense that he knewRenaudinhatedonshipboard.“But not a sea fight, sir, Idon’t believe. Too regular,toomeasured. Three shots at

a regular interval, a pause,threemore,andthenagain.”

Renaudinnodded.Gunfirein battle was more chaotic,irregular. This soundedmorelike a salute, or a shipexercising thegreatguns.Heturned to Barère and couldnothelpbutnoticethelookofsatisfaction on his face. Andrelief.

“What do you think,

Lieutenant?”heasked.“I think this is our

American,” he said. “I thinkwe had best beat to quarters,Citoyen,andclearforaction.”

17

Thisisdamnedtiresome,Jackthought as he watched themen move with notablereluctance to the great guns,

cast off the lashings, removethe tompions. The cook wasparticularly slow about hispowder monkey duties, hissurliness and distaste for thework evident in everyshuffling step. EvenWentworth, the absurdbandages now removed fromhis hands, seemed to havelosthisenthusiasmfor ironicdetachment.

Only Charles Frostretained his unboundeddelight in running theexercise with the great guns.His rumbling voice, like agun truck rolling across adeck, called out, “Cast looseyourguns!Levelyourguns!”and the force of his wordsseemed to be the only thingpushingthemenforward.

They ran out the guns,

primedandpointed,firedandspongedonFrost’scommand.Everydaysincethewaywardgun had been replaced, Frosthad them at it, and for mostof that time their interesthadremainedratherhigh.Butthenovelty was gone now, andeven live firingwas just onemore chore in the never-endingrotationofchoresthatwasthelotofthesailorman.

Thatisnottosaythattheyhad not improved in theirgunnery, indeed they hadimproved quite dramatically.From the comedy of errorsthat was the very firstexercise,themenhadquicklypicked up the rhythm of thework, the fast and orderlyprogression of loading andfiring. These were able-bodied seamen for the most

part, smart and competentmen, the cream of theAmerican carrying trade.Such a thing as gun exercisecame natural to them, andsoontheycouldloadandfireas well as any man-of-war’smen,ornearlyso.

Jackhadcomeondeckatfirst light determined thatthey would not exercise thegreatgunsthatday.Themen

had had enough of it andwere making that clear withevery disgruntled effort.What’s more, the constantwreaths of smoke wereplayinghavocwith thepaint.The masts needed scrapingand oiling, the number-onefore staysailhadblownoutaseam that called forrestitching, and there wasrunninggear tooverhaul,but

with the great guns nonsenseadded to the regular day’swork and the effort requiredjust tomaintaintheirforwardprogress, there was never amomentforanyofit.

“Good morning, Mr.Frost,”Jacksaid,crossingthedeck to where his passengerstood looking out to sea.Frost was always respectfulenoughtokeeptotheleeward

side of the quarterdeckwhenJackwasabout,unlessinvitedtothewindwardside.

“Goodday,Captain,andafineone,too,Ireckon!”Frostsaid.Hisjoiedevivreseemednot to be affected by anyoutside influence. Like someeternalflameitjustburnedonandon.

“So, Mr. Frost—” Jackbegan but Frost cut him off,

or rather bowled him over,rhetorically.

“Forgiveme,Captain,butItookthelibertyofcastinganeye over the charts, and if Ido not mistake it we areentering into the MonaPassagenow,arewenot?”

“We are, indeed,” Jacksaid, feeling that olddiscomfortrisingup.

“Notorious place,

notorious,” Frost said. “It’slike a funnel, do you see?American merchantmen justfunneling through, and thosedamnable Jean Crapeauprivateers hovering. Likevultures, I say. I think someextra exercise with the greatguns is in order today, whatsayyou?”

Jack said little. Frost’senthusiasm, his insistence,

and mostly his closefriendship with Oxnard leftJack relatively speechless,certainly too speechless toobject. So, despite all earlierresolutions, he found himselfinformingOliver Tucker thatthey would be starting thegreat gun exercise in theforenoon watch andcontinuingonuntil fourbellsin the afternoon watch, at

least.Tucker,goodmate thathe was, said nothing but“Aye, sir,” and showed justtheslightesthintofdismay.

Abigail was sailing on abowline, yards braced hardaround, the deck steeplyslanted,theshipheeledtothefresh breeze. That gave themen a hard pull as theyheavedtheloadedgunsuptotheports,andsoontheywere

sweating, smudged blackwith powder residue, andcursing, first under theirbreath, and soon quiteaudibly.

“Sponge out, sponge outwell, there,Maguire, do youwant to blow your damnedhandoff?”Frost shoutedanda grumblingMaguire shovedhis sponge in the bucket offilthywaterand swabbedout

thehotbarrelonceagain.The last of the rolling

volley was still dying awaywhen the masthead lookoutcalleddown,“Sail,ho!”

Sail, ho! Jack felt a twistof emotion at those twosimple words, words he hadheard countless times before,but never so fraught as theywere now. Perhaps it wasnothing, another

merchantman as worriedaboutprivateersashewas.Ora British man-of-war whomight be looking to augmentits crew with ostensibledeserters shipping aboard aYankee merchantman. Or aFrench privateer hunting foreasyprey.Whateveritwas,itwouldatleastmeananendtothedamnedexercisewith thegreat guns and that was one

goodthing.“Stand by your guns!”

Jack called, then, “Aloft,there,whereaway?”Jackhadsent Lacey aloft, allowinghim to skip his trick on theguns, over Frost’s objection,because he wanted a goodhand keeping an eye on thehorizon.

“Nor’east, sir, justt’gan’sls is all I can see!”

Lacey had been sent aloftwith a glass, an unusualpractice, but these wereunusualwaters

Northeast. She was towindwardof theAbigail,andstillhulldown,whichputhera good ten or fifteen milesaway. Jack stared off to thenortheast, not in any hope ofseeingher,butjustasaplaceto focus his eyes as he

consideredthis.“Do you make out her

course?”Jackcalledaloft.“Looks to be she’s

making easting, sir,” Laceycalled out, “but it’s damnedhardtoseeforcertain.”

Biddlecomb thoughtabout that. Easting … Theywere on something like aparallel course. What thisunknownshipdidinthenext

hour or so would tell themvolumes. “If she makes anychange of course, you singout, Lacey, you hear?”Biddlecomb shouted aloft,and was greeted with, “Aye,sir!”

“Mr. Frost, pray securethe guns, that’s all the noisewe need to make thismorning,”Jacksaid.

“Indeed, sir, indeed,”

Frost said, and with a wordthemenspongedout,rammedpowder and shot home,reinserted tompions, heavedthe guns up the deck, andsecured them, loaded andready for action, staring outovertheemptyhorizon.

The time crept on, fivebells, six bells, seven bells,andneverawordfromLacey,savefortheoccasionalreport

that the strange sail had notaltered course. Its course,however,wasnotwhatLaceyhad first thought. Thestranger was not sailingparallel to Abigail butsomewhat lower, meaningthat if both vessels kept ontheir present track, and theother ship was faster thanAbigail, then they wouldultimately converge at some

pointfaroutahead.Wentworth appeared on

deck, pretty much the lastperson Jack wished to see,but therewas something oddinhisdemeanor,nottheusualdetachment, but an engagedquality that made Jackwonder if he had beendrinkingagain.

“Captain Biddlecomb,what news of this stranger?”

he asked. His tone wasfriendly, the note not quiteright, like someone speakinga foreign language in whichhewasnotentirelyfluent.

“Nothing yet, Mr.Wentworth, nothing yet.Sailing roughly the samedirection as us, no change ofcourseorsail.”

Wentworth nodded,frowned, and seemed to

consider this information. “Isee,” he said. “And do youattach any significance tothis?”

Jack allowed himself anaudible sigh. “Well, itwouldseem he’s not chasing us,which could rule out hisbeing a privateer. He’s alsonot running,whichmeanshehasnofear thatwemaybeaprivateer.ItcouldbeaBritish

frigate, or a sloop-of-war. Ihope you have your papershandy, Mr. Wentworth, Ishould hate to see youpressedintotheRoyalNavy.”

“Youwoulddelighttoseeme pressed into the RoyalNavy, Captain Biddlecomb,but,alas,mypapersarequiteinorder.”

“Well,then,ifwehavenofear of losing you to King

George,weshallpressonandseewhatbecomesofthis.”

Theydidpresson,anotherfifteenminutes,untilJackfelthemust see this strange shipfor himself or explode withthe pressure of curiosity. Hepulled off his hat and coatand took his best glass fromthe binnacle box. “Mr.Tucker, I am going to themasthead tohavea look,”he

said.“Very well, sir,” Tucker

said. Jack moved toward themain shrouds on theweatherside but made it no furtherthanthemizzenfiferailwhenWentworthstoppedhim.

“Captain … you areclimbing up the mainmast, Itakeit?”

“Yes,” Jack said, unsurewherethiswasgoing.

“Might I join you?”Wentworth asked, in a morehumbleandhesitanttonethanever Jack had heard him usebefore.

Jack took a long look atWentworthbeforeanswering.Hewasnotsurewhathewasseeing here. Wentworth, thebored young man ofprivilege, quite uninterestedinanythingofanauticalbent,

anything that smacked of atrade, now asking to risk hissilk stockings on the rough,tarred shrouds? Jack did notmuch care for Wentworth’scompany, on deck or in therigging.Ontheotherhand,hesaw a most excellentopportunity to letWentworthhumiliatehimself.

“Well, Mr. Wentworth, aclimb aloft will do your fine

clothingnofavors.NorhaveItimetoseetoyoursafetyandinstruction.”

“The clothes are of noconcern, I have more,” hesaid,andJackcouldnothelpbut think that the suit thatWentworthwasabout to ruinlikely cost more than thewages that any of theforemasthandswouldearnonthat voyage. “As to

instruction,I’msureIwillbefine if I just follow you, anddoasyoudo.”

Jack thought about thisfor a moment more. “Verywell,”hesaid.“ButIhavenotime to slow and wait foryou.”

“Pray,donotwaitforme.I’ll be right behind. In yourwake, I believe is how youtarpaulinsputit.”

Jack grabbed on to theaftermostmainshroud,pulledhimselfuponthepinrail,andswung outboard. He steppedupon the stretcher, handsonthethickshrouds,andheadedup the ratlines, moving asquicklyashecould,faster,hehoped,thanWentworthcouldfollow.

He reached the futtockshrouds that angled outboard

to the edge of the maintop,pausedandglanceddown.Hehoped to see Wentworthstruggling at the bottom ofthe shrouds, or, in a perfectworld, frozen in terrorhalfway up. But far fromstruggling, Wentworth wasdirectly below Jack andwaiting for him to proceed,andJacknearlykickedhiminthefacebyaccident.

“Mind yourself here, thisis a bit tricky,” Jack said tocover his surprise as hegrabbed on to the futtockshroudsandmadehiswayup,waitingfor theship to roll toleewardandgivehimthatbitof momentum that sent himup and over the edge of themaintop.

Hedidnotbreakstrideashe continued on up themain

topmast shrouds. To hisdisappointment,hecouldfeelinthevibrationoftheriggingthat Wentworth was justbelowhim,havingapparentlyhad no difficulty at all innegotiating the climb aroundthetop.

Up he went, with thetopmast shrouds comingcloser together as theyconverged on the masthead,

and then up and over themain topmast crosstrees andup the topgallant shrouds,even closer than those of thetopmast and twisting underhisweight.Themotionofthevessel as she plunged alongclose hauled was morepronounced at that height.The topgallant sail, topsail,and mainsail were billowingout,hiding the starboard side

beneaththeirsmoothpressofcloth, and forward, theforemast held the samepyramidofcanvas.

Hefeltthetopgallantmastjerk as Wentworth came upover the crosstrees andclimbed up below him, untilhisshoulderswere levelwithJack’s feet.Not only had theclimb presented no difficultyto Wentworth, but to Jack’s

great annoyance he realizedthat Wentworth was notbreathingashardashewas.

“All well, Mr.Wentworth?”Jackasked.

“Verywell,Captain,verywell, indeed.” He wassmiling.Jackwasnotsurehehadeverseenhimsmile.

But that was all the timeJackhadtospareforWilliamWentworth of the Boston

Wentworths. He took twosteps more and then steppedonto the slings of the maintopgallant yard, on theweather side, Lacey havingretreated to the leeward sideonJack’sarrival.

“There, sir,” Laceypointed off to weather. Jackfollowed his finger. A ship,and not so distant now. Hullup from that height, and her

topgallants would soon bevisible from the Abigail’sdeck, if they were notalready. Jack reached for thetelescopethatwashangingbya strap around his shoulder,put it to his eye, and twistedthetubetobringtheshipintofocus.

Helookedfirstatthepeakof the gaff, the mastheads,lookedforaflagofsomesort,

somemarkofnationality,buttherewasnotabitofbuntingto be seen. Not so odd;Abigail had no flag flying,either. Half the Westernworld,itseemed,wasatwar,international alliances andhostilitiesaconvolutedmess,andtherewaseveryreasontonotadvertiseone’scountryoforigin,atleastuntiloneknewwhowasintheneighborhood.

“No change of course,Lacey?”

“None,sir.Steadyon,justlikeus.Sailinglowerthanus,likeyoucansee.SinceIfirstseenher,she’sclosedquiteabit. Four or five miles, Ishouldthink.”

Jack nodded. The twoships were sailing at nearlythesamespeeddownthelegsof an acute angle, and

somewhereoutaheadwasthevertex of that angle, thewatery point where theywould meet. He could easeAbigail’s helm, sail furtheroff the wind, widen ratherthan narrow this angle. Hecouldturnandrun.Buteverymilehelosttoleewardwouldhave to be made up with ahard slog to weather, and hedidnotcaretoloseaninchif

he did not have to. And thisfellow was posing no threat.Notyet,atleast.

Jack swept theglass overthedistantship’stop-hamper.Main topsail and foresailwere whiter than the rest,newer,Jackguessed.Theoldsuit damaged in the latestorm, perhaps? hewondered. Perhaps. Poorseamanship? Inadequate

crew?Perhaps.Heranhisglassalongthe

hull,slowly,atrickybusinessholdingthedistantshipinthetelescope, a moving targetthathewasobservingfromamoving platform, but he hadyears of experience in doingjustthat,andtheobjectintheprimary lens did not waver.Like Abigail, she was on alarboard tack, and he was

lookingather starboard side,which meant that she washeeled towardhimandmuchof her hull was hidden fromhis view. Still, there was aquality to her, the shape ofher hull, the steeve of herbowsprit, the flat cut of hertopsails, hardly any roach atallinthefoot.

“Well, Captain, what sayyou?”

Jack nearly jumped insurprise, so focused was heon the ship in his glass. HethoughtatfirstthatLaceyhadasked that impertinentquestion, a shocking breachof shipboard decorum, butwhenhelookedupsharplyatLaceyhe sawonlyhorroronhis face. Then Jack recalledWentworth,whohadclimbedhigh enough to see over the

topgallant yard. He stoodwith feet on the ratlines,elbowsontheyard,justafewfeet from where Jack wasperched.“Whatcanyoumakeofher?”Wentworthpersisted.

Wearebecoming farandaway too informal aboardthis damned bucket, Jackthought, but he was not surehowtostuffthatcatbackintothe bag, so he said, “It’s a

ship,Mr.Wentworth.”“Well, yes, but what sort

of ship, Captain? Privateer?Somemaraudingbuccaneer?”

“One can’t be certain, atleast not from this distance,andwithneveraflagflying,”Jack said, drawn once againinto givingmore explanationthan he cared to give. “Butmyguessisthatsheisaman-of-warofsomedescription.”

“Indeed? But whose youcannottell?”

“Icannot.Untilsheshowsa flag or hails us or drawsclose enough for us to see ifhermenaremustachioed.”

“Oh,” Wentworth said.“Sowhatwillyoudo?”Fromthedeckfarbelowtheyheardthe ship’sbell ringout, eighttimes.

“I believe I will have

dinner,” Jack said. Heclimbed down ahead ofWentworth, allowingWentworth to observe andcopy themanner inwhichhedid so. Had Wentworth notbeen with him, Jack wouldhave slid down a backstay,but he did not want toencourage Wentworth to trythat trick. One had to placeone’s feet just so to avoid

tearingfleshfromhands,andWentworth had had a goodflensingtherealready.

Theymade it to the deckunscathed,thoughpredictablyWentworth’s stockings wereshredded and his breechesbeyondhopeofsalvation.Hisshoes, too, would never seeanother cotillion in Boston’sfiner homes. Wentworthseemednottocare,orindeed

eventonotice.There was nothing Jack

wantedmore at that momentthan to disappear into thegreat cabin, to dine alone,unwatched, free from theship’s company, who werewaitingforhimtodecideonacourse of action. Butsomehow, because of thesituation they were in, thisodd vessel out to windward,

its intentions unknown, andthe intimacy his passengershad forced upon him, he feltcompelledtoinviteFrostandWentworth to join him. Jackhad always craved theautonomy he believedcommandwouldprovide.Themaster of a vessel at sea, hethought, could do as hewished,atleastwithregardtosuch things as who would

share his table. But now hewasfindingthatthat,too,wasanillusion.

Twentyminuteslatertheywere seated at the crowdedtable in the diminutive greatcabin. The enthusiasticWentworth of that morningseemed to have been left ondeck,andinhisplacewastheWentworth with whom Jackwasmorefamiliar;disdainful

andironic.Indeed,heseemedtoelevatethatattitudetonewheights, as if embarrassedbyhis earlier, unseemlyenthusiasm,as ifhehopedtowipe it away with somenotableunpleasantness.

Themeal, tobesure,wasa thing worthy of disdain.Anything Maurice hadprepared prior to the voyagewas long gone, and though

much of the excellent cabinstores Virginia had laid inremained, much had beenruined in the storm. In anyevent, Walcott had no ideawhat to do with any of itother than boil or fry it, soboilandfryhedid.

Jack was famished, andnottooparticularinhistastes,sohe tore into themealwithrelish. Frost made a noble

effort, but Wentworth gavethe offering a cockedeyebrow, poked at it with aknife, and then pouredhimself aglassofwine. “Dr.Walcott seems to havediscovered some hithertounknownspeciesofmeat,andthen charred it beyond allrecognition,” he observed.“Such a loss to theworld ofnaturalscience.”

“So,Captain,” Frost said,gesturingwithknifeandfork,“this fellow to windward,what do you make of him?Now that we have someprivacy?” Jack had hoped tomaintain the taciturnity hethought proper for a ship’smaster, but Frost would notbeputoff.

“Well,” Jack said, “It ishardtotell,ofcourse,Inever

did get a proper look at her,butshelookstobeaman-of-wartome.”

Frost nodded andconsidered that. “Man-of-war?Indeed.Noindicationofwhoseman-of-war shemightbe?”

“French, perhaps?”Wentworth said. “CaptainBiddlecombdidn’tdomethehonor of offering the use of

hisglasswhenwewerealoft,so I could not see, but wasthere a guillotine on herquarterdeck, at all, captain?That’s how you can tell. Orperhaps heads rolling aboutthedeck?”

Frost gave Wentworth asharplook.HeturnedtoJack.“Not sure which would beworse, French or British.British, theymightpresshalf

your crew. French are takingprizes,but it’s theprivateers,you know. A man-of-war,she’ll leave a merchantmanalone. However theDirectoire feels aboutAmerica’s carrying trade, Idon’t reckon they’re ready tostartawar.”

“I can’t say I agree,”Wentworth said, refilling hisglass for the third time by

Biddlecomb’s count. “Itseemstomethey’vehadsucha jolly good time killing oneanother that now they willinsist upon exporting theirliberté, égalité, et cetera, etceteratotherestoftheworldatthepointofabayonet.”

“Mr. Wentworth,” Frostsaid, exasperation creepinginto his perpetually cheerfultone,“youarenogreatfriend

totheFrench,Itakeit?”“The cheese-eating,

duplicitous, Gaulish, papistFrench?Notreally,no.”

“Well,”saidFrost,“Iwillnot ask Captain Biddlecombhisopinion,assuchthingsarenot the proper topic ofcivilizeddiscussion.”

Wentworth raised hisglass. “To civilization. Mayweseeitagain.”

Jack was not listening inanymeaningfulway.Hewasfocused instead on theskylight above their headsand any word that mightcome filtering down throughit. Unthinking, he sawed athismeatwithhisknife,liftedittohismouth,andcheweditlaboriously as he listened forany report from aloft, hismind sifting out the

meaningless sounds of hisguests’ discourse. And soJack was perfectly preparedto hear Lacey’s voice comeringing down from the maintopgallant, shouting “Deck,there! Ship to weather’sfalling off! Oh, there shegoes! Looks to be makingrightforus!”

Jackwas on his feet in aflash, knocking his chair

over, andwashalfway to thedoor before it hit the deck.“Excuse me, gentlemen,” hecalled over his shoulder, butby thenhewas too far alongtobeheard.

18

For all his time at sea, Jackwas still astounded at howquickly things could change.The moment before Lacey’s

shout from aloft they hadbeen peaceably sailing incompanywithsomeunknownman-of-war. Now, as heemergedintothesunlightofaCaribbean afternoon, lessthan a minute after the hailfrom on high, certainly, hefoundhisshipandmenundergenuine and immediatethreat.

Theman-of-war was hull

up from thequarterdeck, hadbeenforsometime,butitwasappreciably nearer now thanwhenJackhadledthewaytodinner. More significantly, ithad altered course by sevenpointsofthecompass,sothatrather than sailing a nearparallel track with Abigail itwassailingalmostdirectlyather, making for the nearestpointwheretheirpathswould

intersect. She was settingstuddingsails, and Jackthought, A Frenchman,then … though he did notknow why he thought that,andhewastoooccupiedwithhisownshiptowonder.

“Hands to the braces!Burgess, fall off, there!” hecalled to JohnBurgess at thehelm.“Comearoundtosouthbyeast!”

“South by east, aye,”Burgessshouted,spinningthewheel as the lee braceswerecastloose,theweatherhauledupon, with Wolcott hurryingoutofthegalleytoattendtheforesheet.

“Stuns’ls, aloft andalow!” Jack shouted, and hehad not breathed the lastsyllable of that order beforethemenwereleapingintothe

shroudsandracingaloft.Studdingsails … Jack

lookedacrossthewaterattheman-of-war, closing fast.Theywerejustsheetinghometheforelowerstuddingsailonthe leeward side and herealizedthat thatwashowheknew her to be French. Hehad seen British men-of-warflashoutstuddingsails,and itwas a wonder to see, the

speed and precision, like amagictrick,onemomenttheywere not there, the nextmoment they were. Incomparison, this fellow wasslow and awkward, the sailscoming out in no particularorder, as if the topmen weresetting them as the moodstruck.

CouldbeSpanish…Jackthought,butaSpaniardwould

have no reason to comeswooping down on a poorYankee merchantman thatway, nor would they be sosloppy in setting sail. Thetales told in thevariousportsin theAtlantic carrying tradewere of a French navyinfested with republicanthinking on the lower decks,and any man who had spentany time at sea could guess

how well that would work,andwhattheendresultwouldbe. And here it was, ondisplay.

“So, a Frenchman,Captain, by the looks of it,”Frost said. Jack had not seenor heard him come on deck,but he was standing justbehind and staring in thesame direction Jack was, thesame direction every

unoccupied eye aboard wasstaring.

“By her actions, and theway they get the stuns’ls onher, I would think so,” Jacksaid. “The dog, she’s beeninchingclosertousforhours,and fool that I am, I just lether.” Those last words cameoutmorebitter thanJackhadintended, but they reflectedwellthewayhefelt,hisanger

athisownnaïveté.Iamlikeaboyplayingatbeingaship’smaster,hechidedhimself.

“Well, if he fooled you,he fooled us all,” Frost saidkindly. “I’m no stranger tothese waters, nothing like,andIdidnotsuspect.Butseehere,youstillreckonherforaman-of-war, ormight she beaprivateer?”

“I’m not so sure, now,”

Jack said. “If she’s aprivateer, she’s a damnablybig one.” Fast schooners orbrigs were more often thechoice for privateers; theywere cheaper to build,cheaper to man. To see aprivateer as big as what theBritish navy would call asloop-of-war, or the Frenchwould call a corvette, wasunusual.Butnotunheardof.

“She is big, for aprivateer,”Frostagreed.Theywere quiet for a moment,watching the onrushing ship,now directly in their wakeand about a mile and a halfdistant. “And fast, I fear,”headdedatlength.

Jack nodded. Fast,indeed … The Frenchman’sstuddingsails were set anddrawingnow, toweatherand

lee, aloft and alow, just likeAbigail’s,whichhadbeensetwith considerably morealacrity. But this distant shipwas longer on the waterlinethan Abigail, which wouldmake her faster, and beingFrench-builttheycouldcounton her having a finer entryandacleanerrunaftthantheapple-bowed, stubbyAmerican merchantman built

to haul amaximum of cargoat a reasonable but notremarkable speed. Jacklooked up at the sun. It waslatespringandtheywerewellto the south.Darknesswouldnot be on them for manyhours.

It is only a matter oftime … he thought. TheycouldnotoutfootthisdamnedFrenchman. They could not

losehiminthedark“Yourpapersareinorder,

I would assume,” Frost said.“Bills of lading, clearingmanifests,invoices?”

“Yes, the papers are inorder,”Jacksnapped.Hewasfully engaged in self-flagellation, and he did notneed any prompting fromFrosttodoitbetter.

“And your rôle

d’équipage, of course,” Frostadded.

Jackfeltasensationinhisstomach that was much likewhatheimaginedswallowingagrapeshotwouldfeellike;asuddenandunnaturalweight,nausea,thecertainknowledgethat something was terriblywrong. The rôle d’équipage!How many times had hepestered Oxnard for it? And

every time Oxnard hadassuredhimhewaspullingittogether, and in the end hehadsailedoffwithoutit.

“You do have a rôled’équipage, do you not?”Frost asked, sensingsomething was amiss,because Jack was not at allthe stoic, unflappablecharacter that he wishedhimselftobe.

“No, I do not have adamned rôle d’équipage,”Jack said. “Oxnard … Mr.Oxnard had said repeatedlyhe would take care of that,but in the end he forgot. AsdidI.”

“Oh, dear…” Frost said.Theyremainedquietforsometime, watching the man-of-war in their wake plungingon, relentless and fast. Jack

felt a slight veer in thewindand he ordered the bracestrimmed just so, but it waspointless and he knew it.Evenif theFrenchmensailedtheir ship like a Portuguesebumboatshewouldstillhavea knot or better on theAbigail. If she did not carryany spars away—unlikely inthatwind—thenshewouldbeup with them in just a few

hours.“Ifsheisnotaprivateer,”

Jack said, “then perhaps sheis not on the lookout for aprize. Perhaps her intent isnot hostile.” He wanted toconfer with Frost now,wanted theolderman’s inputandsuggestion, this friendofthe Abigail’s owner, he washappytolookonhimnowasOxnard’s surrogate. Jack

wanted Charles Frost to takethe cup from his hand, or atleasthelphimbear it,andheloathed himself all the moreforfeelingthatway.

“This looks to be theactions of a ship bent ontakingaprize,”Frostsaid,hisvoice lower now,conspiratorial. “We don’tknow what has happened.New orders from Paris? We

may be in full-fledged warwith France, for all weknow.”

Jack nodded. Frost wasnotofferingmuchinthewayofcomfort.

“But see here, Captain,”Frost said, speaking lowerstill and takinga step towardJack. “I have no say aboardthis ship, I know that. ButOxnardandIarefriends,and

we talked of this quite a bitthesepastmonths,soIthinkIknow his mind. This…” Henodded toward theFrenchmanastern.“…this isthe very reason he put thoseguns aboard your ship. Thereason he askedme, if Iwastotakepassagewithyou, ifIwould train your men in theuseofthem.Oxnarddoesnotwant to lose a ship, and her

men. He wants to make astand. And that, my boy, iswhy he wished you to takecommand.Becauseheknowsa fightingmanwhen he seesone.”

Jackdidnot takehiseyesfrom the Frenchman. Hewaited for the inevitablereference to his father, theapplenot fallingfar fromthetree, chip off the old block,

like father likeson,etcetera,etcetera,butFrostapparentlyhad said all he meant to sayon that point, and said nomore. It was Jack’s turn tospeak.

“We have six guns, andmen enough to man three ofthem, if we have no need totrim sails,” he said, alsospeaking low andconspiratorial. “I could not

countthemenorgunsaboardthisfellow,butI’llwagerit’sa damned lot more than wehave.”

“Of course you’re right,Captain Biddlecomb,” Frostagreed. “And I would notinterferewithyourdecisions.Abigail isyourcommand,nooneelse’s.ButIlookatitthisway. We can’t outrun thisfellow. We have no rôle

d’équipage, which, if hemeans to take us as a prizewill give him cause, at leastby his lights. But he won’texpect a fight, will he? Oneor two broadsides, we carryawaysomeofhistop-hamperandwe’reoffforthehorizon,leaving Jean Crapeauknotting and splicing in ourwake.”

Jack looked out at the

Frenchman, visibly closernow.Hepicturedthechartonhis mind. They were wellthrough the Mona Passage,with Puerto Rico and SantoDomingo, which was now aFrench possession in anyevent, to windward, offeringno hope of sanctuary. Nosandbars in the offing; hewould not be repeating thatbusinesswestofMontserrat.

“You’ll take command oftheguns?”JacksaidtoFrost,hiseyesstillontheirpursuer.

“Indeed I will,” Frostsaid, and Jackcouldhear thesmileinhisvoice.

***

CaptainRenaudin consideredorderingLieutenantBarèretoscrubL’Armançon’sheads.

What would you do, you

damned popinjay, youstrutting little bantam? hewondered.Wouldherefuseadirectorderfromthecaptain?Would he tell the men thatsuch work was beneath him,the ship’s first officer, eventhoughtheywereexpected todo it? Is that how a paragonof republicanism such asBarèreshouldact?

He watched Barère

strutting back and forthacrossthequarterdeckasifitwas his quarterdeck, lookingbeyond the bow at theAmerican merchantmanahead and nodding andsmiling in his insufferable,self-satisfied manner. Yes, itwould be an amusing littleconundrum for you, Barère,Renaudinthought.

Butofcoursehecouldnot

do that. He could nothumiliate a fellow officer, alieutenantintheFrenchnavalservice,nomatterhow lowlyhis origins or intolerable hisdemeanor.

Barère turned as if hecould read Renaudin’sthoughts, except he wassmiling,whichtoldRenaudinhe could not, and that therewas still some place the

Directoirehadnotinfiltrated.They had been watching theAmerican set studdingsails,an impressive display byRenaudin’s thinking. Thismerchantman could not havemore than a fraction ofL’Armançon’s crew, yet theyhad set their studdingsailsfasterandseeminglywithlessfussthanhisownmenhad.

The crew of L’Armançon

wasalmosttoamanmembersof Brest’s Jacobin Club andthey treated the ship as if itwas a venue for theirrevolutionary gatherings.Renaudin would not havebeen surprised to hear theyhad called a meeting todiscuss whether or not theyshould set the studdingsails.The evolution could hardlyhave been donemore slowly

orinamorelubberlyfashioniftheyhad.

“The Americans havestuns’lsset,butIdonotthinkthey will outrun us,” Barèresaid. “An hour or so andwewillbeupwiththem.”

“So this is our plan,Citoyen Barère? To take thisAmerican, this unarmedmerchantman,asaprize?”

“Yes,” Barère said. “But

she is not unarmed. Shewillputupafight.”Hespokeabitlouder than necessary.Renaudin imagined hewantedthementohearandtobe impressedby thedepthofhisknowledge, tounderstandthat he was a manaccustomed to intrigue,privytoitsinnercircles.

“Isee,”Renaudinsaid,bywhich he meant that he saw

severalpossibilities.Onewasthat Barère was a liar tryingtopuffhimselfup.Hehopedthatwas the case.Because ifitwasnot, then itmeant thatL’Armançon was part ofsomegreatwebofconspiracyabout which he, Renaudin,her commanding officer,knew nothing. And Barèredid.

“But see here, Citoyen

Renaudin,”Barèrecontinued,“this is a delicate matter. Ihavespokentothemenaboutthis, and Iwill speak to you.Wemust fight them, andwemust let themget theirblowsin, let a few of their shotsstrike home, before wecapturethem.”

“I see,” Renaudin saidonce more. “And why isthis?”

“The wishes of theDirectoire,” Barère said, inthe arrogant tone of onetrying not to sound arrogant.“We play our small parts inthegreatergloryorFrance.”

“Very well,” Renaudinsaid.“Thenwemustclearforaction.AndVivelaFrance!”

“Vive laFrance!” Barèrerepeated, quite missing theirony in Renaudin’s voice,

which was probably just aswell.

***

Abigail was cleared foraction, her men at quarters.Suchasitwas.ThosephrasesJack remembered well fromhis father’s stories, when heused to beg his father andUncleEzratotellthem,againand again. Cleared for

action… quarters. He toyedwith those words becausethey were so absurd, appliedtothelittlehandfulofmenhehad,huddledaroundthegunsor standing by the braces,Tucker at the helm, Frostprowlingthequarterdeck.

Jack looked astern. TheFrenchmanwasthreequartersofamilebehind,rightintheirwake, and at the rate hewas

closing Jack gauged therewere perhaps thirty minutesbefore he would make hismove, his one, desperatemove.

Hehadheardaboutthis,itwas a common theme in theold stories, how the waitingwas far and away the worstpartofit.Andthatseemedtobe true enough, though hehad yet to experience the

other part, the part when theiron began to fly and theblood began to run over thedeck. He did not think thefew shots from the privateerduring that business west ofMontserratqualifiedasarealseafight.Though,tobesure,neither would this, if thingswentashehoped.

Heturnedbackintimetosee William Wentworth

emerge from the scuttle. Hewore plain wool stockingsandbreeches,awaistcoat,noovercoat,hisheaduncovered,a musket in his hand. Hispresence topside wassomethingofasurprise.Aftertheinitialexcitementthathadcurtailed their dinner andbrought them all on deck,Wentworth had gone belowand not reappeared. Jack

imagined he would retire tohis cabin, or the cable tier,until the shooting was done.But here hewaswith a longgunanda cartridgeboxoverhisshoulder.

“Ah,Captain!”hesaidonseeing Biddlecomb. “If I amnotmistaken,itisthecustomin a sea fight to have menwith long arms stationed inthe platforms up there,

inflicting what damage theycanontheenemy.Withyourpermission I thought I mightfillthatfunctiontoday.”

Herewas evenmore of asurprise, and Jack tried andfailedtohideit.“Thisisyourown musket, I take it?” Hethought there might be amusket on board, but hewasnot certain where it waslocated, and in any event, it

was not so fine aweapon asWentworth’s.

“Musket?Ohmydearsir,no!ThisisaJoverandBelton.62 caliber rifle, the finestLondon has to offer. Therearen’thalfadozenof its likein theUnitedStates, I assureyou.”

Jack’s eyes moved overthegun.Thesilversideplatesblazed in the Caribbean sun,

the barrel glinted, the lockwas kept up such that itshowed no sign of everhaving been used. He couldsee there were fineengravings on all the metalparts, thoughwhat theywereengravings of he could nottell.

“Very nice,” said Jack.“And you know the use ofit?”

“I do,” Wentworthassured him. “One does notbehave as outrageously as Iand live to thevenerable ageof twenty-two without beingan expert with gun andsword.”

Jack nodded. That madesense to him. “Very well.You may take station in themaintop.There.”Hepointed.“But under no circumstances

areyou to firebefore Iorderthe great guns fired, do youhear? Once I fire on theFrenchman you may assumewe mean to kill as many aswe can, but you are not toshootbeforeIdo.”

“I quite understand,Captain. ‘Aye, aye,’ I shouldsay,” Wentworth replied,slinging his rifle by a strapover his back, then turning

and heading for the mainshrouds, which he hadclimbedforthefirsttimethatmorning. He seemed onceagain to have that buoyantmood he had displayedearlier, a coursechange fromhis attitude at dinner. Jackwondered if he ever becamedizzy, with his demeanorspinningsoquickly.

And thenhehadnomore

time to spare a thought forWilliam Wentworth. Heheard a dull, heavy noiseastern, like abighatch coverdroppedinplace,andthenthescream of roundshot that herecognized from that earliervoyage, and before he couldturnaroundhe saw thespoutof water as the ball plowedinto the sea, well ahead ofAbigailandwelltolarboard.

The last wisps of smokefrom the Frenchman’s bowchaserwerestillbeingpulledapartbythebreezewhenJackturnedandlookedastern.TheFrenchman was all butdirectlytowindwardandlessthan half amile behind. Thestarboard chaser went next,thehorizontalblastofsmoke,thesoundof theshotpassingfar wide of Abigail’s stern.

That’sawarning,asignal toheaveto,Jackthought.Iftheyhadbeentryingtoscoreahittheywouldhaveturnedasideto bring the gun to bear, butthey likely did not want toloseevenaninchofdistance.

“That’s but a warning,”Charles Frost said, steppinguptoJack’sside.“Theywishyou to heave to, and goodluck to them, I say!” Frost

seemedtobeenjoyingthisinthewaythatJackhadalwaysimagined the truly fearlessenjoyedsuch things. Itwasapleasurehecouldnotseemtomuster.

“Anothertenminutes,Mr.Frost, I should think. All isready with you?” Togethertheyturnedandlookedat thesmall cluster of men at theguns, two guns, because that

was all they could man andstill have hands enough tohaul the braces, with TuckeronthehelmandJacktendingtothepinrailsontheleewardside.

“All is ready, Captain,andwe’llgivethemwhatfor,letmetellyou!”Theylookedastern again. Closer, closer,JeanCrapeauwascomingupintheirwake.NowwhydidI

not move any guns to thestern? Jack thought. If theyhad been firing away withsternchaserstheymighthavetaken out one of theFrenchman’stopmastbynowandhewouldnothavetoriskeverything on this ridiculousplanofhis.

My plan? Or Frost’s?Whose damnable idea wasthis,anyway?

And then he smiled. Hecouldnothelp it.Becausehehad spent nearly all of thepast decade trying to not behis father, trying to be JackBiddlecomb, not the son ofIsaac Biddlecomb. And nowherehewas,incommandofamerchant vessel, about to trysome bold but blockheadedmove against an enemy farmorepowerfulthanhewas.

If he managed to pull itoff,andlivedtotelltheyarn,what would they say? Theywould say the most obviousthing, themost trite,shallow,obvious, and irresistiblething. He could hear italready.

Andsohesmiledbecauseifhedidnothewouldscreamand he did not think hisscreamingwoulddomuch to

bolster the courage of hismen.

19

The Frenchman surged up inAbigail’s wake, and JackBiddlecomb did not feel likescreaming anymore. He did

notwanttoopenhismouthatall because he felt certain hewould vomit if he did. Thetension was unlike anythinghehadeverexperienced, likethewholeworldwaswaitingon him.Hisword, spoken atthe moment of his choosing,wouldunleashanightmareofshrieking iron and chokingsmokeandspilledblood.Menmight die—his men—

becausehespoketheword.TheFrenchmanwasafew

hundred yards astern now.From his quarterdeck Jackcouldseetheguncrewsattheforward guns, the occasionalglimpseofablueuniformaft.He felt the words ofcommand rise in this throatand he swallowed themdown.He had heard ofmen,sentenced to be hanged,who

hadbeenallowed togive theorder themselves that wouldsee them hauled up to theyardarm;thosemenhadbeenunable to speak the words,“Haul away.” He understoodthat now. He could not givethecommand. Indecisionhadnever been part of hismakeup, if it had, he wouldnotbeincommandofaship.Butthiswasdifferent.

Hecouldfeel theeyesonhis back, thought he heardFrostmakesomesmallnoise.The wind hummed in therigging, the water made itsrushing sound alongside, thetiller ropes squeaked a bit asTucker made smalladjustmentstothewheel.

Then the Frenchmanturned, swung through twopointsofthecompassandher

larboardbowchaserwentoff,thedullboomofthegun,thesmoke,thescreamoftheshotall mixed into one terriblesound and Jack spun aroundand shouted, “Now! Now!”Hehadnoideahewasgoingto do that; he gave the orderwith no decisionaforethought. Itwas as if theshot had released him, theway a fuse releases the

innardsofahandgrenado,allthetensionblownoutofhim,hismindsharpandready.

Tucker spun the wheeland Jack leapt to the pin railandtookupthebracesfortheyards on the mainmast,belayed to a single pin, andheld them all in his hands.Abigail heeled hard tostarboard as she slewedaround, turning ninety

degrees to the Frenchman,presenting her larboardbattery. Forward, theridiculously small number ofmen designated as sailtrimmers braced the yardsaround.

“Mr.Frost,quickly,ifyouplease!”Jackcalledout.Frostwas hunched over theaftermost gun, directing twoof the men, who levered the

carriagewithhandspikes,buttherewasnot timeenough tobesofastidious.Froststeppedback and brought his matchdown on the vent and thecannon roared out and flungback against thebreeching, afamiliar sound now, after somuch gun drill. Jack wasinstantly engulfed in thesmoke, the smell of theburned powder blotting out

allothersmellsfortheinstantbeforeitwasgonetoleeward.

Jack turned back to theFrenchman.Hesawtheship’sinner forestaypart, the upperendswinginginboard,thesailthat was hanked therecollapsing in aheapover thebowspritcapandtheslingsofthe spritsail yard. A raggedhole appeared in the foresailbehind it, and Jack shouted,

“Well done, Mr. Frost!” Butit would take more than aforestay and a jib. It wouldtake a topmast, at least, tocripplethisbastardenoughtoallowthemtorunoff.

Frost was on to the nextgun as the crew of the firstflung themselves into thereloading. The Frenchmanwas turning, followingAbigail around in her wheel

to larboard, and presentingmoreofatargetasshedid,soFrostdidnothavetospendsomuch time in aiming. Hebrought thematch down, thegun roared, leapt clean fromthe deck, and slammedinboard. Another holeappeared in the Frenchman’sforesail.

Two shots, someinconsequential damage, and

thentheFrenchmanrepliedinkind. Her starboard bowchaserwentoff first, theballpunching a hole through thebulwark just forward of thecaboose,rippingthelongboatapart in its flightand leavingTommy Willoughby ofPhiladelphia, new to theAbigail and rated able-bodied, struck dumb andstaringattheraggedhole,but

otherwiseunhurt.The splinters from the

longboat had not yet allfluttered to the deck whenFrost’sthirdgunwentoffbutJack did not have the luxuryofbeingabletowatchthefalloftheshot.“Standbytowearship!Standbytowearship!”he shouted. “Main lowerstuns’ls in! Haul up themainsail,now!”

The lower studdingsailscame flying in and eagerhands hauled away,clewgarnets and leechlinesand buntlines. The bigmainsailroseuplikeacurtainin a theater and JackorderedTucker to put the helm over.As Abigail’s stern turnedthrough the wind, the shipswingingfromalarboardtackto starboard, the gun crews

scrambled across the deck towhat would now be theweather side, the engagedside, once they had comearound.Theyleftoffthegunsforthetimeandheavedawayon the braces while Jackdashed across the deck andtendedthelinestolarboardashe had to starboard. Itwas awell-choreographedperformance, falling out just

as planned, the sort ofevolution possible with acrewsuchasthatwhichtheirshipboasted.

Abigail swung off tostarboard, turning through180 degrees as she camearoundon the other tack andbringing the starboard guns,already loaded and ready, tobear on the Frenchman. Sixshots, that was the plan.

Three from larboard, weararound, three from starboard,andwithanyluckatallsomepart of the Frenchman’srigging would go by theboard and theycould sail offinpeace.

Theshipwasstillturning,hermotion quick and nimblein the fifteen knots of steadybreeze. Biddlecomb lookedastern. He had expected the

Frenchman to follow himaround, to turn as he did, sothey could continue to fireintoJeanCrapeau’sbow,andthe Frenchman with nothingbut bow chasers with whichtoanswer.ButtheFrenchmanwas holding his course,sailing perpendicular toAbigail, crossing her stern,whichwasnowpresentedlikeanofferingtotheirbroadside.

“Oh,damnyou…”wasallJack had the chance to utterwhen the gunswent off, oneafter another, a rollingbroadside with less than abeat between each big gun.He had time enough to notethe deep boom of theFrenchman’s ordnance,deeper than the bow chasersor Abigail’s own sixpounders, and thenhisworld

became one of smashingwoodandfallinggearandthescream of roundshot and adull,blankunreality.

Hesawthebulwarkalongthe stern blow apart andwatched, transfixed, as agreat section of wood camespinning through the air. Itseemedtomoveslow,andthesound seemed oddly muted,andthenitstruckhisupraised

armsandswepthimcleanoffhis feet, just as the gaff andmizzensailcollapsedontothevery spot he had beenstanding before the bulwarkknockedhimaside.

He fell against the raisedoverhead of the great cabinand rolled off onto the deck.Five feet awayFrost touchedoff the aftermost gun and itcame charging inboard and

ordinary seamanRatfordwasstaringat theplacewherehisarm had been, which wasnowraggedboneandagreattorrentofblood.Itallseemedto be swirling around beforeJack’s eyes and it made nosense and Jack thought hemightjustgotosleep.

“Captain! Captain!” Herewas Maguire, come aft,lifting Jack to his feet,

massive hands on Jack’scollar. He set Jack down onthecabintop,said,“Howareyou, boyo? Did you getknockedgalleywest,then,bythatgreatbitofbulwark?”

Jack lookedaround.Frostwas firing the second of thegreat guns, starboard side.The Frenchman’s aftermostgunwentoff,theshotpassedoverhead, and Jack and

Maguire ducked as a sectionwas ripped from themizzenmast like a shark hadbitten it clean away. ButJack’sheadwasbeginningtoclear, and he stood andlookedaround.

Thegaffwaslyingacrossthe quarterdeck and the saillike a blanket of new snowcoveredthelarboardside.ButTuckerwasstillatthewheel,

the helm appearedundamaged, and the gunswere still upright. Ratfordwasdown,deadornear to it,butJackcouldnotseeanyoneelsewoundedorkilled.

Abigail was on thestarboard tack now, havingworn around, and they weresupposed to be taking theirlast shots at the Frenchmanand running for safety, but

the Frenchman was notcooperating. Jack, an avidfencer, a passion picked upfrom his father, had learnedearly on that it was notenough to think ofwhat youwere going to do to win afight, you had to think aboutwhat your opponent waslikely to do as well. Themoment you started workingout your indefatigable

strategywasthemomentyouropponent would drive thepoint of his foil into yourchest.

And so it waswith a seabattle.Hecouldseethatnow.AllthecarefulthoughtheandFrosthadputintothiswassomuch flotsam because theFrenchman was wearing intheir wake, amove they hadnot anticipated, and would

bring his other broadside tobear and there was nothingJack could do. If he woreagainback toa larboard tackthen Jean Crapeau wouldhave another go at his stern.If he bore up the Frenchwouldbearupwithhim.IfherantheFrenchwouldsoonbealongsideandbeatingthemtomatchwood.

Then Frost was there,

with an expression Jack hadnotseenhimwearbefore,andhedidnotcareforthelookofit. It might be described asregret, resignation. Whateveritwascalled,itwasnotgood.“Forgiveme,Captain,ifIhadany influence on yourdecision to fight. It seemedtheproperthingtodo,butwearedefeated. Idon’t seehowwecanstanduplonger.”

Jack felt sick. With theaction begun, the fear hadgone, the uncertaintywashedaway, but now it was back,sparked by Frost’s plainstatement.Wearedefeated…Indeed,howcouldtheyfight?If Frost, the most bellicose,eager, and experienced manaboard thought it hopeless,whatmorewasthereforit?

The Frenchman was

wearing around as Abigailhad done, turning in themerchantman’s wake andbringing his fresh larboardbattery to bear. The bowchaserwentoff and Jack felta shudder underfoot as theball hit the hull below. Hewondered what horror hadbeen inflicted on his greatcabin. A few seconds moreand the Frenchman’s

broadsidewouldbearandthegreat guns would beunleashedon them,and therewas nothingmeaningful theycould do in return. TheAbigail’stwoguncrewswereloading, the aftermost gunalreadyrunningout,butthosesix pounders, which seemedso grand on the wharf inPhiladelphia,seemedpatheticnow.

And then the Frenchmanseemed to stop in themiddleofhiselegant,sweepingturn,as if he had changed hismind. The corvette’s bowsagged off, her sails, full inher turn, flogged as the shipseemed to slump to leeward.The lower studdingsails hadbeen coming in in somereasonable order, but nowthey twistedandcollapsed in

confusion. Her larboardbroadside would no longerbear and her starboard gunswere not yet reloaded and inthatunexpectedbitofclumsysailing, Jack saw a gift fromGod,andhesawsalvation,allatonce.

***

Maintop … WilliamWentworth thought,

maintop…notaplatform…must remember that … Hedid not really care about thejargon of ships, but evenmore he did not care todisplay ignorance on anysubject. Under mostcircumstances he could justexpress disdain for anythinghe did not understand, andthat covered him well, butnow he was under the

necessity of using the dialectof the tarpaulin, and hewishedtogetitright.

Climbing up to themaintop was a bit moredifficultwiththegunoverhisshoulder, but not markedlyso. The motion of the shiphad changed from earlier,more pitching front to backand less rolling side to side,andthat, too,madetheclimb

a bit more difficult as thevesselwas no longer leaningover in that convenientmannerthatmadetherigginglesssteep.

Still, it presented littleproblem. Wentworth wasnaturally athletic, an activeperson with virtuallyunlimitedfreetimetoindulgehispastimes.Riding,fencing,swimming,hunting,shooting,

dancing, even boxing, heenjoyedthemallandexcelledin each, as he did in mostthings to which he sincerelyputhishand.

He even enjoyed theoccasionalduel,theoddaffairofhonor,asportatwhichthestakes were much elevatedandthusthethrillofthethingthat much enhanced. Heenjoyed it, in fact, a bit too

much,oneof thefewaspectsofhisgenerallyreprehensiblebehavior which he himselffoundtroubling.Heknewthatmen could get addicted todueling, as they could todrink.Andhecouldseewhy.Itwasnotsoeasyforayoungman in his circumstance toget his heart pounding, hisblood flowing, to get thatclarity that comes with the

genuine possibility of losingone’slife.

He reached up over theedge of the top, got a goodgripon the topmast lanyards,and hauled himself up andover. He swung inboard andfound his footing on thesmall, crescent-shapedstructure, steadied himselfwith a hand on the topmastshrouds, and surveyed the

scene. Things had notchanged in anymaterialwaysince he had left the deck.The Frenchman was mostlyhidden by the sail on theaftermost mast, but he couldseetheshipwasstillasternofthem and getting closer, andBiddlecombwasstill runninglike a dog with its tailbetweenitslegs.

“You’ll have to do some

bloody thing soon,” Williamsaid, pleased to be able tospeakout loudwherenoonecould hear, a luxury he hadgenerally taken for grantedbeforebeingthrustaboardthetiny, tight-packed Abigail.Talkingtohimselfwasoneofhis great outlets, and hemisseditterribly.

He crouched down andleanedoutboard,butwith the

ships as they were he couldnot get a shot at theFrenchman without shootingaholethroughthesail,whichwould not be welcome, heguessed,norwoulditbeveryeffective. Itwas one thing tofire roundshot or a stand ofgrape without careful aim, itwas another to shoot a tiny.62caliberball.Inanyevent,he could not fire until

Biddlecomb did, because inthis instance anywayWentworth had decided tofolloworders.

Wentworth widened hisstance, let go of the shroud,and grabbed up the powderhorn, silver inlaid with abrass measure on the end. Itwasafamiliargesture;hehadownedthegunforeightyearsandwithithadterminatedthe

existence of many livingthings, though never ahuman.Hepouredameasureof powder down thegroovedbarrel. He held the gun up,removed a greased patchfromthepatchboxinthebuttof the gun, and pulled asmooth, cool lead ball fromhis shot pouch. He laid thepatch over themuzzle of thegun and it blew away in the

breeze. He cursed, pulledanother patch from the box,held it in place with histhumb as he positioned theball on top and shoved bothof them partway down thebarrel.

With a practiced flip ofhis wrist he pulled therammer free and began tobangtheballandpatchdownthe barrel. The patch would

grab the rifling as the ballcameoutandimpartaspintoit, giving the gun itslegendary accuracy, but itmade for hard going as heloaded.Anditwouldonlygetworseaspowderresiduebuiltup and made the fit tighterstill.

After some pounding hefelt the bullet was home, sohepulledtherammeroutand

returned it to the slot underthe barrel. He flipped openthe frizzen, primed the gun,andclosedthepan.Herestedthe butt of the gun on thewooden slats of the top andlooked astern once more.Nothinghadchanged.

“Youdamnwellbetterdosomething bloody soon,” hesaid. Having seenBiddlecomb in command

during the storm,Biddlecomb, who stoodunflappable as the shipseemedtocomeapartaroundhim, who charged into therigging to cut the sail free astheshipwasgoingover,whoordered men aloft into themaelstrom with never asecond thought, who hadleaptlikeacatontotheloosecannon,Wentworthhadcome

to think of the man as boldand decisive. He might evenhave seen in himself a touchofenvyifhehadexploredhisfeelingsthatdeeply,whichhegenerallydidnot.

But now Biddlecombappeared to be immobilizedbyindecision;thisFrenchmanwasasnake,andBiddlecomba rabbit transfixed by itsstare.

AndthenaroundtheedgeofthesailWentworthsawtheFrenchman alter course,swingingoff tooneside,andashedid,oneofhiscannonsblasted out, and through therumble of the shot came thesound of rent wood below.He stepped to the forwardedge of the top and lookeddown.Hecouldseeastraightline of destruction through

theboatonthehatchdirectlybelowhim,delineatingwherearoundshothadpassedcleanthrough.Andthenhesawthehole in the bulwark where ithadfirstmadelandfallaboardAbigail.Asailorwasstandingby the hole, the ball havingonlybyinchesmissedcuttinghimintwo.

From below and behindhe heardBiddlecomb’s voice

shout out, and suddenly theship, which had been like afrozen tableau, exploded intoaction. The sails began towheelaroundasmenondeckhauled away, the sails thatBiddlecomb called “stuns’ls”disappeared, the big sail justbelowWentworth’s feet washauled up, and the shipslewed around to larboard. Ithappenedsofast,andwasso

unexpected, at least toWentworth, that he had tolash out and grab a topmastshroud to avoid being tossedfromthemaintop.

Then the guns went off,one,two,three,inagreatandsatisfying concussion andWentworth shouted over theblast, “Cry havoc! And letslipthedogsofwar!”Hewasgrinning, an unseemly

expression, but there was noone there to see so he keptrighton.

He recalled then that hewas not supposed to besightseeing, that hehad “laidaloft”withapurpose,andtheblast from the great gunwashis signal to fire at will.Abigail was presenting herlarboard side to theFrenchman, so he stepped to

the larboard main topmastshrouds and thrust the riflebetween them, resting thebarrel on a ratline of aconvenientheight.He lookeddown the length of thewinkingsteeltubetowardtheenemy beyond. The greatblankets of sails, Abigail’sandtheFrenchman’s,madeitdamnedhardtofindatarget.

One of the Frenchman’s

sails, one of those forward,had collapsed, perhaps shotdownbyAbigail’sbroadside,and Wentworth could see afigure in white duck pantsand a checked shirt makinghis way along the bowsprit,layingouttodosomethingorother,securethesailorcutitaway or fix the rigging.Wentworth had no idea ofwhat he was about, but the

man was a target, and hecouldfindnoother.

He lined the end of thebarrel up with the man’schecked shirt and let hisbreathing settle, trackinghimwith the gun as he movedalong the bowsprit. TheFrench shipwasplungingupanddownandtheAbigailwasrolling and the man wasmoving outboard; three

separatemotionsforwhichtocompensate, a shootingconundrum that Wentworthhadneverencountered.

And another problem hehad never had to considerbefore. This was a humanbeing at which he waspointing his gun, a gun withwhich he generally did notmiss. When Biddlecombunleashedhiscannon fire,he

was killing randomly,anonymously, aiming at aship and killing anyone whohappened to be in the way.But Wentworth was pickingthe individual he meant toshoot,andifhesucceededhewouldseehimdie, thedirectresultofaconsciousdecision.

Wentworth had woundedmeninduels,butneverkilledone.Hehadoftenconsidered

howhemight react to takinga man’s life. He neverthought it would bother him.Butnowhewasnotsosure.

He finger eased againstthe trigger. The French shipplungeddownandthemanonthe bowsprit grabbed holdand Wentworth tracked him,puttingmore pressure on thetrigger. Then he heardBiddlecombshoutagainfrom

below,felttheAbigailturningoncemore,anewelementofmotion in this world whereeverything was moving. Hecursed, linedthegunupwiththe target, and pulled thetriggerasAbigailrolledawaytoleeward.Hesawtheheavyblack line above the Frenchsailor’s head cut nearly intwo, saw the man look upsharp toward the Abigail’s

rig, then turn and race backinboard.Afewsecondsmoreand the sailor and theFrenchman’s bow were lostfrom sight as the Abigailturned.

“Damn it!” Wentworthsaid out loud. Any moralqualms he might have hadabout shooting the fellowwere lost inhis frustration atmissing. Indeed, the alacrity

with which the sailor hadraced off the bowspritwouldhave been funny ifWentworth had not been soannoyed.

He threaded an armthroughtheshroudstosteadyhimselfandwentthroughtheprocessofpowder,patch,andbullet once again.Heprimedthegunandlookedup,readyfor another go at the

Frenchie, but the Frenchiewas gone. For a momentWentworth stared dumbly atan empty ocean. Then heswiveled around and saw theFrenchman on the starboardside and realized theAbigailhadturnedahalfcirclewhilehewasfocusedonloadinghisweapon.

He stepped across themaintopandrestedthegunon

aratlineonthestarboardsideand lookedover thebarrelashe swept the deck. Therewere any number of menthere, standing ready to haulat the lines or working theguns, which were not belowdecksasWentworthhadseenonlargershipsbutrighttherein the open. The crew wasconsiderably bigger than thatof the Abigail, but that was

how things were, heunderstood. Penny-pinchingmerchant ship owners wouldscrimp in every way theycould: the fewest men, thecheapest food, the minimumofmaintenancetotheirships,if it meant an extra sou intheir pockets. The navy, inturn, fed at the trough ofpublic money and did notcarehowmuchitconsumed.

Wentworth ran his eyeover the Frenchman’scrowded deck, let his armsandlegsabsorbthemotionofthe ship, let the gun swaynaturally.The trick,hecouldsee, would be to work withthe combinedmotions of theships,not fight them.Let thegun move into the firingposition, pull the trigger afraction of a second before

thesightwasonthetarget.“Now, which one of you

bloody damned Frenchmenshould die first?” he askedout loud.Abigailwas turningbut the Frenchman wassailing on, and it seemed toWentworth that in amomenttheFrenchmanwouldbeableto fire into Abigail’s stern,andAbigail,withneveragunpointing in that direction,

wouldbehelpless.“That can’t be a good

thing,” he said. Standingbehindoneofthegunswasafigure in a blue uniform andhe seemed a likely target.Certainly it would be moreadvantageous to kill anofficer, Wentworth thought.He felt the ship move underhim,linedthegunupwiththeFrenchman in blue. Abigail

rolled and the Frenchmanrolledandthegunsweptpastits target, paused and begantorollback.

Apoormarksman,evenamediocre marksman, wouldhavefiredwhentheriflewasaiming at the target, butWentworth was neither ofthose things. He understoodthatthetargetwouldcontinueto move as the bullet sailed

across the space separatinghimfromthegun.Hepausedas the French ship rolledtowardhim,andhe squeezedthetriggerwhiletheriflewasstill pointed at theFrenchman’s deck, a foot totherightofthemaninblue.

Such nicetieswould havebeen a joke with a musket,andevenwithmostrifles,butthe shot from the Jover and

Beltonwas straight and true.The spinning bullet traversedthespacebetweentheshipsinafractionofasecond,andinthat fraction of a second theFrenchshiprolledtoleewardand carried the officer, quiteunaware of the flying lead,right into the path of thebullet, which struck himsquareinthechest.

From his perch in the

maintop Wentworth saw theman knocked from his feetand flung back on the deck,andhewascloseenoughandthe planks of the deck werewhite enough that he couldsee the streak of blood thatlanded there in the wake ofthebullet.

He straightened andsmiled, satisfied with thatdamned fine shot, not struck

in any profound way by thefact that he had just endedanother man’s life. Then theforward-most cannon on theFrenchman’s broadside fired,a deep boom, much deeperthan the previous guns, orAbigail’s, and a great jet ofgray smoke shot from themuzzle,andthenthenextgunand the next. Fromhis perchhe had a good view of

Abigail’s quarterdeck, thestarboard side, in any event,the larboard being hidden bythe sail they called themizzen.Wentworthcouldseesignificant chunks of woodtorn from the rails as oneafteranothertheFrenchman’sguns fired into the Abigail’sstern, and Abigail unable tofireback.

He watched, astounded.

TheFrenchmanseemedtobetearingtheAbigailapart.Therail behind the helmsmanexploded in a burst ofshattered wood andBiddlecombwentflyingbackacross the deck and landedsplayedoutonthecabintop.

“Oh, dear God!”Wentworth shouted and thenthe mizzen sail and the sparthat held it collapsed to the

deck, falling in a great heapofcanvasandwoodandropeand Wentworth stood there,feeling impotent, his shipbeingblasted apart andnot athinghecoulddoaboutit.

“You have a gun, youdamned idiot!” he said tohimselfandhishandsmovedswiftly through the familiardrill: powder, patch, ball,rammer. After the fouling

fromtwoshots thepatchandball were harder to pounddown, and Wentworth wassweating by the time he feltthe charge hit the bottom ofthe barrel. He replaced therammerand lookedupagain.Once more the entiresituation had changed. TheFrenchman was still towindward of Abigail andturning,bringing thegunson

her other side to bear. Theywere taking in their ownlower studdingsails andhauling up the big mainsail,and this opened upWentworth’s view of thedeck, allowing him to seecleanafttothequarterdeck.

There were several mentherewholookedtobelikelytargets,meninblueuniforms,cocked hats on their heads.

They strode back and forth,but slowly, as if this was anouting aboard a yacht, andWentworth did not think itwould be so much of aproblemtodroponeofthem,atleast.

Hesetthegunonaratlineand once again looked overthe barrel, sweeping it alongthequarterdeck.And thenhenoticed, behind the officers,

the two seamen at the helm,one on either side of thewheel and turning it as theship turned under them, butremainingotherwiserootedinplace.

“Perhaps one of youwould make a moreefficacious target,”Wentworth said and shiftedhisaim.Hehad thefeelof itnow, the way the two ships

moved,theextenttowhichhehad to let the motion of thevesselsdictatethemomenthesqueezedthetrigger.Helinedup on the helmsman on thestarboard side, having asomewhat clearer sight onhim, let the ships roll away,let thembegin theirslowrollback.Therestofit,thebattle,Biddlecomb’sapparentdeath,the fact he had just killed a

man,itwasallgonefromhismind, and every part of him,conscious and unconscious,wasabsorbedinthatmoment,that geometric problem ofmotionanddistance,velocityand time. His world hadclosed down to that invisibleline between the muzzle ofhis rifle and the man at theFrenchman’shelm.

Andjustastheshipswere

rolling into the properalignment, the helmsman onthe larboard side steppedforward, arm outstretched asifreachingforsomething,andin that instant he broke theline between muzzle andtarget andWentworth gave alittle smile and squeezed thetrigger. The smoke whippedawayandWentworthsawthelarboard helmsman knocked

sideways and the starboardhelmsmanblownbackwardasthespinning.62caliberroundpassed through the first manandlodgedinthesecond.

“Égalité, fraternité, ou lamort…” Wentworth said.“Sorry, gentlemen, I seem tohave made the choice foryou.”

Ashewatched, it seemedto Wentworth that the result

ofwhathehadtoadmitwasaspectacular shot wasnonetheless quite out ofproportion with the loss oftwomiserableFrenchsailors.The officers were suddenlyrunning around thequarterdeck, the other sailorsaft were running around,everyone was waving hisarms in the French manner.The wheel was spinning out

of control and the ship waschecked in her turn tostarboardandbeganswingingback the other way. One ofthe officers spun around andgrabbed at the wheel.Wentworth saw two seamenrunupand take theplacesofthemen he had dropped, butthat did nothing to check thechaosondeck.

Then Wentworth heard

shouting below him, onAbigail’s quarterdeck. Helooked down. Biddlecombwas back on his feet and hewas shouting orders in thattarpaulinjargonofhisandtheAbigails,liketheFrenchmen,were all rushing about likeants inanoverturnedmound.Wentworth wondered whatexactly he had done. Moresurprising still, he found he

was relieved to hear Jack’svoice, to know that so brashand unsophisticated a bladewasonceagainincommand.

20

“They have lost steering,”Jacksaidout loud,and tonooneinparticular.Allthathadhappened seemed mixed up

inagreatamorphousswirlofevents: the hellish rakingfrom the guns, his beingstruckdownbythesectionofbulwark and lifted again byMaguire, the mizzen sailcomingdown,theFrenchmanfallingoff.Hecouldnotthinkclearly enough to form acoherent thought beyond thatonestatement.

But this was too good,

like an unanticipated gift.Even if this sea fightingwassome brave new world, Jackhad long ago developed aninnatesenseforshipsandthewaytheymovedandthewaythey were able to move. Hecould lookat theFrenchman,atAbigail,atthewindandseaandknowinhisguthowtheymight maneuver inrelationship to one another.

Evenifhehadnot learnedtoanticipate where an enemymight wish to go, he couldsee exactly where he couldgo,andwherehecouldnot.

Whatever problem theFrenchman had experiencedto make them falter in theirturnwouldbuy theAbigailaminute or two, no more.“Burgess!” Biddlecombcalledout.“Burgess,layaft!”

As he spoke it occurred tohim he did not know ifBurgess was alive or dead,but the boatswain camecharging down the deck,clambering over the mizzensail.

Jacklookeduptowardthemizzentop.Thethroatof themizzengaffwasstillinplace;just the peak halyard hadbeen shot through, dropping

thesailtothedeck.“Burgess,wearegoingto

comeaboutandwe’llneedallhands, but once we do youmust get the mizzen set asquickaseveryoucan.”

“Aye, sir,” John Burgesssaidandsaidnomore,racingfortheforedeck,theretotakeuptheheadsailsheets.

Abigailwasfullandbyona starboard tack, moving

away from the French ship,which had now fallen toleeward of her. Once theFrenchman got himselfstraightened out and was inher wake again, then theywould be no better off thantheywere.Hehadonechancenow,onlyone,butthistimeitdid not depend on navaltactics, of which he knewnothing, but seamanship, of

whichhehadmadehis life’sstudy,briefasthatmightbe.

“Hands to stays!” heshouted. “Mr. Frost, I willrequire your gun crews, butoncewehavecomeaboutyoumay have them back toengage with the starboardbattery! Lacey, relieve Mr.Tuckeratthehelm.Mr.Frost,Ishallneedyoutotendtothefore clewgarnets,Mr.Tucker

will show you where theyare.”

Theymoved fast,Tucker,Maguire, and Burgess to theforedeck to handle sheets,bowlines, and the fore tack,Tommy Willoughby andAdamsaswellasacoupleofordinaries amidshipsattendingtothemaintackandtopsailbowlines,withsecondmateLucasHarwartoseethe

leeforeandmainbracesclearand ready for letting go.Israel Walcott shuffled attwice his usual speed to theforesheet and BarnabusSimontendedthemain.

“Ready about!” Jackshouted.His voicewas loud,his tone commanding, butthere was no note ofexcitement, trepidation, orpanicinit.Hecouldwishfor

a bit more speed, and hecouldwish for themizzen tohelp kick the stern around,but he had neither, and helikewise did not have amoment to spare worryingaboutit.

“Helm’s a’lee!” Lacey, agood hand at the wheel,turned the ship up into thewind,fastbutnottoofast,notenough to check her forward

momentum. On the foredeckthe headsail sheets were letgo, the jibs and fore topmaststaysail flogging in thebreeze.Up, up into thewindAbigail turned until thewindwas blowing directly upontheleechesofthesquaresailsand those began to flog aswell.

“Rise tacks and sheets!”Hands heaved away at

clewgarnets and the cornersof the foresail came up in ajerky fashion, with Frostheaving on the larboard sideand looking incongruous inhis long blue coat andbreeches. The Frenchmanfired, and before Jack couldturn and look he saw thestreak of the ball passing sixfeet above the deck, clippingthe smokestack off the

cabooseinitsflightbutdoingnomoredamage.

Hewantedtoturnandseewhat the enemy was about,but this was the crucialmoment, the ship passingthrough the eye of the wind,the moment where missingstays or not would quiteliterallydecidelifeordeath.

“Mainsail haul!” Themainsail’s lee brace and the

crossjack’s weather bracewere both let go and handslaid into the lines on theopposite sides.Themainandmizzen yards swung aroundas the wind caught the sailson the foremast aback andpushed the bow through thewind. The Frenchman firedagain.Jackfeltthedeckjumpunderfootastheroundshothitthe side of the ship. Happily

there was no one below,because Abigail’s thinscantlings could hardly evenslow the flight of the shot,muchlessresistit.

He looked forward againand felt the breeze on hisface. The bow was throughthewind,thebackedforesailspushing it around. Jackopenedhismouthtoshoutanorder and the Frenchman

firedandthemizzensail,stilldraped over the quarterdeck,jerked and an ugly holeappearedinit.

“Let go and haul!” heshouted.Abigailwas throughwind, she had not missedstays despite the loss of hermizzen, and now she wasfalling off on the larboardtack. “Steady, meet her!”Jack shouted at Lacey. He

looked over the starboardside. While the Frenchmanwas flailing about they hadeffectivelysailedaroundhim,and now Jack found himselflooking at her stern, closeenough that he could see theblue-coated officers on herquarterdeck, the nameL’Armançon painted acrossher transom, and the delicateglass of the great cabin

windowsbelowit.You’ll not have those for

long, I reckon, Jack thought,then called out, “Gun crews,lay aft! Mr. Frost, starboardbattery, if you please, fire asyouwill!”

The men who had beenpulled from the guns left offwhat they were doing andtumbledaftandJohnBurgessfollowedbehind tosee to the

fallen mizzen. Jack lent ahand as they pulled thecanvas free from theordnance. The Frenchmanwasturningupintothewind,trying to follow Abigailaround,butJackkepthisshipfalling off, sticking to theFrenchman’s unprotectedstern,turningdownwindasheturned up, the two shipsturningtogether.

Frostcamehuffingaroundthe cabin roof with thesmolderingmatchinhishand.He did not bother checkingthe aim of the gun; theFrenchmanwas so close thataimingwouldnotberequired.He brought the match downon the vent and the gunroaredout,thenoisestabbingJack’s inner ear like a thinblade, and the fine stern

windows of L’Armançonwere blown apart. He sawone of the blue-clad officersjump in surprise, a reactionthat struck Jack as not beingparticularlyofficer-like.

Frost was on to the nextgun and Jack called, “A bitmore elevation, Mr. Frost!Destroying their great cabinwill be of no help to us!”Frost nodded and one of his

menthrustahandspikeunderthe barrel and heaved it up.Frost pulled the quoinhalfway out and the barrelwas set down again. Frosttouched the match to theprimingandthegunwentoff,loud as the first. HalfL’Armançon’s taffrail blewapart and the roundshot tookthe head clean off thestarboard helmsman and

continued on, tearing asizable section out of themizzenmast.

“Dear God!” Jackshouted, forgetting again tomaintainthequietstoicismofa proper ship’s master. Theimage was frozen there, liketheghostlyvisionofacandleflame imprinted on the eye;the helmsman’s back,checked shirt, a black

tarpaulinhatonhishead,andthen his head was gone andJack was sure he’d seen aspray of blood, the jaggedneck, and then the bodywastossedforwardbytheimpact.

“Dear God…” he saidagain,softer,tohimself.

The gun crew, welltrainedaftertheweekormoreof Frost’s relentlessbadgering, was hauling the

first gun back out, havingreloaded it with creditablespeed. In the moment ofrelativequietJackcouldhearorders shouted out along theFrenchman’sdeck.Whatwasbeing said he could not tellbecause the distancewas toogreat, his hearingwas dulledby the cannon’s blast, andthey were speaking French,whichhedidnot.

Buthehadagoodideaofwhattheyweresaying,oneoftwo possibilities. Either theyweregoing to tackand try tochase Abigail around, comebehind her as she camebehind them, or they weregoing toweararoundand tryto engage that way. Abigailwas hanging on their sternlikeadognippingatabull’sankles and theyhad to shake

her. But they would not beabletoshakeher,ofthatJackwasfairlycertain.Becausehehad seen their seamanship,and it was not exceptional,andhiswas.

“Keep bringing heraround,steadyon,”JacksaidtoLacey, then shouted downthe deck, “On the braces…”But he got no further beforethe aftermost gun went off,

fifteen feet from where hestood, blotting out all othersound. The Frenchman’sspankerboomwascutintwo,the bulk of it falling to thequarterdeck,andJackthoughtitmightevenhavehitoneoftheofficersonitswaydown.

L’Armançon continuedherturn,herbowswingingtowindward.Lookingdownthelengthofherdeck,Jackcould

see her headsails flogging asthesheetswereletgo.

Tacking,then,hethought.The Frenchman was takingthe bolder of his possiblecourses, turning through thewind, risking getting caughtinirons.

“Stationsforstays!Readyabout!” Jack shouted. If theFrenchmanwasgoingtotack,then theywouldhave to tack

as well, keeping right on hisstern quarter where he couldnothitbackwithhisbigandnumerousguns.

“Mr. Frost, leave off theguns until we’ve comeabout!”

The gun crews droppedtheir tools and scrambledforward to take up sheets,braces, bowlines, andclewgarnets. “Stand ready,

Lacey, we’ll follow themaround,” Jack said, his eyeson the Frenchman’s stern asthebiggershipturnedupintothe wind. The quiet seemedunnatural,thefamiliarsoundsof water and ship out ofplace. Then Jack heard acrack from aloft, a sharpsound, as if something understrain had parted, but beforehecouldturnandlookhesaw

the remaining helmsman atthe Frenchman’s wheel pitchforward and the wheel beginto spin out of control. Jacklooked aloft.Wentworthwasthere, in the maintop, stilllookingoverthebarrelofhisrifle,liftinghisheadfromthefiringposition to see throughthesmallcloudofsmokethatwasquicklywhiskedawaytoleeward.

Wentworth … Jackthought. He had completelyforgottenabouttheman.Thatwasadamnedluckyshot…

Luckier,infact,thanJackeven realized. With no handon the helm, L’Armançonslowedinherturntoweather,hersquaresailsshivering,herjibs flogging, themomentumof her turn dying with everyfoot. Theywouldmiss stays.

They would turn into thewind and stay there, sailsaback,immobile.

“We’re going to heaveto,” Jack said to Lacey.“Standreadytoputyourhelma-lee.” He shouted down thedeck, “We shall heave to,maintopsailtothemast!Risetacksandsheets!Heaveawaythe weather main braces!Helm’sa-lee!”

Many a crew that Jackhad knownwould have beenstunnedintoparalysisbythatquick shift of orders, butthesemenwere too good forthat,andtheydidnothesitatea second as they acted onthese new commands. Themain yards came slowlyaround, the main topsail andtopgallant flogged as thewindstrucktheirleeches,and

thenlayquietasthewindgoton their forward face andpressedthembackagainstthemast. Abigail slowed as theway came off her, and thenshe stopped, fifty yards fromL’Armançon’s larboardquarter,L’Armançonwithhersails in disarray, flogging inthewind,theshipmotionless,hercrewrunningforeandaftandshoutingastheydid.

“Mr. Frost! Man thestarboard battery, if youplease!”

Oncemore theguncrewscamerushingaftandtookuptheirpositions.Allthreegunshad been left loaded and runout, and in the odd quietFrost’s voice seemedoverloud as he ordered theaftermostgunleveredaround,the elevation adjusted, then

touched off the powder. Hecould hardly miss at thatrange,andhedidnot,theballplowing into the bulwarkaround the quarterdeck,striking it lengthwise andtearing out a great longsectioninitsflight.

Frost was already on tothe second gun, fired that aswell, and another shark bitewas taken out of the

mizzenmast.The crewof theaftermost gun had begunramminghomeanewchargewhen Frost fired the farthestforward, the shot striking themizzenchainswithascreechof rending iron. The mizzenchannelblewapartinacloudof splinters, twisted bits ofmetal flew fore and aft, andseveralshroudsswungfree.

Frost hustled back to the

first gun, linstock held high,the match glowing. Jackcould see the French crewrushing about, backing thejibs, bracing the mainsailsback to a starboard tack in adesperate attempt to get theshiptofalloff,togatherwayso they could turn theirbroadside on their tormentor.Jack wondered how long hecouldkeep thisup,howlong

he could hang on theFrenchman’s stern. He waslike a man riding a tiger—safewhere hewas, but if hetried to get off he would betornapart.

And then he sawL’Armançon’s mizzenmastleaningtooneside.

***

Until themomentwhen both

helmsmen were shot, by asinglebullet,noless,CaptainJean-Paul Renaudin wasfeeling relatively optimisticaboutthings.

The American was wellhandled,hewasquitewillingto admit that, and even withall the men he had aboardL’Armançonhecouldnotgethis studdingsails set or takenin as quickly as the little

merchantman.Butthatwouldnot matter, because,indifferent as his crewmightbe, Renaudin knew he couldcoaxconsiderablymorespeedout of his corvette than theAmericanscouldever find intheirtubbyvessel.

Barère had told him theYankee would mount sixpounders,andbythesoundofit, he was right. The

Americans had made theironeboldmove: turned, fired,wore around and fired again,and for their effort theymanaged only to take outL’Armançon’s jib stay,certainly far short of theresult for which they hadhoped. That, and someonehad shot Enseigne deVaisseau Lessard, who hadbeen amidships supervising

the guns. The Americansmight have thought that thedeath of the young officerwas a wicked blow, but infact it was something of arelieftoRenaudintoberidofthatineptfool.

WhattheAmericans’planmighthavebeenbeyondthat,Renaudin could not imagine.He had to admire theirboldness, bordering on

stupidity, in trying to fightbackagainstsuchoddsratherthan striking when the firstbow chaser went off. Asdeftly as this Yankeeshipmaster might handle hisvessel, however, he clearlydid not understand the mostbasic aspects of ship-to-shipcombat. He had sailed off,leaving his stern exposed toL’Armançon’s full broadside,

and Renaudin had takenadvantageofthat,firingfromso close that his gunnerscouldhardlymiss.

The Americans’ mizzensail was brought down, andRenaudin could see theYankee’srailswerewelltornup. There seemed to be nomaterialdamagebeyondthat,but no matter. It would besimple enough to keep

alongside the American orathwart her hawse, and beather,weak-sided, frail, poorlyarmedthingthatshewas,intobleedingsubmission.

“Now see here, CitoyenRenaudin,” said Barère,standing at Renaudin’s side.On so small a vessel asL’Armançon, the first officershould have taken charge ofthe guns, but the little man

chose instead to stand besideRenaudin on the quarterdeckduringtheactionandofferhiswisdom concerning a seafight, wisdom he hadgarneredfromservingseveralyearsinthecarryingtrade.

It further annoyedRenaudin to think that ifBarèrehadbeeninhisproperplace, it would have beenhim, and not Lessard, who

hadtakenthatbullet.IfithadbeenRené Dauville killed inBarère’s place, Renaudinwould have been trulyfurious.

Barère was still talking.“Wearenottoruinthemwitha singlebroadside, theymustget their shots in, it mustseemasiftheyhaveputupagoodfight,doyousee?”

Renaudinignoredhim.He

wouldnotbotheraskingwhythey had to enact thischarade, because he knewBarèrewouldonlygivesomecryptic and unhelpful answerinvolving the wishes of theDirectoire.Moretothepoint,Renaudin’s mind wasoccupied with handling hisship, calculating course andspeedandwhatthisAmericanmight do next, how quickly

theymight stay orwear, andhow easily L’Armançonmight draw alongside. Anypartofhismindnotgiven tothat task was taken up withself-loathing at his owncowardice, that he wouldallow himself to endure thishumiliation rather than takethehonorablewayout,whichat thispointcouldonlymeanshooting Barère in the head

and then steppingunflinchingly up to theguillotine.

“Citoyen,doyouattend?”Barèreasked,peevishly.

“Yes, yes,” Renaudinsaid. “Well, they’ve gottentheir blows in, Lessard isdead, might we knock themontheheadsabit?”

Before Barère couldanswer, Renaudin turned to

thesecondofficer,LieutenantDauville, and said, “We willbear up now, bring thelarboardbatterytobear.Shiftsome of themen over to thegun crews on that side andsend the sail trimmers to thebraces.” If they did not turntheywereindangeroflosingthe weather gauge and theadvantagesthatwentwithit.

“Aye, sir,” Dauville said

and relayed thoseorders to aboatswain’s mate, who puthis call to his lips and trilledthe command, then movedforward, shouting outadditional orders.Barèrewasnearby, shifting nervously.Heopenedhismouthtospeakagain when Renaudininterrupted once more, quiteon purpose, telling thehelmsmen, “Bear up now,

bear up, follow this Yankeedog around.” The helmsmen,one on each side of the bigwheel,putthehelmslowlya-lee and L’Armançon camecloser to the wind as theyards were braced around tomeetthenewcourse.

“See here,” Barère said,barely able to containhimself, when the helmsmanon the larboard side, seeing

something amiss in thebinnacle box, apparently,stepped forward, armoutstretched.Andthenhewasflung aside as if swatted bythe hand ofGod, and behindhimthesecondhelmsmanfellback, his eyes wide, a greatand spreadingwash of bloodonhisshirt.

It happened so fast, andwas so completely

unexpected, that forasecondRenaudin could do nothingbut look with confusedwonder at the two mensprawled on the deck. Thewheel,whichhadbeennearlyhardover,begantospinbackthe other way andL’Armançon faltered in herturn. Renaudin leapt acrossthe deck toward theunmanned helm as Barère

fairly shrieked, “The helm!Get the helm, damn youreyes!”

Renaudinkeptclearofthespokes, spinning at lethalspeed, and used his palm toslow the turns until he hadcontrol of the wheel. Onehand on a spoke, he turnedand looked forward.L’Armançon had fallen backto her original course,

running downwind of theAmerican,and theAmerican,no fool, was taking theopportunity to get towindwardofher.“Beaussier!Ouellette!” he shouted to theseamen tending the lee mainbrace, “come and take thewheel!”

With the newmen at thehelm and Barère shoutingsomethingorother,Renaudin

stepped forward and lookeddown the length of the deck.The hands were still atstations for bracing around,halftheguncrewshadmovedtothelarboardside,readyforL’Armançontoturnandbringthosegunstobear.Therewasa collective look ofconfusion. No one had anynotion of what washappening.

“Man the starboardbattery!” he shouted, andthen, when no one moved,“Starboard, damn you,starboard!” But they onlylooked at him,uncomprehending.

“Fire as you can,starboard battery!” That lastseemed to move them, andthe men who had gone toreinforce the larboard side

returned to the starboard andbegantoreloadthegunswithacceptable alacrity. Renaudinturned to Beaussier on thehelm. “Helm’s a-lee, easynow.” Forward again. “Sailtrimmer, brace up, starboardtack, brace as she comesaround!”

“He’s tacking, theAmerican is tacking!”Barèreshouted, his voice pitched a

bithigherthanbefore.Icanseehe’stacking,you

littlepuke,Renaudinthought,but in another part of hismind he was consideringwhat the American wasplaying at. He had expectedhim to run off as fast as hecould to windward, in thehopethathisshipwasquickeron a bowline thanL’Armançon.Buthewasnot.

Hewascomingaboutandhewouldcrosstowindwardandif, please God, he missedstayshewouldbedoneforasL’Armançon followed himaround.

Tostarboard,thefasterofthe gun crews were runningout,andfirstone,thentwoofthe guns went off. Renaudinwatched the shot fly acrossthe American’s deck, but he

said nothing because he wascontent to let them shoothigh. It was his mostprofound hope that theywouldbringdownoneof themerchantman’s masts, whichwould end this quicker thananything.

The American turned upinto the wind, the headsailswere let go, the main andmizzen yards braced around.

Renaudinwishedwithallhisheart that they would missstays, that they would findthemselvespointedhelplesslyintothewind,motionlessandvulnerable, but he could seethey would not; they wouldturn nimbly from starboardtack to larboard, even as hisown ship was struggling toget headway enough tofollowthemaround.

“Damn them!” Barèreshouted. “Verywell,CitoyenRenaudin, you may bringthemtonow,youmaydefeatthem as soundly as youwish.”

“Thank you for thatkindness,Citoyen,”Renaudinsaid. Unfortunately, the pathto such a victory was not asobvious as it had been evenfive minutes earlier. The

American had come aboutand was taking position onthe starboard quarter, at aplace where none ofL’Armançon’s guns wouldbear, and Renaudin had agood notion of what wouldcomenext.

And itdid, justashehadimagined, the American’sstarboard battery firing intoL’Armançon’s unprotected

stern. The first gun went offfiftyyardsaway,loud,butnotso loud that Renaudin couldnot hear the glass in his aftwindows shattering, thesoundoftheroundshotdoinguntold damage to the greatcabin he had so finely fittedout over the long and dullcommission. He saw Barèrejump in surprise,was certaintheman’sfeethadclearedthe

deck,andhesmiled.“Monsieur Dauville!”

Renaudin called to the firstofficer. “Stations for stays!”They would have to tack aswell, follow the Americanaround, try to get theirbroadside to bear and finishthis impudentsonofawhoreoff. He watched withsatisfactionasthefirstofficerdrove the men to their

stations, displaying the kindof discipline that couldalmost make Renaudinimagine he was back in thenavyoftheOldRegime.

TheAmerican firedagainand Renaudin felt the hotwindoftheball’spassingandsaw it tear anastychunkoutof themizzenmast. He felt awarmsprayandlookeddownat his hand and saw it was

splattered with blood. Heturned in time to see thehelmsman, Ouellette, sanshead, topple forward, addingto the great pool of bloodalreadyleftinthewakeofthetwomenbeforehim.

“Someoneget aft andgetthis man clear!” Renaudinshouted, then to Beaussier,“Helm’s a-lee!” L’Armançonbegan her turn up into the

wind, the hands on theforecastle, experienced men,lettinggotheheadsailsheets.Thesailsfloggedandtheshipsurged around, but toRenaudin’s mountingfrustration, the damnedAmericansfollowedher turn,keeping on her quarter as ifsecuredtherebysomeunseencable.

TheAmericanfiredagain,

the ball screamed past.Renaudin felt the concussionof its passing and then itstruck the spanker boom,nearly at the center of thelong spar. A great raggedhole was torn in the wood.Theboomhung for a secondas the last, tenacious fibersparted. Renaudin shouted,“Stand from under!” and hestepped forward and shoved

Barère in the path of theboomjustasitgaveway.Theheavyspar,afootthick,camecrashing to the deck, takingBarère down with it, andRenaudin thought,Verywell,I’mfreefromthatdistraction.

Beaussier had continuedto hold the helm hard over,andproperlyso.L’Armançonturned to windward like aweather vane, so far up into

the wind by then that shewouldhave to tackorget allaback.AndtheAmerican,thecursed American, was stillhangingonthequarter,withina pistol shot but beyond thereachofanyofL’Armançon’sgreatguns.

“Mainsail haul!”Renaudin shouted and heturned to give instruction toBeaussier when the man’s

chest seemed to explode in asprayofblood.Renaudinsawthe wide eyes, the look ofsurprise, and then Beaussiercrashed against the binnaclebox as the force of the shotflung him forward and theabandoned wheel began tospin.

“You bastard!” Renaudinshouted, thecursedirectedatthe American. Four

helmsmen! They had killedfourhelmsmen,Renaudinhadneverseenthelike.

And he knew in his gutwhat this meant. Even as heagainleaptfortheunattendedwheel, the second time thatday, he knew they were inirons.Hegrabbed the spokesand steadied the helm andlooked forward. Theheadsails were flogging, the

mainsails shivering, themomentumoftheturnallbutgone. They were stoppeddead, and there was theAmerican,stillonthequarter,like one of Satan’s minionssenttotormenthim.

If there was oneconsolation, it was that themen of L’Armançon reactedas seamen should. He couldhear Dauville shouting

orders, could see the menflatting in the headsails tobring the bow around again.Twomen came racing aft totake up the helm, despite itsbeing, apparently, the mostdangerous position on theship. They draggedBeaussier’s body out of thewayandrelievedRenaudinofthe wheel. Barère had notmoved since the boom had

comedownonhim,andtherewas every reason to hope hewasdead.

TheAmericanfiredagain,the shot ripping down thelength of the quarterdeckbulwark and tearing it apart.Dauvilleshoutedfor themento haul themain braces backaround to a starboard tack.Anothergunfromastern,andanotherbitofthemizzenmast

gone.TheAmericanhadhoveto,stoppeddeadinthewater,right astern, and waspounding away to the extentthat he could, with the threepathetic six pounders in hisbroadside.

Pathetic, but at least hecanhitme,Renaudinthought,andthenasiftodemonstrate,aroundshotstruckthemizzenchains on the larboard side

with a shower of wood andscreech of iron hitting iron.Shattered bits of deadeyesand chainplates were hurledforward and two men whowere tending the fore bracewerestruckdown.

RenaudinwantedtoshoutouttoDauvilletogettheshipturning but the officer wasdoingeverythinghecould soRenaudin clenched his teeth

andremainedsilent.Hecouldfeel some motion underfoot,thebowstarting to swingoffthe wind under the pressureof thebackedheadsails.Verywell, very well, Renaudinthought. In amoment or twothe larboard battery wouldbear on the American andthen they would end thisnonsense.

Butsomethingwasoutof

alignment and it caught hiseye,somethingabouttheshipwaswrong.Renaudindidnotrealize what it was until hesaw the mizzenmast leaningfarther and farther tolarboard, the beautifulsymmetry of masts andrigging ruined. The leaningstopped as the starboardshroudstookupthestrainandheld the mast in place,

checking the momentum ofthecollapse.

But the shrouds did notcheck the momentum forlong.Theleverageexertedbytopmast,thetopsailyard,andits attendant gear, not tomention the topgallant mast,yard, and sail on that loftyrig, was far more than thelower shrouds could bear.First one then the other tore

from the channel with ahorrible wrenching sound.Men at the base of the mastshouted and raced away andtwo topmen came slidingdownthebackstaysjustastheentire thing fell slowly toleeward, picking up speed inits tumble to the sea. Itwentby the board with a greatsplash as the topmast andtopgallant hit the water, and

the mizzen lower mastcrushed the bulwarks on thelarboard side of thequarterdeck as it fell acrossthem.

L’Armançon was stoppeddead and would remain thatway for hours, until she hadcut the wreckage clear andcould limp away. TheAmericans would be free tocontinue their cannonade if

theywished, perhaps even totry to beat L’Armançon intosurrender, a thing thatwouldnot happen as long asRenaudin was still alive. Hepulled his eyes from thewreckage and looked astern.The Americans were donefighting. They had alreadyhauled their wind and wereracingoffwithlarboardtacksaboard.

Renaudin stepped over toBarère’s inert form andkicked him hard in thestomach. “Imay defeat themsoundlynow,eh,youwhore’sson, you bastard?” heshouted, and to his furtherand profound dismay heheard Barère groan inresponse.

21

A ship fogbound at sea is inno particular danger. A shipfogbound in soundings isquite a different matter.

Makingwaywithvisibilitysopoor the master cannot seefrom the quarterdeck to thejibboom end, or perhaps noteven to the foremast, is adangerous and unnervingsituation. In such a thick fogthere is no chance of seeingforeoraft, toweatheror lee,nopoint inseeingup,andsothe only way of determiningposition is to look down, or,

morecorrectly,tofeelwhatisbelow by means of a leadline.

To sound with a handlead,amanstandsontheforechainwale, secured by abreast rope, and throws thelead forward, allowing theline to run out until he feelsthe weight hit bottom. Theline is marked off at variousfathomintervals,andtheman

in the chains sings out toindicate the depth at whichtheweightfoundbottom;“Bythe mark, five!” or “And ahalf five!” or “By the deepsix!” A master who knowsthe waters can thus feel hisway through the fog bymeasuring the depth, relyingon his knowledge andintuition honed by years ofexperience.

It was in a similarsituation that Ezra Rumstickfound himself now, feelinghis way through the fog,though in this case it wasobfuscation and treachery,and not mist, that obscuredhis way. The interview withBolingbroke had parted thefogabit,butonlyabit.Jonahhad confirmed that the duelwas a concocted affair,

arranged for reasonsunknown to him by men farmore powerful than he.Bolingbroke had given themonename:Ness.

Between Rumstick andTillinghast they knew twomenofthatname.Onewasablockmaker in the NorthernLiberties. The other wassecretary to JamesMcHenry,who was secretary of war to

President John Adams, aholdover,asmostwere,fromthe Washingtonadministration. BothRumstickandTillinghasthada pretty good idea of whichwas the Ness to whomBolingbrokereferred.

“This whole thing,”Rumsticksaid,makingawidesweeping gesture toencompass the whole affair,

“it’s like French philosophyorsomesuch,itdoesn’tmakeanykindofsense.”

Tillinghastnodded.ItwasthemorningaftertheyhadletBolingbroke go, and so,fortified with coffee and asubstantial breakfast, theymet to discuss their nextmove. Rumstick likeddiscussing things withTillinghast, who could

usually see when Rumstickwasgettingfaroffcourseandwasnotafraidtosayit.

“No sense,” Tillinghastsaid. “At least none that wecansee.Yet.”

“Oxnard’snofriendoftheadministration,” Rumsticksaid, trying toput things intosomelogicalframework.“Farfrom it. He’s an associate ofthat whore’s son Benjamin

Franklin Bache and all thoseJeffersoniandisciples.”

“And Ness is part of theadministration, and they hateOxnardandhislotasmuchasOxnard hates them,”Tillinghastsupplied.

“Right.SoifNesstriestoget Jack killed, he robsOxnard of a good captain.Hurts him,” Rumsticksuggested,butTillinghastjust

frowned.“True enough,”

Tillinghastsaid.“Butitdon’tanswer. Someone fromAdams’s administrationhaving the son of one ofAdams’s biggest supportersin Congress killed just soOxnardlosesagoodcaptain?Bemoreeffectivetoburnhisship. No. It’s got to besomethingmorethanthat.”

Rumstick nodded andleaned back. Tillinghast wasright.Thiswasmorecomplexbyhalf.

“If there is one thing Ilearned back in the war,”Rumstick said, a turn ofphrase he used quite often,there being many things thathe learned back in the war,“it’s that the bold move isgenerally the best move, do

yousee?Noneofthistackingand wearing and weathergauge nonsense. It’s alwaysbesttogorightatthem.”

“Exceptthosetimeswhenitain’t,”Tillinghastsaid.

“Well, certainly, exceptthose times. But generally,rightatthem,Isay.”

So that was the strategythey agreed upon, if strategyit could be called. Right at

them. And by “them”Rumstick meant “Ness,”because Ness was the onlytargetinsight.

Ness, Jonathan Ness ofNorthCarolina,whohadbeenwithNathanaelGreeneduringthebrutalhit-and-runfightingagainst Cornwallis in hishomestateandhad foughtatGuilford Courthouse, wasnow getting corpulent in his

older years, comfortable andprosperous. He dined nearlyeverydayattheCityTavern,andRumstick,whoalsodinedthere on occasion, wouldgenerallyseehimthere.Theyhad a nodding acquaintance,and so Ness was in no waysurprised to see Rumstickstep into the big, low-ceilinged room and make agesture of greeting. He was

more surprised whenRumstickcrossedtheroomtohis table, just to the right ofthe fireplace, unused now inthe warming days of spring,and, uninvited, pulled out achairandsatoppositehim.

“Captain Rumstick, goodday, pray have a seat,” Nesssaid as Rumstick settledhimself. Rumstick had hadchairs collapse under him,

andhealwayssatwithcare.“Mr. Ness, good day,”

Rumstick said, and seeingNess had been perusing thepagesofBache’sAurorasaid,“You’ve gone over to theotherside,Isee.”

Ness looked at the paperas ifsurprised tosee it there.“No,nothingofthekind.ButIdoliketokeepupwithwhatthat seditiousdog isprinting.

It’s the only way to stayahead of the vermin, youknow, though I do feel theneed for a damned goodwashingupaftertouchingthething.”

One of the tavern girlsbroughtapewtermugofale,because Rumstick was wellenough known that they didnot need to ask hispreference. He thanked her,

took amoment to regard herwith some admiration, thenturned back to Ness. “Quiteright, know your enemy andthat,”hesaid.“Say,Ihadthechancetospeakwithafriendofyoursjustyesterday,JonahBolingbroke. He sends hisregards.”

Ness frowned. “JonahBolingbroke? Do I know afellow of that name? I don’t

recall.” There was nothingdisingenuous in the reply, nonoteofmendacity,atleastnotthatRumstickcouldhear.Hewished, as he often did, thatIsaac Biddlecomb was there,becauseIsaacwasmuchmoreadeptatdetectingsuchthings.But he did notwant to bringIsaac into this, not until hehad a better sense of whatwasacting.

“Bolingbroke?” Rumsticksaid.“Doyounotknowhim?Aseaman,ofsorts.”

“No,”Ness said. “Iknowfew seamen, I must admit.Yourself and CaptainBiddlecomb,ofcourse,andafew others. CaptainBarry. Ifone properly calls men ofyour status ‘seamen.’ I recallnoBolingbroke.”

“Captain Biddlecomb…”

Rumstick said. “Funny youshouldmention him, becausethisconcernshim.Not Isaac,mind, but Jack, his son. JackBiddlecomb. Just madecaptain of the ship Abigail.OwnedbyRobertOxnard,ofallpeople.”

“Really? Oxnard? Ishould not think RobertOxnard would do any favorsfor the son of Isaac

Biddlecomb,” Ness said, butthis time Rumstick was surehe heard something, somecatch in Ness’s voice, somenotethatwasoff,justabit,asif Ness could suddenly seewherethiswasheading.

“No, I would not reckonOxnard would do any favorsfor Isaac, though Jack’s adamned fine seaman, makeno mistake, and a good

choice formaster.”Rumstickleaned closer, and let hisvoice drop to a moreconspiratorial level. Time tocast the lead. “Buthere’s thething, Ness. Someone, itseems, did not care to seeJack sail, and he paid thisrascalBolingbroke to engageJackinadueltostophim.Doyou have any notion of whomight have done such a

thing?”“Why in God’s name

wouldIhaveanyideaofwhowould do that?” Ness said,butnowthenote inhisvoicewas unmistakable, and evenRumstick,whocouldbethickas a first rate’s main-wale,and knew it, could see Nessknewmorethanheclaimedtoknow. Indeed, he couldhardlyknowless.

Rumstick leaned back,helduphishands.“Ofcourse,of course, I did not mean tosuggest anything. You couldnot be mixed up in thisbloody business, I’m sure ofit.But thisBolingbroke covehasbecomeprettytalkativeoflate, with some persuasion,mind you, and though hecertainlydidnotsayyouwerein any way involved in this,

hegavemetheideathatsomeprettyimportantpeoplemightbe. And sure, you are themost important fellow Iknow, in the governmentline.”

Ness gave a wave of hishand, a gesture of dismissal.“I am no one of anyimportance,Iassureyou,”hesaid, sounding a bit flatterednonetheless.“ButI’mafraidI

knownothingofthisaffair.”“Very well,” Rumstick

said. “I reckoned I shouldspeak to you first, and nowI’vedoneso.”

“First?” Ness said. “Towhomelsemightyouspeak?Ifyou’llforgivetheinquiry.”

“Never think on it. Thesheriff, I suppose, is thefellow to see about this.There’s something acting

here, and I’ll warrant it’scriminal.”

“The sheriff?” Ness said,his stoicism slipping a bitfurther still. “Not a discreetmanatall.”

“No, he’s not,” Rumsticksaid. He tapped the copy oftheAuroralyingonthetable.“Sometimes I think he goesdirect to that whoremongerBache with everything that

comeshisway.IfIgotohim,itwill be all over this paper,andIdon’treckonBachewillbe singing the praises of theadministration. Hell, he’lldamn Adams and those whoservehimfornothing,butifithappens they have someconnection to this thing withJack,IreckonBachewillfindit, and then the cat’s out ofthe bag. But there’s nothing

forit.”“Now see here,

Rumstick,” Ness began, butthenwith some effort alteredthetoneofhiswords.“Imaybe able to make a fewinquiries, ask around. Peoplehear things, you know.Before you speak with thesheriff, Imaybeable to findsome hint of what thisBolingbrokewasabout.”

“Iwouldbeverymuchinyour debt if you would,”Rumstick said, and he heldNess’seyes insuchawayasto convey the veryearnestness of his threat. “Iwould be verymuch in yourdebt if you was to findsomething out tonight, andtellmewhatyouknowonthemorrow. Here. This sametime.” He tapped theAurora

withabeefyfinger.Hestoodand left Ness open-mouthedbutwithnothingmoretosay.

***

It was another two daysbefore Abigail droppedanchor in three fathoms ofclear, aquamarine water,under the leering guns of aBritish seventy-four. Theywere not in Barbados, their

intended destination. Theyhad not even tried to reachBarbados. Rather, afterhearing the persuasivecouncilofCharlesFrost,Jackhad opted to run for EnglishHarbour inAntigua. Itwas aplace where Frost was wellknown, or so he insisted, aplacewhereheknewtherightpeople, peoplewho could beof great service in getting

Abigail safely to her stateddestination.

With that one happy shotinto L’Armançon’s mizzenchains, Abigail had broughtdown the Frenchman’smizzen and crippledher, andJack knew shewould remaincrippled for a quarter of anhour at least as they clearedthe wreckage away. Jack’sbloodwasupbythen,andhis

ship was hove to where theFrenchman’s guns could notreach and for a moment heconsidered remaining wherehewas,pouringshotintoher,beatingherintosurrender.

And then he realized thatwas madness. How am I totake her as a prize, howwouldIsecuretheprisoners?he wondered. But even thatquestion was insane. Prize?

hethought.WhatinhellamIthinking? We’re not at warwith France, but if I keepshooting at this fellow, wedamnwellwillbe!

HehadnonotionofwhatL’Armançon was about,attackingthemasshehad,butwhatever it was, he did notcare to make it worse. Heorderedthesailstrimmed,thehelmputdown, and they left

the shattered Frenchman intheirwake.

Abigail had not comethrough the encounterunscathed. Far from it. Aroundshot through the greatcabin windows had made adirecthitonJack’ssideboard,obliterating all of the finedinnerservicehismotherhadinsisted he take and spillinghalf his wine stores on the

deck, so that it looked like abutcher had been atwork onthepaintedcanvasfloorcloth.The chimney on the caboosehad been blown clean overthe side, themizzenmastwasbadly wounded, and asurprising amount of rigginghadbeentornup.

Of greater consequence,one of the shots fromL’Armançon’s broadside had

smashed a hole throughAbigail betwixt wind andwater,butconsiderablyclosertowaterthanwind.Indeed,itentered just inches above thewaterline, which made for aprodigious inflow when shewasonastarboardtack.Theymanaged to patch it after afashion, but it still requiredhands at the pumps for anhour and a half during every

watch.Ordinary seaman Ratford

was long dead by the timeanyone had a moment tothinkofhim,hisarm lyingafew feet from his body, hiswhite face staring up at thesky, a shocking amount ofbloodpooledaroundhimandrunning down into thescuppers. They draped atarpaulin over him until

Lucas Harwar was able tosew him up in some sparecanvas, with two of the sixpound balls at his feet. Jackread the burial at sea, wordshe had heard on a fewoccasions but had neverutteredhimself,andRatford’searthly remains were tippedinto the Caribbean. Anyenthusiasm the men mighthave felt at their narrow and

well-executed escape wasmutedbythatgrimtask.

They set sail and theyknotted and spliced andpumped and they madeeasting. Jack tookWentworth’shandand shookit with enthusiasm when theBostonian regained the deck,rifle over his shoulder, hisface smudged with powderresidue in a way that would

have seemed unthinkable thedaybefore.

“Well done, Mr.Wentworth,” Jack said. “Anexcellentlyplacedshot.”

“Thank you,” Wentworthsaid. “Towhich shot do yourefer?”

“Why, theone thatstruckdown the helmsman. At justtherightmoment.”

“Whichhelmsmandoyou

mean?Iseemtohavebaggedacoveyofthem.”

Jack releasedWentworth’s hand. “Just asthe Frenchman was comingabout,youshotthehelmsmanlike some poacher on theking’spreserve.”

“Ah, yes,” Wentworthsaid. “And two others, youknow, earlier. Two with asingleshot,Idaresay,though

I was aided by the secondfellow stepping into my lineof fire at just the rightmoment.”

“Ah, very nice,”Biddlecomb said. Here hewas,graciousenough togivethe man his due for a well-placedshot,butthatofcoursewas not enough for WilliamWentworth of the BostonWentworths. No, he had to

lay claim to having shot twoother helmsmen as well, andwith a single bullet. Inanother two minutes hewouldbeclaimingthatitwashe and his rifle that tookdown the Frenchie’smizzenmast.

As to their ownmizzenmast, it was fishedunder the careful supervisionof Jack and John Burgess;

additional stays were rigged,and the entire lash-up wastreatedastenderlyaspossibleastheymadethebestoftheirway to Antigua. They raisedthe island with only a fewhoursofdaylightleft,hovetoand rounded Point Charlottelate the next morning,standing in under the foretopsail andcoming toanchorhalf a mile from the Royal

Navydockyard.Itwashot and still in the

harbor, and all around themthe hills rose up from thewater’s edge, dry-lookingdespite the thick vegetationthatcovered them.Thewhiteboats of the men-of-war atanchor plied back and forth,and the still air was filledwith the tap-tap-tap ofcaulking mallets and the

pounding of beetle hammers,the echoing sound ofsomething heavy droppedinto place and the occasionalorder shouted by a frustratedboatswain, shipwright, orofficer.

The men of the Abigailwere not fond of being soclose to the Royal Navy, foreven though they were allAmericanswiththepapersto

prove it, the navy was notalways so particular whenthey needed men. But Frostassured them they would beunmolested,sotheygrumbledand muttered but said nomore.

The second shot fromL’Armançon had shatteredAbigail’s longboat, buthappily the bumboatsswarmed like mosquitoes

onceher anchorwas set, andFrost had little difficulty insecuringpassagetoshore.

“Captain,”hesaidtoJack,taking him aside, “I prayyou’llforgivemethisliberty,but I must go alone. Thesenegotiations are … delicate.We’ve no quarrel withEngland now, at least notofficially, but still it’s not inthe interest of an officer in

His Majesty’s Navy to beseen helping anAmerican, ifyou understand. Now, thesedockyardfellows,theycanbepersuaded, but they’re shyaround those they don’tknow.”

“I understand,” Jack said,happy to turn this over toFrost, as he had no idea ofwhat he might say topersuade anyone in English

Harbourtogivethemaid.Hewould not expect help fromany place called EnglishHarbour.

“If you can manage it,”Jackadded,“wedon’tneedtocareen, just to heave herdownabit togetat thatshothole. A new mizzenmast isfartoomuchtoask,butifwecan get the timber to fish itproperwecanmakedue.We

could use water, and somecasks, after the damage fromthat shot that holed us downlow.And a boat, if one is tobehad.”

“A formidable list,”Frostsaid, “but these British maybe inclined to help one sobatteredbytheirenemy.”

“I have money, ofcourse,” Jack added. “Mr.Oxnard provided money for

expenses,butIhavenogreatstoreofit.Iftheyareaskingadearpricewe’llhavetogetiton Oxnard’s credit, or dowithout.”

“I shall see what I cando,” Frost said, and with aconspiratorial wink heclimbed down into thewaiting bumboat and wasgone.

Jackset thementowork,

sendingdownthetop-hamperin preparation for a partialheavingdown,unbendingthemizzen, which still neededvarious shot holes patched,and fashioning a newstovepipe for the caboose.The remains of the longboatwere broken up and stoweddowninthekindlingbox.

When that was done theAbigails stood down to an

anchorwatch,whichwasnotparticularly watchful, withmost of the men asleep inwhatever bits of shade couldbe found on deck. Jack washappy to give them the rest.There were some masterswho would keep the men attheir tasks even when therewere no tasks that reallyneeded to be done, but hecould never see the

percentage in that. As oftenasnotaresentfulcrewwouldworkTomCox’sTraverse, asilent protest in which theydid every job in the slowest,clumsiest, most lubberlyfashion they could, until themaster, driven to distractionby the frustration of it all,relented.

NorwasJackadversetoarespite,nowthattheshipwas

safe in harbor and protectedfrom the French by themassive guns of the Britishnavy, an odd turn of eventsfor the son of a hero of theWar for Independency. Hewas seated on the taffrail inshirtsleeves and a straw hat,the sun approaching the highground to the west, whenWentworthcameaft,hisstephesitant, as if trying tomake

it seem a great coincidencethat he and Jack should findthemselves on the samequarterdeckatthesametime.

“Captain Biddlecomb,”Wentworth nodded ingreeting.

“Mr.Wentworth.”They were quiet for a

moment after that, bothlooking out across the waterat the massive ship-of-the-

linemooredbythedockyard,her rig sent down to lowers.“Thatshipthere,”Wentworthsaid at length, speakingquietlyastheeveningseemedto demand, “is thatwhat onecallsa‘firstrate’?”

“She’saseventy-four,Mr.Wentworth,” Jack explained.“Seventy-four guns, at leastthatiswhatsheisdesignedtocarry. As often as not the

captain will crowd a fewmore on for good measure.Butsheisathirdrate.Afirstratewouldhaveahundredormoreguns.”

“Indeed? A mere thirdrate.Andyetthereisnothingin the American fleet tomatchher?”

“There is not really anAmerican fleet at all,” Jacksaid. “TheUnited States just

launched, of course, we sawher on leaving Philadelphia.Constitution andConstellation, still on thestocks.Wecallthemfrigates,though theBritishmight callthemfifthrates.Inanyevent,they would not stand in theline of battle, not with greatbeastslikethatoneyonder.”

“Fascinating,”Wentworthsaid. “I know absolutely

nothingaboutsuchthings,butI’ll warrant it’s a fascinatingbusiness.”

Jackgaveatwistedsmile,despite himself. “Perhaps so.Iwasweanedonit,oratleasttalkofit.Thenoveltyisquitegone.”

Theywerequietagainforabit,thenWentworthsaid,“Imeant tosay,Captain…andI did not care to embarrass

you, speaking so in front ofothers, but I was quiteimpressed with the way youhandled the ship against theFrenchman. I’m no judge, ofcourse, but it seemed to mequitethething.”

“Thank you, Mr.Wentworth, I appreciatethat,” Jack said. And he didappreciate it, withreservations, since

Wentworth still put him onedge.HefeltWentworthwasincapableofsincerity,thoughadmittedlyheseemedsincereenough in this instance.Still,Jack belied the sincerity ofhisownresponsebywaitingabeat too long before adding,“And I am grateful for yourfinemarksmanship.”

“Yes,well…”Wentworthsaid,andthenfellquietagain

for a moment. “It’s a veryodd thing, you know, thisshooting aman. I’ve been inmany affairs of honor.Morethan I can recall, a dozencertainly, if not more. I’veshot men and I’ve drawnbloodwithcoldsteel,butI’venever killed anyone. And tobe sure, these were justFrenchmen, but they weremen,doyousee?Averyodd

thing,aimingataman,seeinghimfall.Theyweretoofartosee any more than theirshapes,ofcourse,butstilloneknows it’s a human one isshooting. I can’t seem toshake that image, or to stopseeingitinmymind.”

Thewordstumbledoutasif Wentworth had beenwaiting for thechance to saythem out loud, as if he had

been mulling them, addingthoughts, refining themashelookedforthemainchancetotell someone. Jack listened,nodded, felt as thoroughlyembarrassed at hearing theconfession as Wentworthseemed to feel having givenit.

“Well, in any event,”Wentworth said, “we aremuch beholden to you for

keeping us out of theFrenchman’s grip. Now Ibelieve I shall go belowstairs … have my watchbelow, as you tarpaulinswouldsay.”Therewasanoteof the old irony there, but itsounded as strained as didWentworth’sgoatsincerity.

“Well, sir, I trust you’llhave a good rest. And IbelieveI’llwaitforMr.Frost

to return. You can imagineI’meagertohearwhathehasmanagedtoarrange.”

They made their goodnightsandJackremainedaft,enjoying the evening on thequarterdeck. When Frost didnot return after a few morehours he retired to the greatcabin with a glass of winefrom one of the fewunshattered bottles left. And

whenFroststilldidnotreturnhe changed to his nightshirtand crawled into his berth,exhausted from the day’slabors.

Thenextmorning,asJohnBurgess set the hands toscrubbing down, Frost stillhad not returned, and he hadnot returnedby the time theybegan rousting out theshattered water casks from

the hold. It was not untildinner was an hour past thatJack saw a longboat pullingforAbigail, the paint on herfreeboard so white he couldhardly look directly at it intheafternoonsun,sixmen-of-war’smenpullingat theoarsandFrost, large and seemingeven larger than before,seatedinthesternsheets.

Theyhauledupalongside

andthebowmanhookedontothe main chains, and Frostcame aboard, and to Jack’ssurprisetheBritishsailorsdidas well. This caused a waveof muttering to sweepthrough the assembledAbigails, but the Britishtarpaulins stood silent andrespectful and caused nofurtheralarm.

“Fine boat, isn’t she,

Captain?” Frost asked withhisaccustomedenthusiasm.

Jack glanced down at thelongboat bobbing alongside,an excellent example of theboatwright’scraft,tobesure.“Lovelyboat,”heagreed.

“She’s ours,” Frost said.“And these fine fellows, sentout to assist as long as everweneed.”

“Assist with what?” Jack

asked.“Well, here’s the thing,”

Frost said. “I had a mostexcellent meeting with thesuperintendent of thedockyard here. Fine fellow.Insisted I stay the night, andto tell the truth, with all thewinehepliedmewith,Idon’tknow that I would havetrustedmyself to a boat. Buthere’s the thing. This fellow

willdoanything,helpanyonewho wishes to knock aFrenchman on the head.Enemy of my enemy, thatsort of thing. Astoundinglygenerous, astounding. Waterandcaskswillbenoproblem,heaving down to get at theshotholeisbeingarrangedaswespeak.”

“What of themizzenmast?”

“Ah, yes, well he has nostick thatwill serve for new,buthe’llbehappy tohelpusfishtheoldoneasbestascanbe done. But here’s the partthat’s above and beyond thecall. He’s agreed to give usthe use of another six six-pounders, and have his shipcarpenters mount them. Andyou can bet they’ll do adamned sight better job of it

than those thieves inPhiladelphia. It’ll be a bitcrowded topsides, I’m notsaying it won’t, but if wemake that main hatch a bitnarrower,thatshouldanswer.Then this fellow says he’llgive us the powder and shotwe need, and even lend usexperienced hands enough toworktheguns!”

Jack felt the sick twist in

his stomach, which wasbecoming all too familiar.“Now, see here, Mr. Frost,”he said. “I had thought youwere going to see aboutgetting what we need to setthe ship to rights, enough toget us to Barbados. I hardlythought you were going toarrange to turn us into somekindofdamnedman-of-war.”Even as he spoke he felt the

shame of his failure. HadFrost ignored hisinstructions? No. He hadgiven Frost no instructions,hehadcededhisauthority,hehad allowed Frost all thelatitudehewished.

“My dear captain, it’squitebeyondthatnow,”Frostsaid, not unkindly.“Robert … Mr. Oxnard …made it clear enough that he

wishes the ship to reachBarbados,notendupassomeprize to theFrench.We triedsneaking through and werecaught up. Now, after thedrubbing you gaveMonsieurCrapeau out there, everyprivateerandman-of-warwillbeonthehuntforus.Forgiveme, Captain, if I haveoverstepped my bounds, butthesimplefacthereisthis…

if we are to reach Barbados,wemustfightourwaythere.”

Jack nodded. Frost hadsaid nothing with which hemightargueordisagree.Frostseemed have a knack fordoing that. But still Jack feltas if this business wasspinning out of control, andhewithnoway to stop it, orevenslowitsmomentum.

22

Boston in the summer couldbebeastlyhot,or soWilliamWentworth had alwaysbelieved. In truth, as he now

realized,hehadhadnonotionofwhat realheatwas,buthewas starting to. It had beenhot enough at sea, but therehad generally been a breezeof some sort that hadtempered the heatconsiderably.TherewaslittlebreezetobefoundinEnglishHarbour, however,where thesun beat down like ablacksmith’s hammer, and

every sound seemedunnaturally loud in the stillair.

And, dear Lord, it’sonly … Wentworth had tothinkonitforamoment.It’sonly May 22 … What musthappen, he wondered, whenthereallyhotseasonarrived?

Fromaspotbythemizzenfife rail, a good place toobserve yet stay well out of

theway,WentworthwatchedastheymadereadytotowtheAbigail alongside the quay.Thedegreeofinteresthetookin the procedure stillsurprised him. A massiveship’sboatcameupunderthebow, thirty feet long andexpertly rowed by hardcaseBritish men-of-war’s men,pigtailed and straw-hatted,powerful arms with muscles

that rippled under tannedskin.Watching them at theirwork gave Wentworth avague feeling of inadequacy,andheremindedhimself thatthey were seamen of theRoyal Navy: poor, mostlyilliterate, bound to theservice, little better thanslaves, while he was aWentworth of the BostonWentworths.

They took a towline thatBurgessandagangunderhissupervision had rigged fromthe Abigail’s bow, and onceAbigail’s anchor hungdrippingandmuddyfromthestarboard cathead, they laidinto the oars and towed themerchantman alongside thestone quay. A blue-coatedofficer sat in the boat’ssternsheets,handonthetiller,

but if he ever gave an order,Wentworthdidnothearit.

OnceAbigailwassecuredalongside, her men and thedockyard’s men and moremenfromtheBritishmen-of-war appeared and beganhoisting the six pounders offher deck, which seemed anactofdisarmament,butatthesame time ship’s carpentersappeared and as far as

Wentworth could tell begancutting holes in the bulwarkfor evenmoreguns to be setinplace.

Itwas all something of amystery, since no one hadtold him anything of theircurrent plans, and so on thesecond day of that furiousactivity, when Biddlecombseemed to be unoccupied fora rare moment, Wentworth

approached him. They hadnot spoken more than a fewwords since Wentworth hadconfessed to his discomfortabout killing the Frenchmen,an embarrassing andregrettable admission, and ittookaconsiderabledegreeofcuriosity to overcome hisreluctance to speak toBiddlecombnow.

“Captain, forgiveme, but

could I inquire as to what’sgoingonhere?”

Biddlecomblookedathimwith an odd expression, partannoyance and part surprisethat he should ask such aquestion, as if Biddlecombexpected him to know quitewellwhatwasgoingon.

“We are getting the gunsandstoresoffher,gettingherready to heave down,”

Biddlecomb said,unhelpfully.

“‘Heavedown’?”“We’ll make a block fast

tohermainmasthead,agreatfour-part affair, and run thefall to a capstan and heaveaway, roll the ship on herside. Not all the way, justenoughtogetatthatholetheFrenchie gave us, so thatwemightrepairit.”

“Ah…” Wentworth said,now partially enlightened.“Andtheseotherfellows?”

“Arecuttingnewgunportsfor the additional gunswe’reto mount. Now, pleaseforgiveme,buthere’sthelastofthewatercaskshoistedoutandImustseeifwehaveanydamage below that was notobviousbefore.”

And so William

Wentworthwasleftaloneforthatday,and thenext,being,apparently, the only man inEnglish Harbour, or perhapsonallofAntigua,whodidnothave one damned thing tooccupyhis time.HewatchedthemheavetheAbigaildown,which was certainlyinteresting, and watched therest of the preparations,which became increasingly

dull with each passingmoment. He managed toextract information fromFrost, not much, but enoughto give him some sense forwhat was going on. Or atleast some sense for whatFrost wished him to believewas going on. WilliamWentworthwasmany things,manyofthemunpleasant,butnaïvewasnotoneofthem.

By the third day he hadhad his fill of dockyardproceduresanddecidedtoseeif there was any shooting tobe had on the island, so hecollecteduphis rifle,powderhorn, and shotbag andmadehis way down the gangplanktothequay.

Itwas all new, all utterlynew and foreign to him. Intwenty-two years he had left

Massachusetts all of sixtimes, and of those, NewYork was the farthest afieldhe had gone, save for hispassage to Philadelphia tomeet the Abigail. WilliamWentworth had never beenonefortravel,fornoveltyandnewexperience.Hehadneverseentheappeal.

Butstandingon thequay,under a sun such as he had

never felt before, surroundedbyaplace the likesofwhichhe had never seen, he wasnearly overwhelmed by thesensation, the strangeness ofit. He was Adam waking inthisnew-madeparadise.Palmtrees—palm trees!—werewaving as if in greeting.Bright-plumed birds unlikeanything in his experienceflickered past, making the

cardinals of his native NewEngland,perhapsthegaudiestofbirdsfoundthere,lookdullin comparison.A lizard, fiveincheslong,stoodinhispathasifdaringhimtoproceed.

A fewhundred feet awaystood the buildings of thedockyard,stoneandbrickandrough-hewn wooden beams.They looked out of place intheir familiarity, stolid,

humorlessBritisharchitectureset down in this frivolousland.Worn paths, or perhapsthey might be called roads,ran from the quay in variousdirections, dusty and pavedwitha layerofbrokenshells.One ran past a three-storystone building punctuated byaseriesofwindowsalong itsface, a flagpole with theUnionJackwavingina lazy,

desultoryway.Williamtookthisbuilding

tobeabarracksofsomesort,aplacefortheofficerstolivewhen ashore, perhaps. Atrellisstoodtoonesideofthebuilding;aprofusionofvinesand massive vivid flowerscovered the wooden frame,givingsomeblessedshade tothe four men at the tablebelow it. British naval

officers. They were inshirtsleeves and waistcoats.Their blue uniform coatsweredrapedoverthebacksoftheir chairs and there werehalf-full glasses before them,a half-empty bottleamidships.Theyseemedtobetaking their pleasure in aquiet,unhurriedway,theonlywaythatseemedrightinsuchheat.

Their presence remindedWilliamofyetanotheruniqueaspect of his situation,another novel thing after alifetime of studiouslyavoiding novelty. He wasnowinaforeignland.Hewasin a colony of the BritishEmpire. He had of coursebeen born in a colony of theBritish Empire, had beenBritish himself for all of ten

months before the Congressdeclared independence andhis father, amongothers,hadfoughttoturnthatdeclarationintoapoliticalreality.

William’s father, CharlesWentworth,wasneverawildrevolutionary, despite havingshot at Englishmen andhaving been shot at by themin return. Père Wentworthwas not one of those who

came to hate the mothercountry. Quite the opposite;he continued to admire theBritishanddisliketheFrench,and his dislike of the Frenchhad expanded exponentiallywith the outbreak of theirrevolution,which,unlike thatoftheAmericans,exhibitedahedonistic liberalityofwhichhedidnotapprove.

These attitudes, like

wealth and a somewhatprominent nose, he hadhanded down to his son.William Wentworth wouldnormallyhavefeltanaffinityforBritishnavalofficers.Butatthatmoment,hewasnotsosure.

Standing there on thatdusty road, wearing only aloose cotton shirt, rumpledfromhavingbeencrammedin

a sea chest and already wetfrom perspiration and quitewilted,wool socksandshoesthat had suffered much fromtheir seavoyage,anda strawhatsuchasaforemastjackora field hand might wear,Wentworthwasfeelingeverybit the Yankee DoodleDandy. For all the heat, theofficers under the trellis didnot seem to be in the least

discomforted, and theirwaistcoats and shirts werewhite and smooth as if freshfromthelaundry, thebuckleson their shoes glinted whenthe sunlight found themthroughthevinesoverhead.

Wentworth sighed. Therewasnothing for it.Hewouldhave to walk past them,secure in his knowledge thatin wealth, breeding, or

learning he was the equal ofany of them.He put his rifleoverhisshoulderandwalkedon, he shoes crunching overtheshellsunderfoot,thebirdsmakingweirdnoisesfromthecover of the thick andpungentvegetation.

Hecouldfeel theeyesonhimashewalkedpast,andhewas not entirely surprised tohear one of the officers call

out,“Isay!Youthere,Isay!”Wentworth stopped. He

could feel the color rising inhis face, felt the familiarsensation of growingresentment, of smolderingoffense. What would happenifhewasinsulted?InBostonthe answer would be asobviousashisreactionwouldbe swift. But here? Whatwould happen to him, or the

menoftheAbigail,ifhewereforced to call one of thesefellowsoutandputabulletinhim?

But there was no time tothink that through, to weighthe various possibilities.Oneofthesefellowshadcalledtohim, andhe couldnot ignorehim. He turned on his heel.Theywerealllookingathim,all four officers, three near

hisownageandoneadecadeormore older. It was one ofthe younger men who hadcalled out, and he was nowregarding Wentworth withconsiderableinterest.

“I say,” the naval officercontinued, his tone one ofsurprise and admiration.“Yourrifle,sir,isthataJoverandBelton?”

The question took

Wentworth full aback,completelydisarmedhim.Heapproached the men, handedthe weapon over for theirinspection. The fellow whohad called to him took it upwithrespect,helditatvariousanglestoadmireit,handeditofftohisfellowofficers,theninsisted that Wentworth jointheminadrink.

Theshadewasablessing,

a soft breeze had come up.The wine, which wasMadeira, was actually cool,made so through anevaporative process that theofficers explained toWentworth as they opened asecond bottle. The officerwho had first called toWentworth introducedhimselfasLieutenantThomasChandler, fourth officer

aboard the seventy-fourWarrior, Sir James Wallacecommanding, the very shipabout which Wentworth hadbeen asking Jack. Chandlertold Wentworth that heowneda fowlerbyJoverandBeltonandabraceofpistols,and he recognized thecraftsmanship rightoff.Theydiscussed the merits of theguns for a few animated

moments, with theenthusiasm of the trueaficionado,thesortthatthoseoutside the club find hard tofathom.

The older man, who wassecond aboardWarrior, said,“We were about to have abite, cheese and fruit andcakes, nothing extraordinary,butwewouldbemostpleasedwasyoutojoinus.”

“Delighted, sir, thankyou,” Wentworth said. Thethoughtoffreshfruitandnewcompany, enjoyablecompany, was powerfullycompelling. He sipped hisMadeira, sweet and cool. Hetook the ridiculous straw hatfromhishead.

“Beastly hot, and onlygoingtogetworse,”theoldermanobserved.

“You are from thisAmerican merchantman, Ipresume?” Chandler said.“Must be,we haven’t seen anew face around here inweeks,notuntilyousailedin.It’s tedious in the extreme,sitting out here, no one tolook at but these three. God,buttheirconversationcangetdull.”

“Dull,yousay?”saidone

of theofficers. “Ah,mydearChandler,youarealways thewhetstone to our dulldiscussions.By‘whetstone’ Imean to imply that you arecoarse, rough, and quiteunpolished.”

Wentworth wondered ifthiswas going to growmoreheated, how ugly it mightbecome,but thenhesawthatthis was simply how they

talkedwithoneanother,menso familiar with each other’scompany that theycould tossout insults of that nature andgive no offense. Wentworthhad seen that before, thoughhe had never personally hadsuchaconnectiontoanyone.

The food andmore drinkwerebroughtoutbyayoungblackman in bleachedwhiteslop trousers and shirt. The

second officer said, “So youwere in that action with thatcorvette,thatL’Armançon,orso goes the rumor flyingaround here. Pray, tell usmore.”

Wentworth could see themenleaningalittlecloser in,more interested now that thediscussion had turned to thetopic of their profession, andhe knew he was about to

disappoint them. “Forgiveme, gentlemen, I’m apassengeraboardAbigailandremarkably lacking inknowledge, even for alandsman,butI’llrelatewhatIcan.”

He started in, describingthe fight as best he could,fromtheirfirstsightingoftheFrenchmantotheirsailingoffwith the battered enemy in

theirwake.Theofficersaskeda few questions, butWentworth’s stumbling,partial answers discouragedthem from asking any morethat required expertise of amaritime nature. But hemanaged a crediblerecounting, suitably humble,of the part he played, firingfromthe“maintop,”savoringthe use of one of the few

nautical terms heremembered.

“Ho!” said one of theofficers, “you made a one-man contingent of marines!Welldone!”

“In a sea fight we willstation the marines in thetops,” Chandler explained,“tofireontheenemy’sdeck.Iwouldwecouldequipthemall with small arms from

JoverandBelton.”“JoverandBeltonornot,”

oneoftheotherssaid,“that’sa damned fine shot. And totakeoutthehelmsmanjustasthey were rising tacks andsheets, or so I gather fromyour description,well, I daresaythatwonthedayforyou.”

“Just like a Frenchman,ain’t it,” another observed,“to have but one man at the

wheelduringaseafight?”The others nodded.

Wentworth thanked them fortheirkindness.Hedidnottellthem about shooting the twohelmsmanwitha single shot.Hefearedtheywouldnotfindthat entirely credible, just asBiddlecombclearlyhadnot.

Wentworth’soriginalplantogoshootingwaslostinthelanguid, pleasant afternoon

andevening,eating,drinking,conversing, and Wentworthhad all but forgotten about itwhen Chandler asked, “Say,William, were you off for abit of hunting when I sorudelystoppedyou?”

“Yes, I suppose I was,”Wentworth said, recallingthose intentions like somelong-ago dream. One of theotherofficerssnorted.

“Bestof luck toyou.Notadamnedthingonthisislandworthshootingat.”

“Maybe we should stockthe hills with someFrenchmen,” anothersuggested.

Chandler, an avid hunter,had to second his fellowofficers, but he offered tomeetWentworththenextdayso that they might go

shooting together, anarrangement that Wentworthacceptedwithpleasure.

Wentworth was back onthequayjustaftersunrisethefollowingmorning,andasheapproachedthestonebarracksChandlerappeared,wearingawhitelinenshirtandstrawhatsimilar to Wentworth’s. Hehad no rifle or powder horn,which struck Wentworth as

odd, until two seamenappeared from the darkinterior behind him. Onecarried a rifle, powder horn,shotbag,andahaversackthatbulged with some unseencontents. The other carriedtwo haversacks, the strapscrossed over his chest, andsome other odd-shaped itembound in a cloth and restingonhisshoulder.

“William! Good morrow!Here, letmyman carry yourgun and such!” He took theriflefromWentworth’shandsand passed it to the seaman,who shouldered it beside thegunhealreadycarried.“Mindthat gun, Kipfer,” he said,“it’s a Jover and Belton,worthmorethanyou’llseeinwages and prize money thisyear,I’llwarrant.”

“Aye, sir,” Kipfer said,giving the weapon a lovingpat, and Wentworth thought,Thisnavalservice,thisseemsa damned fine, civilizedoccupation…

“Good man with guns,Kipfer,” Chandler said toWentworth. “Mine is aWilkinson, a decent gun, butyou’ve inspired me to bringthe Jover and Belton next

commission. Thigpen therehasourdinner,”hecontinued,nodding toward the secondman,“alongwithacoupleofbottles of a passableBordeaux. One of the fewbenefitsofbeing stationed inthe West Indies, you know.Surrounded by Frenchies.Theywon’t fight, damn theircowardly hides, but they’llselluswinequickenough.”

Chandler led the wayacross the dockyard, thenalong a narrow road that ranintotheinterioroftheisland,finally turning onto a paththat led up to the higherground.Heexplainedas theywent that there was virtuallynothing to hunt on Antiguasave for the feral goats, butthey could be quite wily, aswas their nature, and that

made them worthyadversaries.

They spent a few hourscircling up into the highercountry as the sun climbedaloftandthedaygrewhotter.Chandlerlocatedasmallherdof goats with his pockettelescope. Theyworked theirway to leeward of them, buttheherdspookedandran,andthey were another hour in

getting back up with them.Finally, from seventy-fiveyards, hidden by the scrubbybrush, they dropped tworespectable bucks, firingalmostsimultaneously.

They found theirvanquished quarry on a spotof hill that enjoyed anunparalleled view of dippingvalleys and the higher,scrubby green hills of

Antiguarisingandfallinglikeoceanswellstothenorth,theringofwhitebeach,thegreatspread of blue sea beyond.Nottheheavy,seriousblueofthe deep ocean but a lighter,more benign, warmer blue.Far below they could seeEnglishHarbourandthegreatbulk of the Warrior at hermoorings. With Chandler’sglass Wentworth could see

Abigail, now hove down andlistingatanunnaturalangle.

Chandler ordered Kipferto field dress the goats andThigpen to lay out dinner; itwaspast thedinnerhour andtheywereinasfineaspottodine as they could hope tofind. In the center ofThigpen’s bundle, it turnedout, was a ham, cheese, andthe Bordeaux. Plates, silver,

andglassesappearedfromhishaversack and soon the twoof them, Wentworth andChandler, were enjoying apleasant meal, which wasshared equally with thesailors, who ate somedistanceaway.

“Thisisquitethebusinessyou fellows are about, I daresay,” Chandler said, turninghiscarvingknifebackon the

ham. “It’s been all the talkaround the barracks, thoughthe dear Lord knows thoseoldwomenneedsomethingtotalkabout.”

“What business do youmean?”

“Why, this business ofarming your merchantman,puttingall thosegunsonher.There’s been quite a bit ofspeculation as to how much

hardmoney is being laid outforallofthat.”

“Hardmoney? Itwasmyunderstanding that thedockyard superintendent washelping of his own volition.That he was eager to helpanyonewhoplannedondoingviolencetotheFrench.”

Chandlerchuckledatthat.“Thatseemsdamnedunlikelyto me. Dockyard

superintendents are a corruptlot,butthisfellowherecouldteach a course at Oxford onhow it’sdone.Hecanbarelymove himself to help HisMajesty’s ships if there’s nogain in it forhim, letaloneaYankee,begyourpardon.”

Wentworth extended hispardonwithanod.

“No,” Chandlercontinued,“yourcaptainmust

havepaidhimwellforallthatmatériel, and the help, toboot. I wish we could getWarriorattendedtowiththatalacrity. Wallace—hecommands Warrior—Wallace won’t pay a sou toease things along, and sowesitandgroundoutonourbeefbones.”

“Indeed,” Wentworthsaid, taking a sip of the

Bordeaux, which was betterthan Chandler hadrepresented.Did Biddlecombbribe this dockyard cove? hewondered. He probablywouldhavenomoralqualmsabout doing so, nor didWentworth necessarily thinkhe should. But did he havethe ready money? Was itOxnard’smoney?

NotBiddlecomb…Frost,

herealized.Frostwastheonewho had arranged for thework at the dockyard, theguns,theadditionalcrew.

“But tellme,”Wentworthcontinued, feeling his wayalong,“surelyyoufellowsarenot adverse to our going outand tangling with thesedamnedFrenchmen?”

“Never in life,” Chandlersaid. “But … and I say this

because I know you are apassenger, and thus none ofthis is your doing… butwethinkyou’remadtotryit.”

“Mad?Why?”“Well,becausetheFrench

ships here, the privateers orwhoever you might meet,they are heavily armed andwell manned. ThisL’Armançonisaman-of-war,byGod,andyouarenot.She

will certainly be on thelookoutforyou.Sure,Ican’tsayIholdtheFrenchnavyinanyhighesteem…they’readamnedsightbetterthantheywereafewyearsago,butstillthey are a bloody floatingcircus … but thatnotwithstanding,theyarestillanavyship,doyousee?Andyouamerchantman.”

“Certainly,” Wentworth

said,notsure ifheshouldbefeeling a wounded nationalpride, “but pray don’t forgetwebeatthembefore.”

“You escaped before. Ifyou had beat them, theywould be floating in theharbor down there with theStars and Stripes waftingabovetheTricolor.No,itwassome damned fineseamanship from what I can

see,andsomeexcellentsmallarms fire…” Chandler raisedhis glass in salute andWentworth raised his inreturn.“Butifyoustanduptothem broadside to broadside,you’ll certainly lose.L’Armançon does not mountsix pounders, she mountstwelves,shehasacrewtwiceas large as yours, even withthese new hands you’re

getting. Her scantlings, thatis,thethicknessoftheplanksinhersides,andmuchgreaterthanyours.Yoursixpounderswilllikelybouncerightoff.”

“Oh,” Wentworth said,and could think of nothingmore. He did not knowenoughtocounterChandler’sargument, nor did henecessarily think Chandlerwaswrong.Duringthecourse

of their conversationsWentworth had learned thatChandler had been twelveyears intheRoyalNavy,hadfought pirates in theMediterranean and the WestIndies,hadfoughttheFrenchin the Channel andthroughout much of theAtlantic,hadtakenpartintheGlorious First of June.Chandler understood naval

affairs, and he had no causeto mislead Wentworth, atleast none that Wentworthcouldsee.

“So,” Wentworth said atlast,“whatwouldyouhaveusdo? Surely we’d be inconsiderable dangerventuringtoseawithoutthesenew guns, and men to manthem, what with the Frencheagerforrevenge.”

Chandler considered thequestion for a moment.“Probably the best thingwould have been to makeright for Barbados, beforeL’Armançon had a chance torefit,beforethestorywasout.Toolateforthat.IguesswasIthemaster,thatis,masterofa merchantman in thissituation,Iwouldthinkitbestto repair as quick as ever I

couldandgetunderway,notwaste time with all thisgunport nonsense. Speed andseamanshipwillsaveyou,notthose ridiculous sixpounders.”

“I see,” Wentworth said,and they fell silent, enjoyingtheview, theheatof thesun,therichsmellsoftheland.

“I’ll be honest with you,William,” Chandler said at

last. “I would wish youwouldn’t sail with the shipwhen she leaves. No goodwillcomeofit,Ifear.Iwouldsuggest you remain behind,but Iknowyouareamanofhonor, and staying behind isnot a thing that a man ofhonorwoulddo.”

“No,it’snot,”Wentworthagreed. But what, hewondered, what, in these

circumstances, would a manofhonordo?

23

If William Wentworth wasnot certain what a man ofhonor would do, he knewperfectly well what such a

man would not do. And thatwasironic,giventhathewasabouttodothatexactthing.

Itwassomethingtowhichhe had given considerablethought, several days ofagonizing internal argument,analysis, justification. It hadstarted as soon as hisdiscussionwithChandlerhadended, as soon asChandler’swords, delivered almost

offhandedly, began to turnover and roll about in hishead.

Ignorantashewasofsuchthings, he had taken Frost’swords, and Biddlecomb’s,concerning how best to dealwiththeFrenchmanasgospeltruth, had assumed that theirdecisions were wellconsidered. He had assumedthattheonlywayoutoftheir

predicamentwastofighttheirway out, because that waswhat Frost had said, and heassumed they had a goodchanceofwinning.Whyelsewould Frost andBiddlecombhavetakenthatcourse?

But of course they weremerchantmen, not navymen.Itwasadistinctionhehadnotreally appreciated beforemeeting Chandler and his

fellow officers. He saw nowitwaspossiblethatFrostandBiddlecomb did not knowone thing about a sea fight,theirhightalkbedamned.

When Abigail was hovedown, the men had movedashore, rather than try to liveaboardashipthatwasnearlyon her beam ends. Theforemast hands were housedin one of the stone barracks

built for ships’ companies,andtheofficersandFrostandWentworth tookupresidencein the same building thatChandlerandtheotherslived.It might have actually beenpleasant, living ashore on atropical island with tolerablydecent company, ifWentworth’smindwasnotsooccupied with ponderingwhat, exactly, was taking

place.He watched closely. Not

theworkontheshipsomuch.He was impressed with theprocessofheavingherdown,but beyond that he did notreally understand what wastaking place, or particularlycare. Being at sea was onething. The storm wasrevitalizing like nothing hehad ever experienced, the

fightwiththeFrenchmanwasto dueling what the sun wastothemoon,butthiswasjustlaboranditboredhim.

Instead, he watchedBiddlecomb and Frostclosely, watched theirinteractions, made note ofwhowastakingresponsibilityforwhat.Hedinedwiththem,kept quiet, observed andlistened.Whenitcametothe

ship, there was no questionthat Biddlecomb was incommand. He wore themantleofauthorityeasily,didnot agonize over decisionsbut concluded quickly howthings would be done, whenandbywhom.Ifthetalkwason fishing the mizzen orsistering a frameor adding adutchman to a strake orwhatever indecipherable

nonsense was underconsideration, BiddlecombsimplyinformedFrostofhowitwould be,with the ease ofrealcommand.

Frost, in turn, deferred toBiddlecomb on thesequestions, because, asWentworthatleastcouldsee,they did not really matter.Frost always appeared toacquiesce to Biddlecomb’s

orders; he was a master atthat ruse. But in truth, Frostwas the one making thedecisions of any importance,andBiddlecombdidnotseemtoquiteappreciatethatfact.

Forallhisbombast,Frostwas a subtle creature,Wentworthcouldseethat.Hedid not make decisions.Rather, he steeredBiddlecomb into making the

decisions that he, Frost,wished him to make.Mountingtheguns,takingontheadditionalcrew,preparingtheAbigailtofightherwaytoBarbados, WentworthwatchedasFrostmanipulatedBiddlecomb into comingaroundtohiswayofthinkingon all those matters.Wentworth listened and tooknoteasFrosteversocarefully

shifted the discussion fromprotecting the Abigail fromFrench privateers to fightingL’Armançononceagain,untilBiddlecombwas talkingas ifthat had been the plan allalong.

Damn the fishingand thesistering,Wentworththought,doing battle with theFrenchman, that’s thedecision that matters, and it

ain’tBiddlecombmakingit.Which led to the next

plaguing question: Why wasFrost doing this?Were thesereally Oxnard’s orders? Orwas Frost playing his owngame?Andinanycase,whatpossible reason could eitherman have to bring the fightbacktoL’Armançon?

It was two days after histalk with Chandler that the

idea for this dishonorablething,thisdisgracefulactthatviolated everythingWentworth believed to beright, first germinated in hisbrain, and it was Frost whoplantedtheseed.

Theirrooms,Wentworth’sandFrost’s,facedoneanotheracross a hall on the secondfloor in the stone building,andsotheywouldoftenmeet

there as they headed off fortheir breakfast or when theywereretiringfor theevening.“Ah, Mr. Wentworth!” Frostsaidonemorningatjustsucha meeting. “If you have notheard,thereisashipoutwardbound in a few days, if thewindwill serve, andwemaygetmailbacktotheStatesbyher.Soifyouhaveanylettersyou wish to send home, I

suggestyouwritethemnow.”Wentworth thanked him,

thoughtherewasnoonewithwhom he particularlywishedto correspond. But Frost’ssuggestion did get his mindmoving down yet anotherpath.IfFrostweretakingthisopportunity to write lettersback to America, he mightwell be corresponding withOxnard,mightwellbegiving

an explanation of theiractivities, particularly ifwhatever they were aboutwas something he andOxnardhadhitupontogether.

What that might be, hecould not imagine. OxnardwasaRepublican, anacolyteof Jefferson, proud of it, andvocal.Frostkepthispoliticalleanings to himself, butWentworthhadtakenpainsto

disparage Jefferson,republicanism, and theFrench at every opportunity,just for the amusement ofseeing Frost flare with angerandthenstruggletoholditincheck.He did not doubt thatFrost shared Oxnard’sinclinations. Why, then,would he wish to attack aman-of-war of their belovedRepublicofFrance?Andwhy

wouldOxnard risk losinghisship and cargo in a quixoticfight against a country heostensiblysupported?

“Oh, damn it all!”Wentworth said out loud,overtaken by frustration. Itwas entirely possible, likely,infact,thatsittingonCharlesFrost’s deskwas a letter thatwould reveal everything.Wentworth had only to wait

until the others were in thedockyard, which they wereevery day, then open thedoor, step in, read the letter,put it back, and leaveenlightened, and Frost nonetheworseforit.

It was so simple. And soutterlywrong.

Fortwodaysheagonizedover thequestion.This affairwasnoneofhisbusiness.But

—and this aspect bothsurprised and irritated him—he was coming to likeBiddlecomb, in part becauseBiddlecomb was sounabashedly rude to him.Noonehadeverreallybeenrudeto him before. No one haddared. The power andinfluence his family wieldedand his own prowess withsword and pistol had always

meant people treated himwith deference, feigned as itmightbe.

Biddlecomb, however,was not impressed andWilliam found that amusing.And he did not care to seeBiddlecomb led by the noseby the likesofFrost.Butdidthat justify so base anintrusion into a man’sprivacy?Andifhewasfound

out,howcouldhetoleratethehumiliation?

Then,atdinner,ashewasindulging in his third orfourth glass of wine (he hadquite lost track), Frost raisedhis glass and said, in thatboisterous hail-fellow-well-met manner that annoyedWentworth in the extreme,“Tomorrow the first of theguns goes back aboard and

soon we shall be teachingJean Crapeau a new tune todanceto!”Biddlecombraisedhis glass aswell, smiled, notnearly as broad a smile asFrost wore, and Wentworth,through the fog ofwine, grithis teeth and thought, Well,damn this fellow, let us seewhat you arewriting, and towhom,shallwe?

The next morning his

head had cleared but hisresolve had not wavered,much. He breakfasted withthe others as he usually did,wandered down to the quayas he usually did, thenwandered back toward thebarracks as he often did. Hesteppedthroughthedoorintothe cool interior of the stonebuilding, but his hands wereslick with sweat and

trembling slightly, hisstomach churning, and hethoughthemightvomit.

I ambloody afraid… hethought, and the realizationsurprised him. Physicaldanger would not bring onthis reaction, but now hishonorwasatstake.

Wentworth climbed thestairs and to his surprisemetLucasHarwar coming down,

whichmadeWentworthstart.Theflushofguiltwasalreadyworking on his nerves, butHarwarseemednottonotice.The mate nodded, said,“Good morrow, Mr.Wentworth.Forgotmyknife,ifyoucanbelieveit!”Unlikethe lieutenants of theWarrior, the mates aboardAbigail tookanactivepart inthe labor of getting the ship

ready for sea, yet anotherreason, Wentworth thought,that this naval service wassuchacivilizedendeavor.

Wentworth returnedHarwar’snodbutdidnottrusthimself to speak, and onceHarwarwaspasthecontinuedon up the stairs. He pausedoutside his own door, readytoreachfor thehandle in themost innocent manner if he

heard anyone approach. Buthedidnot.Itwastenthirtyinthe morning and everyonewas occupied elsewhere, orshouldhavebeenatthattime.He let his heartbeat and hisbreathingsettle.

For a long time, tenminutes at least, he stood inthehallwayandlistened.Thefar-off sounds of menworking, the creaking of a

wagon,theoccasionallowingof one of the dockyard’soxen, the call of awild bird,all these thingscame in fromthedoorbelowstairs,butnota sound of anyoneapproaching.

Wentworth crossed thehall and rapped on Frost’sdoor, and realized as he didso that if Frostwas there, hehad concocted no reason for

knocking.Hismindracedforan excuse, his hands feltsweatier still, and just as hewas coming up with someweak question about whenthe ship carrying the postmightsailhe realized thatnoone had responded to theknock.

He knocked again, a bitlouder and bolder this time,but still there was no

response.Hewiped his palmon his breeches and grabbedthe doorknob. He felt amomentaryhopethatitwouldbe locked, that Frost’sprecaution might save himfrom this horribleconundrum. But it twistedeasily and the door poppedfreeofthejamb.

Wentworth pushed ithalfwayopen, tooka step in,

andcalledsoftly,“Mr.Frost?Are you here?” No soundgreeted him. He stepped allthe way into the room. Thedoorwas still open,he couldstill leave. If he was caughthe could still make somelegitimate-sounding excuseabout how he was simplyseekinghis fellowpassenger.He looked over at the smalltablenear thewindow.There

wasaquillstandinginaninkpotandapaperlyinginfrontof it, half written over.Wentworth closed the doorand it shut with the click.Nowhewascommitted.

Hesteppedquicklyacrosstheroomandsnatchedupthepaper. The window lookedout on the dusty road below.Wentworth leaned forwardand looked up and down the

road to see if anyone wasapproaching, then realizedthat, standing where he was,he could clearly be seen byanyone on the street below,and if thatanyonewasFrost,hewas done for.He steppedbackintotheshadow,cursinghimself, and thought, I ambloody bad at thisunderhanded sneaking aboutbusiness…

He held the letter at anangle to catch the lightcoming in from the window.My Dear Oxnard, it beganandWentworth felt a chargeof excitement, a sense ofsatisfactionathavingguessedsocorrectly.

Wentworth continued toread. This letter, you willnote, comes by way ofAntigua, and though it was

not our original intent toarriveat thisplace, andhowwe happened here I willrelate,allowmetosayfirstlythat our being here willgreatly facilitate our plans,and indeed I suspect willultimately render them anevenmoreprofoundsuccess.

Wentworth’s eyes movedquickly over thewords, eachsentence adding to his sense

of revelation.Hismouthwashanging open and he closedit. He finished the letter; itwas no more than halfwritten, and cryptic in theextreme, so that it couldarguably be construed ascompletely innocent. But itwas not, and forWentworth,who was right in the middleof the affair, there wascertainly enough to give him

a decent understanding ofwhatwasacting,ofthegamethat Frost and Oxnard wereplaying.

He started reading againfrom the beginning, readingmore slowly, feeling moreconfident that he was safefrom detection. He scouredthe words for any deeperhidden meaning, anyallusions or hints or double-

talk. So intentwas he on thewordsthathedidnothearthefootsteps on the woodenstairs until theywere at leasthalfway up the flight to thesecondfloor.

And then he heard them.Asoftstep,anoddcreak.Hefelt a rush of panic andunreality. He looked wildlyaround but his mind seemedto have gone dark like a

candlesnuffedout.Helookedat the letter in his hand,realized he had to be rid ofthat. He dropped it back onthe desk. He looked wildlyaround the room for someplacetohide.

No, no, stupid, stupid …out,getout!

He took two steps andcrossed the room and flungopen the door and realized

thatthatwasstupidaswell.Ifit had been anyone but Frosttheywouldhavewalkedrightpastandneverknownhewasinthere.

Too late, too damnedlate … He stepped out intothehall, tryingforallhewasworth to appear entirelyinnocent, a man exactlywhere he should be, doingwhat he should be doing.He

closed the door, turned, andfound himself face-to-facewithThomasChandler.

“Ah, William, there youare!”Chandlersaid.

“Yes … yes I was justreturning a book… a book.Frostlentittome.”

“I understand,” Chandlersaid in a tone that suggestedhedidnotunderstand.

He doesn’t know which

damned room is Frost’s andhe doesn’t care! Wentworthadmonished himself. Stupid,stupid…

“Well now that you’redone with your book, I wascoming to enquire if youmight be up for someshootingthisafternoon?

“Shooting?”“Yes, shooting. With

guns,yourecall.”

“Ah, yes, yes. Yes, Ishould be grateful for anydistraction,”Wentworthsaid.

“I dare say,” saidChandler. “Very good, then.Shall wemeet at, say, three,when this beastly heat is ontheebb?”

“Certainly,” Wentworthsaid.And itwas hot, beastlyhot. He could feel that hisshirt was quite soaked, the

sweat running down hisforehead and back, but theodorwasnotentirelythatofaheat-induced sweat.Wentworth could smell thefearonhimself.

It was clear Chandlercould see somethingwas notentirely right, but gentlemanthat he was, he did notinquire, but rather leftWentworth in thehallwith a

pleasant nod and, “I’ll seeyouatthree,then.”

Wentworth returned thenod and remained standinglong after Chandler’sfootsteps had reached thebottom of the stairs and heheard them move across thestone surface of the bottomfloor and out the door. Thefear was gone, the nervesdissipated. He had done the

deed, had not been caught.This dishonorable thing washissecretalone,andhecouldlive with that. Because whathe had learned could haveimplications far beyond thelivesofjustafewmen.

At length he spoke outloud, to himself. “And nowI’ll … do what?” he asked.Buthehadnoanswer.

***

If Jack Biddlecomb wasanything it was decisive. Hemade decisions quickly andhestuckwiththemandhedidnot second-guess himself.Sometimeshisdecisionswereright and sometimes theywere horribly, horriblywrong. But Jack did notwaverinthem.Untilnow.

Never in his life could

Jack Biddlecomb recall atime when he was moreaggravated, confused, andirritated than he was in theRoyal Navy dockyard inAntigua. He seemed to flyfrom rock-solid resolve towavering uncertainty on aminute-by-minute basis. Hehadfeltmoresureofhimselfand of the decision he wasmaking on the day he had

walked away from AmosWaverly and the City ofNewport, rejected his past,and turned his life 180degrees,thanhedidjustthen.Theheatwasnothelping,thedamnableheat.Hehadneverdonewellinheat.

Abigail was on an evenkeel once more, floatingalongside the quay, herwounded strakes now well

mended under his sharpscrutiny. That much he feltgood about, because therecould be no question thatrepairs, and repairs wellmade, were the right courseof action. But now he wasengaged in a discussionwiththe lead shipwright,whohadsuggested shifting thewindlass aft a few feet tomake for better clearance for

therecoiloftheforward-mostof thenewsixpounders, andthathadsethimoffagaininafrenzyofself-doubt.

He listened with half anearas themanhadexplainedthebenefitsanddownsidesofsuch a modification, butmostly Jack was thinkingabout the decision to mountthese additional guns in thefirst place, questioning the

wisdom of the whole thing.The bottom is sound now,perfectlysound,andcleanaswell, he thought. Mizzen’sfished and near as strong asnew…ifweweretojustrunforBarbados I’llwarrantwecould show our heels to anydamned Frenchman in ourwake…

And then, like a ghost insome Shakespearean drama,

there was Frost’s voice,whisperingabout thedangersof sailing off so lightlyarmed, of Oxnard’sdeterminationthatAbigailnotfallvictimtoanyFrenchman,privateerorman-of-war.

But if he did stand andfight,couldhewin?Againstaprivateer, perhaps, because aprivateerwouldnotbesobigand would not have much

stomach forahard fight.ButL’Armançon? What if theyencountered her once more?He was very aware of howmuchtheirlastencounterhadbeenacloserunthing,evenifFrostseemedtothinkitwasacomplete victory, and onethey could easily replicate.Wouldsixmoregunsandtwodozen more men make thatmuch of a difference? And

whatifhelost?Lord, this is my first

command!Whydoesmy firstcommand have to be sodamned complicated? It wasa themeofself-pityhefoundhimself returning to often.Why could he not have beenallowed to simply sail toBarbados, make a healthyprofit there, load up, andmake a healthy profit on the

return voyage, the way thecarrying trade was supposedtowork?Hedidnotthinkhiscareer would be a grandsuccess if his very first shipwas taken by a Frenchman-of-warwhilehewasengagedin some idiotic attempt toplayatnavalhero.

They’ll say, “Oh, he wasjust trying to emulate hisfather, you know … tired of

living in the old man’sshadow…” he thought,gettinghimselfwellbloodiedin his emotional self-flagellation.

“Very well, then,” Jacksaid to the shipwright, afterhalf hearing the man’ssuggestion. “Shift thewindlass,ifyouwish,butseeit’smountedatleastassecureas it is now. I won’t have it

tearingoutofthedeckoncealoadisputtoit.”

“Oh, never worry aboutthat, sir, it’llbeasgoodas itisnow.Better,I’llwarrant.”

Jack moved aft, left theman to his work, consideredthe others who were busycutting and finishing out thenew gunports, gettingeyebolts in place, narrowingthe main hatch to allow for

more room for the guns. Helooked toward the gangplankin time to see Wentworthmaking his way aboard andthought, Oh, my Lord, thisday just gets better andbetter!

He drifted farther aft, butit did no good. Wentworthdrifted aft with him, andwhileJackwastryingtolookas if he was not avoiding

Wentworth, Wentworth wastryingtolookasifhewasnotseeking Jack out. But Jackcould see that he was, andsure enough, it was not aminute later that Wentworthapproached him where hestood by the newly rebuilthelm.

“Captain, how are you,sir?” Wentworth said with aforcedcasualair.“All’swell,

Itrust?”“Wellenough,”Jacksaid.

“Andyou?Youaresurvivingthisheat,Ihope.”

“Ah, the heat … It’ssomething, to be sure. Can’tsayI’veeverexperiencedthelike.”

For a moment the twomen were silent, lookingforward at the work takingplacenear thebow, and Jack

thoughtthroughvariouswayshe might make his excusesand send Wentworth away.AtcertaintimeshemightfindWentworth amusing, but thiswas not one of them.Wentworth,however,stoppedhim by saying, “Captain, Iwonder if I might have awordwithyou?”

“Well,I’mquiteoccupiedhere,Mr.Wentworth…”

“Of course. And thiswon’ttakelong.Orperhapsitwill.Inanyevent,Iknowthisis really not my affair …but…it’saboutthisbusinessofarmingtheship.”

“Yes?” Jack said.He feltas if he had goneenguarde.Wentworthwasbroachingthevery subject over which hehad just been agonizing, andJackdidnotcareforit.

“Well, it’s simply… I’mnot entirely sure this is theright course of action. Areyou certain that fighting thisfellow is the best thing?TheBritish officers, you know,they’ve represented to methat they think the wholethingismad.”

“Yes, well, I generallydon’t turn to British navalofficers for advice,” Jack

said. “Mr. Frost and I havebeen over all of this, havethought it through. Surelyhe’s explained to you ourthinkinghere.”

“Explained to me? No,why would he?” Wentworthasked.

“You’re his assistant,aren’t you? Aren’t youassisting him on whateverbusiness he’s on in

Barbados?”Wentworth’s expression

was one of surprise, and thatin turn surprised Jack. “No,”Wentworth said, “I have norelationship with Mr. Frost.I’m bound to Barbados onfamily business. Actually, Ithinkmy fatherwanted tobeshedofmeforabit,butthat’sneither here nor there. No, IfirstmetMr.FrostattheCity

backinPhiladelphiawhenwewere waiting to board. Icertainly do not know himany more than you. Muchless,Iwouldimagine.”

“Indeed?” Jack said.Thistook him very much bysurprise, altered his entireunderstandingofthesituationaboard his own ship.He hadthought the two of them apair, confidants. But

apparentlynot.“That’s just the thing,”

Wentworth continued. “Idon’t know what Frost isabout, but it all seemsdamned odd. I mean, at firsthe seemed only interested indefending against privateers,buttohearhimnowheseemsdamnedeagertoseekoutandfight this L’Armançon again.Why,Iwonder?Andwhydid

Oxnard set him aboard,almost as if he wanted Frosttobecertainwe tangledwiththeFrenchies?”

“Is that how it seems?”Jackasked.“Becauseitseemsto me you know a bit morethanyouarelettingon.”

Wentworth appeared toflush at that, a slightreddeninginthecheeks,butitmight well have been the

beastly heat. “I am onlylooking at the facts,” heprotested. “You seem like aperfectly competent mariner,but doesn’t it strike you asoddthatafellowlikeOxnard,who is a radical Republicanto his very soul, would hirethe sonof awarherowho isso closely aligned with theAdams administration? Onewhois…what…buttwenty

yearsold?”A perfectly competent

mariner… Jack thought, butthosewerenotthewordsthatreallystruckhim.

“I thought you said youdidn’t know who my fatherwas.” Jack could feel theirritation rising now, he feltthose familiar danger signs.Concomitant with hisdecisiveness was a general

inability to control impulses,and that failing applied toventing anger as much as itdid to seekingpleasure.Bothtendencies often saw himstandingintodanger.

“Strictly speaking, Iexpressed surprise that youhad a father. But yes, ofcourse I know who yourfather is. Here you are, asailor from Rhode Island

named Biddlecomb, it tookno great leap of theimagination.”

“Then you will not besurprised to know that I amquite determined to take thisfight to the enemy. Thatshould take no great leap oftheimagination,either.”

He could hardly believethose words had come fromhis lips. If anyone else had

suggestedhewas eager for asea fight because he wasIsaac Biddlecomb’s son hewould have resented itbitterly, but here he had saidithimself.Butthisdiscussionwith Wentworth had servedone purpose; Jack was nowdetermined to fight and beatL’Armançon.Overthecourseof five minutes he had gonefrom maddening uncertainty

to granite-hard resolve.Becausethatwashowhewasmade.

“Iunderstandthatthissortof thing is in your blood,”Wentworth said, starting tosound a bit annoyed himself,“but I think you would dowelltoconsiderwhat’sgoingon here. The whole thingseemsdamnedoddtome.”

“See here, Wentworth, if

you don’t care to go intoharm’sway,youarecertainlywelcome to remainashore. Itshould be no difficulty tosecure some other sort ofpassagetoBarbados.”

Wentworth stood a littlestraighter, and with visibleeffort controlled hisexpression and tone. “What,pray, are you insinuating,sir?”

“Iaminsinuatingnothing.Iamsaying,simply, thatyouneednotsailwithus…”Jackknew that he should stopthere, keep his lips clampedshut, leave that suggestionhangingintheair,nottakeanugly situation and push itover the edge. But he couldnot resist, because that washow he was made, so headded,“…ifyouareafraid.”

With those four wordsWentworth’sentiredemeanorchanged. The conciliatory,hesitantqualitywasgone,andin its place was the fullarrogance and pride of theBostonWentworths.

“No one,” he said, hisvoice icy, “not you, Captain,noone,willsuggestthatIamafraid.Iwillthankyouforanapology, or I will thank you

forsatisfaction.”“Iwill certainly give you

satisfaction, sir, but you willnot thank me for it, dependupon it,” Jack said, andthough he had no qualmsabout fighting Wentworth,none at all, he didwonder ifhe might have handled thatsituationawholelotbetter.

24

OntheeveningfollowinghisinterviewwithJonathanNess,Ezra Rumstick called on hisdearfriendIsaacBiddlecomb.

They did not have theopportunity to see oneanother as much as eitherman might have liked, buttheirs was the sort offriendship that would notsuffer because of it. Theycouldsitbyafire,orbyabaywindow overlooking thestreet, drinks in hand, andtheirconversationwouldtakeup as if they had been apart

only long enough for one ofthemtousethenecessary.

“Well, Isaac,” Ezra said,settling himself in a heavyupholstered chair in Isaac’sparlor. Isaac sat in its mate,and between them stood thegamingtable,whichnowhelda decanter and glasses ratherthan cards or dice. “You arein the vortex of power now,howdoesitfeel?”

“Ha!” said Isaac, fillingthe glasses. “Exhausting.Sessions, committees, salons,dear Lord it never ends. Thebickering, I’d like to knockthemallontheirheads.”

“Commandingashipain’tthe best way to learn tonavigate these waters, Ireckon,” Ezra said. “Not agreatdealofnegotiatingand,‘If you please, sir,’ when

you’re on your ownquarterdeck.”Hepickedupaglassandtookasip.

“You’vehititrightonthehead,” Isaac agreed. “Amangetsusedtoorderingotherstodo this or that, gets used tothenotionthatthere’snooneof equal rank aboard, no onewhose sensitivities must beconsidered. Even thosefellows who served in the

army,andthere’squiteafewof them in Congress, as youknow, they are moreaccustomed to havingsuperiorsaround,noneof theautonomyof a ship’smaster.I think they have an easiertimeofitthanme.”

“I would imagine,” Ezraagreed.Theyweresilentforaminute, enjoying the drinksandthecompany.

“Itellyou,Ezra,itwassowonderfully simple duringthe war. You knew who theenemy was, at least once hefired thefirstshot.Now,youhave no notion of who theenemy is.Evenafterhe slipstheknifeinyourback.”

“‘Wonderfully simpleduring the war,’ is it? Yourmemory is going in your oldage.”

Isaac smiled. “You’reright.You’reright.”

More silence. Moredrinking. “Haveyouhad anywordfromJack,atall?”Ezrasaid at last,working hiswayaround to the real reason forhis visit, beyond a genuinedesiretoseeanoldfriendandshipmate.

“No, no,” Isaac saidwithsomething approaching a

sigh. “It’s rare that hewriteswhenhe’sabroad.IsupposeIcouldgoaroundtoOxnard’s,see if he has had word, butOxnard’sanotheroneI’dliketo knock on the head, and Ihardlytrustmyselfaroundtheman.”

“He’s a rascalof the firstorder, to be sure,” Ezra said.“So, no word if the voyagewas uneventful?Nasty storm

a fewweeks ago, they likelyfeltthat.”

“No doubt. But whateverJacklacksinjudgmentashorehe makes up for inseamanshipwhenhe’safloat,and then some. Abigail’s agoodshipandJackshippedagood crew, so I have noconcernsonthatfront.”

More silence. Moredrinking.

“Actually,” Isaac said atlast, “now that you mentionJack, it reminds me of aparticularly odd letter Ireceived … Lord … severalweeks ago now. Iwas goingto mention it to you, but Iquite forgot the last time wewere together. It was fromAlexander Hamilton, of allpeople.”

“Another rascal,” Ezra

said, “but at least he is aFederalistrascal.”

“Just so. Did you evermeethim?”

“I’ve had the pleasure, ifsuchitis,”Ezrasaid.“Afewtimes. I’m not certain hewould remember me. Haveyou?”

“Oh, yes,” Isaac said.“We’ve met several times,corresponded on and off.

He’s ostensibly in privatepractice,youknow,butwhenit comes to politics he’s likean octopus, has his tentacleswrapped around everything.Adams can’t abide the man,but if one is in government,asIam,youcanhardlyavoidhim.”

“So … what was thisletterabout?”Ezraasked.

“It was about Jack, not

what I expected. A warningthat Oxnard was not to betrusted,thatheshouldn’ttakecommand of Oxnard’s ship.Said it might even be adangertohim,hintedatsomeintrigue. Damned odd. Howhe happened to know aboutJack getting the Abigail, orwhy he would care, I can’timagine.”

“Hamilton has people

everywhere, and they makecertain he knows what’sacting. No doubt Hamiltonkeeps abreast of a politicalenemysuchasOxnard.”

“Nodoubt,”Isaacagreed.“But how Jack and theAbigail could play a part inanyof that Ican’t imagine. Imean, I’m delighted that myson has his first command,and a good little ship she is,

but she’s still just aninnocuousmerchantman.”

“True,” Rumstick said,not entirely sure whatinnocuous meant. Just amerchantman … he thought,butOxnardsawtoitshewasamerchantmanwithguns.Hewondered if that might havesomerelevance.

“Anyway,Ineverdidpassthe warning to Jack,” Isaac

continued.“Theletterarriveda few days after Abigail setsail.”

The two men fell silentagain, but Ezra’s mind wasracing. He considered tellingIsaac about Bolingbroke andtheduel,but sawnopoint. Itwas over, Isaac did not needtheworryitwouldcause,andEzra had every intention offinishing the business in

whatever way it neededfinishing.

“These fellows, theofficers in Adams’sadministration, they aremostof them holdovers fromWashington, are they not?”Ezra asked, his thoughtssettinganewcourse.

“Theyare,”Isaacsaid.“And so Iwould imagine

Hamiltonhadahand in their

selection.Hemightstillhavesomeinfluenceoverthem.”

“Might? Surely does, Iwould think. Wolcott of theTreasury and McHenry inparticular are acolytes ofHamilton. He may wellcontrol them like puppets,and you can be sure thatwon’t be to PresidentAdams’sbenefit.”

“No…” Rumstick said,

his mind continuing downthisnewlineofthinking.Buthe was being rude, and heknewit.Hewastheretovisithis friend, so he turned toIsaac and said, “Now, pray,give me all the gossip aboutprogresswiththenavy.”Withthat he could see in Isaac arenewed enthusiasm. He satup a little straighter andlaunched into a subject of

which he was genuinelyknowledgeable, genuinelypassionate.

And Ezra listened,nodded, even made the oddcomment, but his mind waselsewhere, on Hamilton,Oxnard, a battery of sixpounders.

***

Jack Biddlecomb was

thinking about his father. Itwas early, dawn was still anhour away, and he waswashinghis face in thebasinon the sideboard, pulling onhis shirt and breeches, andthinkingabouthisfather.Anybusiness that involved asword made him think ofIsaac. In his mind theconnection was organic,swords and his father

indivisible.Jack’s grandfather, John

Biddlecomb, had been asoldier. Jack never met him.His father hardly knew him.John Biddlecomb diedfighting with Wolfe inQuebec in ’59. Isaac waseleven then. He hadaccompanied his father toCanada,hadbeenbesidehimwhenhedied.

In those earlier years ofhis father’schildhood,on thelittle farm they owned inBristol, Rhode Island, Johnhad taught young Isaac theuse of weapons, had laboredto pass on skills he himselfhadgained throughharduse.Isaacprovedtohaveamodestability with musket andpistol,andatbestamoderateinterest in them. But the

swordwasadifferentmatter.Young Isaac had felt an

affinityforsteelandshownaconcomitant skill with ablade. John Biddlecombrecognized this, encouragedit, worked Isaac throughvarious drills with swordscarvedfromoakbarrelstaves.And when Isaac had skillenough that he could betrusted to wield a blade in

practice without being adanger to himself or hisinstructor, John switched toshort swords with the pointsdulled and corked. After aparticularly prosperous year,Jack’s grandfather hadordered a pair of the newlyfashionable foils fromLondon,theirtipsnail-headedandblunt, steel of suchgoodqualitythattheweaponswere

still in use at ChezBiddlecomb.

All these things Jackrememberedashe tuckedhisshirt into his breeches. Helookedathiscoatdrapedoverthe back of a chair anddecided against putting it on.It was alreadywarm, and hewouldonlyhavetotakeitoffagainforthefight.

Instead, he picked up the

swordandbeltthatlayonthebed and drew the weaponfrom the scabbard, let thelight of the candle play offthelovelypolishedsteel.Thesword had been a gift fromhis father for his sixteenthbirthday, thoughhehadbeennearly seventeen by the timehe made it back from hisvarious voyages to thefamily’s home to be

presentedwith it.He and hisfatherhadbeenfencingsinceJackwasfiveandoldenoughto hold his own oak-stavesword.

Jack held the swordstraight out, felt the weightand balance in his hand, theexcellent grip. Beautiful,beautiful.He thoughtback tothose summer days fencingonthelawnatStantonHouse,

or in the big parlor with thefurniture pushed aside. Thepast six or seven years hadnot been good between himand theoldman.Jacksethisowncourse,andhisfatherdidnot approve. Jack wasimpetuous, often actedwithout thinking, and heknewit,andhisfatherdidnotapprove.Jackrejectedallthathe had grown up with: the

money, the Biddlecombname,theprivilegethatcamewith having a famous father,andIsaacdidnotapprove.

But those early days hadbeengood.ThosedayswhenJackwasyoungandhisfatherhad come home from sea toremainashoreandJackcouldrevel in the way other menlooked at his father, therespect and even awe with

which they regardedhim.HehadshownJack thebasicsoffencing and the two of themhad gone at it, woodenswords and then foilsflashing,clattering,until theyhadcollapsedwithexhaustionor laughter or both. Jack haddemonstrated all of Isaac’sinnateskillandthensome.

Isaac had even hired afencing master to visit their

home and bring theinstructiontoanewlevel,andtogether, fatherandson, theyhad practiced the drills, thefootwork, the blade work,under the sharp eye andlisping instruction of SirWilliam Wilde, FencingMaster to the Aristocracy. ItwasonlyyearslaterthatJackcame to understand that the“Sir” was as phony as the

man’s credentials, but for allthat, heknew fencing andheknew how to instruct and heleft the Biddlecombs muchbetter off, swordplaywise,thanhehadfoundthem.

His father had made thatvery point about Wilde’sgood influence on that Juneday, in Jack’s eleventh year,when Jack for the first timehad defeated his father’s

blade decisively, had struckIsaac in the chest with aflawless lunge that bent thesteel in a lovely arc and lefthis father gasping andlooking down at that perfecthit. Had it been a sword,uncorked, and not the foil,Isaac would have been deadalready.

Jack stepped back andlowered the weapon, as

surprised as Isaac had been.Isaac took two steps towardhim, put his arm aroundJack’s shoulder, andsqueezed. “Well done, son,welldone!”hesaid.“You’vebestedtheoldmanatlast!”

Jackdidnotknowwhattosay.Henoddedinagreement.

“See,” Isaac said, “I onlyhadmy father to instructme,and only for a short time. I

picked up what I could butnever had the benefit of theregular instruction you’veenjoyed. And that’s as itshould be, because theBiddlecombshaveadifferentplaceinsocietynow.”

It was the same with thesailing. More so, becauseIsaac needed no outsideinstructor to help him teachhis boy about the ways of

wind and water, tides,currents, rudder, sails. TheBiddlecombs seemed toaccumulatewatercraft so fastJack’s mother would jokeabout the boats breeding inthe spring. Canoes, rowingboats, punts, bateaux, boatswith sailing rigs, smallsloops, they all seemed tofind their way to theBiddlecomb dock, or upside

down in the yard, or shovedinto one of the outbuildings.There was never a dearth ofboatstosail,andneverawantof enthusiasm for sailingthem.

If Jack loved fencing, hewasmad about sailing.Fromhis earliest days he and hisfather would be out onNarragansett Bay, tackingandjibing,running,reaching,

sailing the rail under one oranother of the boats. Indeed,Jack’s earliest memory wasofsittinginthebilgeofsomeboat—he could not recallwhich—his bottom wet withthewatersloshingaroundandlooking up at his father,smiling, his eyes movingfrom the sail to the bow, towindward, to leeward. Asailor’s eye, a weather eye.

He had loved his father soprofoundlyatthatmoment.

Year by year, boat byboat,Jacklearnedthewaysofwind and sea. By the age ofninehewastakinghisparentsandsiblingsoutonthewater,insisting they werepassengers,nomore,insistingthat every aspect of handlingthe boat was his alone. Andhedid it,did itwell,brought

them to where they werebound, whether it was apicnic on Hog Island orPrudence Island, or a rundown to Newport. “CaptainJack,”hismothercalledhim,to his secret delight, or, “mysweet little sailor-boy,” withwhichhewaslessthrilled.

The thrust-to-the-chestmoment in Jack and Isaac’ssailing life came when Jack

was still ten. It came on anAugust day, a perfect day, ifperhaps a bit lighter of windthantheymighthavewished.His father had acquired twoidenticalboatsfromwhatevermagic place boats seemed tomaterialize, twelve-foot jollyboats with lug rigs, and heand Jack had taken to racingthem in Bristol Bay or outbetweenPrudence Island and

PappasquashPoint.Theyhadbeenatitformonths,atleastseveral times a week, andJackhadlovedeverybitofit;it was companionship withhis father and command ofhis own vessel, diminutivethough it might be, all atonce.

But when it came toracing,hedidnotwin.Forallhis concentration, for all the

minute sail trim and delicatehand on the tiller, he couldnot coax more speed out ofhisboatthanhisfathercould,regardless of the conditions,andIsaacwouldgiveagood-natured laugh as his boatglided over whateverimaginaryfinishlinetheyhadagreedupon,aboatlengthormoreaheadofJack.AndJackwould try to tamp down his

frustration.It was different on that

dayinAugust.Itdidnotstartoutdifferent,not inanyway.Theyhadcrossedthestartingline on starboard tack andperfectlyeven,butdespitethelight winds favoring Jack,whoweighedhalfofwhathisfather did, Isaac was able toinchhisboat toweatheruntilhe had half a boat length on

him. And then a full boatlength, anddrawingaheadasthey worked their nimblewhite craft to weather, tackon tack, like cavalrymenfighting on horseback,jockeyingforposition.

Jackhadtackedaroundtolarboard, hoping to creep upon his father, but Isaac hadtacked above him, coveringhim, giving him no room to

pass. Isaac handled his boatthe way a master violinisthandled his instrument, andhesacrificednotaninchwitheverytackhemade,andJackcouldonlytrytoemulatethat.

Jack’s eyes wereeverywhere; to weather, tolee, on the sails, on hisfather’s boat, on his course.Thatwashisfather’straining.AndsoJackdidnotmiss the

cat’s paw of wind comingfrom the west, the telltaleruffle of water as the smallgust approached. He waitedfor his father to tack around,topickup the lift thatwouldcome with the breeze beforeJack did. But he didn’t.Happy with his lead, Isaacmaintained course and speedasJackswunghis tiller inanarc, set the sail flapping

throughthewind.He caught a glimpse of

Isaaclookingbackinsurpriseas the cat’s paw envelopedhisson’sboat,heeleditover,set the water gurgling downits side. Jack leaned toweather to hold the boatstraighter and felt the littleburst of speed. A second ortwolater thecat’spawfoundIsaac’s boat, but it was too

late. Jack had head reachedon him, tacked to cover, andtwo minutes after that hecrossed the line they hadagreed upon, betweenProvidence Point and the oldbattery, his father trailingastern.

Isaac luffed up besidehim, his arm raised incongratulations. “Well done,Jack,welldone!”hesaid,and

therewasgenuineprideinhisvoice,andatouchofsadnessaswell.Jackwassurprisedbythe sadness, because heimagined it was a sadnessborn of losing, and he hadthought his father a biggerman than that. But when herelated the story to hismother, she had put her armaround him and said, “Ofcourse your father was sad.

Notaboutlosing.Aboutwhatit means. Which is that youaregrowingup.”

All this Jack thoughtabout as he dressed, suchreminiscingarareindulgencefor him, until he wasinterruptedbyOliverTucker,who tapped lightly on thedoor and said, “We best begoing,sir.”

“Very good,” Jack said.

He buckled the sword beltaroundhiswaist,adjustedtheway the weapon hung, thenblew out the candle, and inthe gathering light of dawnfollowed Tucker, his second,down the stairs and out ontotheroad.

They walked toward thequay, then Tucker led theway to a wide path that ranoff in theotherdirection and

Biddlecomb followed.“Tucker,” Jack said after afew minutes of walkingthrough the thick forest, “doyouhaveanynotionofwhereyouaregoing?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I met withMr.Wentworth’s second andweagreedtothisplace.”

“Very thorough, asusual,” Jack said. If he waskilled, Tucker would take

command of Abigail. Jackwondered if he would bepleased with that, andguessed he probably wouldnot.Tuckerwasagoodmate,but Jack did not think hecould find Barbados if therewas a trail of breadcrumbsfloatingonthesea.

At last the forest openedout into a clearing, a wide-open area with short grass

that ran down to a sandybeach and the ocean beyond.They were on the south sideof the island and the heightstothewesthadtheplacestillin deep shadows. But Jackwas certain they were wherethey should be, becauseWentworthwastherewithhissecond, and Lucas Harwarand John Burgess and NoahMaguire and most of the

other Abigails, as well asmost of the officers of theWarrior and several of thesenior dockyard officials,entertainment being hard tocomebyonthatisland.

Jacktookhisplaceontheopen ground thirty feet fromWentworth. Wentworth’ssecond, he saw, was theBritish officer, Chandler,which was no surprise. The

onlyAmericansontheislandwere the Abigails, whocertainlywould not second amanwhowished to run theircaptainthrough.

It was warm but not hot,and the light was growingwith each passing minute. Itwas a perfect morning for aduel.And then the calmwasruined by the booming,familiar,unwelcomevoiceof

Charles Frost, pushing hisway through the crowd ofonlookers.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,pray, stop thismadness,” hissaid, his tone somewherebetween a command and aplea. “Captain Biddlecomb,killingyourpassengersisnotreallythething,youknow.Itwill not do your career anygood.”

“Mr. Frost, please do notinterfere in this,” Jack said,his exasperation unchecked.Frost turned in the otherdirection.

“Mr. Wentworth, pleaseseereason,ifanyharmcomesto Captain Biddlecomb wewillneverreachBarbados!”

Before Wentworth couldreply, Lieutenant Chandlerbroke away and crossed the

ground towhere Frost stood.Hespokelow,Jackcouldnothear what he said, but therewasnomistakingtheforcefuland unequivocal manner inwhich he addressed the bigman.Frost listened, frowned,but then he turned andstamped back to join theothers.

Jackunbuckledhisswordbelt, drew the blade and

handedittoTucker,whotookit awkwardly. “Ah, andwhatam I to do with this,Captain?” Tucker asked. Hedidnothavemuchexperiencewiththissortofthing.

“Wentworth’ssecondwillmeetyouthere,”Jacknoddedtoaspothalfwaybetweenthemen, “and he’ll haveWentworth’s sword and thetwo of you will see that

there’s no great difference inthe weapons, length oranythinglikethat.”

“Oh, I see,” Tucker said.He took the sword andwalked away and Chandlermethim in themiddleof thespace. They exchangedswordsandlookedthemover,thoughBiddlecombsuspectedTucker had no idea of whathewaslookingfor.Thenboth

men turned and headedtowardhim.

“Good morrow, CaptainBiddlecomb,” Chandler saidinhiscrispBritishway.

“Good morning,Lieutenant,” Biddlecombsaid.

“Mr.WentworthasksthatI relate to you that hewouldconsiderhonortobesatisfiedifyouweretomakeaprivate

apology to him,” Chandlersaid.

Biddlecomb thoughtaboutthat.Aprivateapology,not a public one.Wentworthwasmakingiteasyforhimtoget out of this fight if hewished,whichwouldsuggestthatWentworthwishedtogetout of the fight, which Jacktook to mean that he wasafraid. Ironically, just the

supposition that had led tothiswholebrouhaha.“No,sir,Idonotbelieveanapologyisowedbyme,”Jacksaid.

“Very well,” Chandlersaid. “That being the case,Mr. Wentworth asks if youwill agree to make this fighttofirstblood.”

First blood … Jackthought. Wentworth did notwant to fight to thedeath,or

untilsomegreatmischiefwasdone.Heisadamnedbloodycoward. But Jack consideredhimselfamercifulman,sohesaid, “Very well, then, firstblood.”

Chandler returned toWentworth’s side. Jackstretched his arms and legs,took a few practice lunges.He would not have killedWentworth in any case, he

was not one of those whotook pleasure in dispatchinghis fellowman.Duelingwasas addictive as drink, heknew, and while he did onoccasion wrestle with afondness for drink, duelingstillheldnogreat fascinationforhim.

A few moments later hesaw Wentworth steppingtoward the center of the

space, Chandler at his side,and he stepped forward aswell. “Come along, Tucker,”he prompted his first mateandTuckerhurriedafterhim.The four men met in themiddle of the clearing,surroundedbyahalfcircleofspectators thirty feet inland.Wentworth stood aboutfifteenfeetaway,holdinghissword easily at his side. A

beautifulweapon,justasJacksuspected it would be. Hecould just make out variousexotic inlays in the handguard, could see the mirrorfinishofthesteel.

ButhewasthinkingaboutWentworth, not his sword.Thinking about the firstmoment he had seen him,sitting so arrogantly at thetable in the great cabin,

assuming everything therewas his for the taking. Thishasbeenalongtimecoming,Jack thought, and he waspleased that themoment hadatlastarrived.

“Gentlemen,” Chandlersaid, nodding to each man.“This shall be a fight to firstblood. At the sight of firstblood the wounded man’ssecondwillraisehisarm,the

other second will cry out,“Strikeupyourswords!”andeach combatant willdisengage. They will remainintheenguardepositionuntilsuch time as it is affirmedthat first blood has beendrawn.Isthisacceptable?”

Jack nodded but he wasnot really listening. He waslooking hard at Wentworth,becauseabigpartofwinning

this sortof thingwas findingaweaknessonecouldexploit.He was looking for fear,looking for intimidation,hesitancy. But Wentworthwas looking back at him, hisface as expressionless as abust ofCaesar, and Jack hadto admit he did not lookafraid.

“Very well,” Chandlersaidnext. “Pray,eachofyou

stepbackafewpaces.Good.”He held up a handkerchief.“En guarde!” Jack took thefamiliar position, his bodyfolding into the stance withease, perfectly natural.Wentworthwentenguardeaswell, and even that littlemovement was done withfluidityandgrace.

Then Chandler droppedthe cloth. It fluttered to the

ground and its landing wasthe cue to begin. But neithermanrushedintothefight,andindeed ten seconds after thehandkerchiefhad settled theywerestill just inching towardone another, eyes focusedonblades, and arms, and theeyesoftheiropponent.

Jack took two smalladvances,extendedhisswordarmjustabit,probing.Hedid

notknowwhattoexpectfromWentworth,andnowwas thetimetogetthemeasureofhisopposite,nowwasthetimetopoke about for weaknessesthat could prove fatal.Metaphoricallyfatal.

Wentworth extended aswell, and now their bladeswere overlapping. Jackpressed down onWentworth’s blade, just

pushed it aside with theslightest pressure, andWentworth did not offer anysort of resistance. Jackpressed a bit more, movingWentworth’spointoutof theline of attack, leaving astraight shot in toWentworth’schest.Hetensedhis back leg. ReleaseWentworth’s blade, gostraight in,andhecouldgive

Wentworth a nice, deep cutacross the shoulder or armandendthisall.

He was poised to springwhenWentworthdroppedhisblade and the resistanceholding Jack’s in line wassuddenly gone. His bladeswung to the left asWentworth’s sword circledaround and came darting in,snake-fast,andJack,readyto

move forward, now had toleap back and try for anawkward,backhandparry.

He connected, knockedWentworth’sbladeaside,butWentworth circled again,came in again and Jackstepped back and parried, aprettier move, Jack havingrecoveredhiswitsabit.

They both came enguarde once more, and Jack

could see now thatWentworthwasnotafraid,hewas not uncertain, and whenitcametoswordplay,hewasvery,verygood.

25

Jack took a few steps backand lowered his sword. Notenough that he wasundefended, or looked as if

he was unready. He did notthink he could foolWentworth into making anattack by appearingunprepared.He justneededamoment to reassess, and heknew enough to marshal thestrength in his arm. Thismight take longer than hethought,andif therewasonething he knew aboutswordplay, itwas that itwas

damnedexhausting.Wentworth closed the

distance,justabit.Hissworddidnotdroporwaver, itwasheld in a textbookenguardestance, like a copperplatefrom Angelo’s L’École desarmes. The point was steadyat first, but as he neared itbegan to move a bit, up anddown,sidetoside,inthewaya snake might entrance its

prey. But Jack was notentranced. He letWentworthcome on, and then swept hisownswordup,beattheblade,made a lunge at Wentworth.It was not a lunge meant tostrike, but rather to sendWentworthback,tothrowhisbalance off for just thatinstant.

And it worked.Wentworth parried, stepped

back, was still regaining hisstancewhenJackmadeupthedistance, likeacatpouncing.He could see the surprise inWentworth’s face when hesaw Jack coming, followingupon the lungewithnever apause.ThenitwasJack’sturntobesurprisedasWentworthknocked Jack’s thrust aside,stepped closer and swung atJack’s head with the hand

guardofhissword.Jack jerkedhisheadback

and felt the metal scrapealong his cheek. He leaptback, touched thecheekwithhis left hand but his fingerscame away clean, no blood.The swing had putWentworth off balance,which Jack exploited,stepping in fast, thrusting,meeting Wentworth’s blade,

disengaging, thrusting.Wentworthsteppedbackonceand he stepped back again,pushed along by the ferocityof Jack’soffensive.HemadenocounterattackbecauseJackwould not let him, and themost that he could do wasback away and continue toturnJack’sbladeaside.

Step for step they went,Wentworth backing away

from Jack’s flashing sword,working his own like it wasthe bow of a violin, theactions quick, precise, theangle perfectly gauged tokeep the wicked point ofJack’s weapon from gettingpast the arc of Wentworth’sdefense.

And then Jack saw whatWentworth was about. Theman was fast, damned fast.

He could do this all day, letJackwearhimselfdownwiththis brutal attack, keepturning his blade aside untilJack could no longer lift hisarm. Already he could feelhimself tiring. Anyswordsman Jack had everfought before would havebeen bleeding by now, butWentworthseemed to justbeworkingupasweat.

So Jack stopped. He lethis arm fall and turned hisback on Wentworth andwalked off to the spotwherehehadstarted theattack.Hisears strained to hear anysound of movement behind.His eyes were locked on thefaces of the men watching,because if Wentworth cameat him Jack knew he wouldsee it there. Five, six, seven

paces and then he heard thelightcrunchoffeetongravel,saw the spectators clench asthey braced for the sight ofWentworth running Jackthrough, and he spun on hisheel and his sword came upandsweptacrosshischest inagreatarc.

He could see Wentworthwasnot trying to stabhim inthebackbutrathersmackhim

withtheflatofhissword,gethis attention. Still, Jack hitWentworth’s blade as it wascoming at him, not a subtleparry but an ugly blow,wielding his weapon morelike a cutlass than a finesword. He knockedWentworth’s blade aside,turning Wentworth’s fineforward momentum into astumbling mess. Wentworth

was too close for Jack tothrust with his sword andfinish it, but Wentworth’sface was there, right there,and Jack punched him withthe handgrip of his weaponjust as Wentworth had donetohim.

Wentworth staggeredagain, straightened, steppedback quickly,weapon raised,ready for Jack to come at

him,butJackheldhisground.Wentworth reached up withhishandandtouchedhisfacewhereJackhadpunchedhim,the mirror image of Jack’smotion, checked hisfingertipsforblood.Buttherewasnothing.Jack’sblowhadnot broken the skin. Honorwasnotsatisfied.

Jack looked up atWentworth, looked in his

eyes, trying to guess at theman’snextmove.Wentworthmethisgazeanddid theonething Jack would not haveexpected:hesmiled.

Itwasnotanangrygrinorthemanic smileofamanseton killing his opponent. Itwas a friendly smile, a “welldone!”sortofsmile,andJackfound it at once confusingand annoying.He hadmeant

to draw first blood with aninsubstantial scratch, but ifWentworth was going tocontinue in this insufferablewayhemighthavetoendtheaffair by delivering a morememorablewound.

Jack came en guarde,advanced with sword in thefourth position, ready to bedone with this. He made ahalfhearted lunge, let

Wentworth parry, made acircle with his blade, andwentinforthekill,oneofhisbest moves, one that almostalways found its target, butthis timeit foundonlyair,asWentworth stepped easilyback.

Then it wasWentworth’sturn. There was no smile onhis face as he advanced, ashis blade came straight,

defeated Jack’s parry, cameagain and again.Now itwasJack backing away, turningWentworth’s thrusts aside.He heard a murmur runningthrough the spectators, wascertain he heard one of theBritishofficerssaysomethingabout “five pounds on thisWentworth fellow…” but heheard no more and had nomore time to think on it.

Thrust, parry, repost, parry,lunge, they moved along theground,thegrassandthesodbelow their feet uneven anddifficult to walk on, nofencing salon or the well-manicured lawn of StantonHouse.

Jack’s eyes flicked fromWentworth’s sword to hisface, just a glimpse, but hesaw what he hoped to see;

frustration, sweat. Jack’s armwas starting to ache, hisbreath was coming harder,but he could feel thatWentworth’s actions wereslowing, his responses moredull. Wentworth thought hecouldendthiswithadecisiveattack,butlikeJackbeforehehad succeeded only in tiringhimself.

Now, now is mymoment,

Jackthought.Wentworthwasnotreactingwiththepanacheof five minutes before,because five minutes of thissortofintenseback-and-forthwas enough to tire even a fitman. Jack let Wentworthcomeon, lethisowndefenseslow, let Wentworth’s bladegetcloser,lethisownparriesbecome more awkward. Andthen,asWentworthparriedin

the fifth position, lunged forJack’s chest, Jack took thebladewith his own, forced itfrom the line of attack, andpushed off hard with his leftfoot, right arm firing off likean arrow from a longbow,and he saw the point of hisblade pierce the loose whitesleeveofWentworth’scottonshirt.

Chandler, standing just to

the side, raised his arm,paused a moment, thencalled, “Strike up yourswords!”becauseTuckerhadcompletely forgottenwhathewassupposedtosay.JacklethissworddroptohissideandWentworth did as well andthough they were bothsupposedtoremainenguardetheywerebothfartoowindedtoresistthechancetorest.

“HasCaptainBiddlecombdrawn first blood?”Chandlerasked. Biddlecomb’s eyeswere on the rent sleeve. Hewas looking for the telltalebloom of red on the whiteclothbuthedidnotseeit.

“I believe not,”Wentworth said. He handedhis sword to Chandler androlledthesleeveuptobeyondthe point where it was torn.

He turned 180 degrees,demonstrating to all that hisskin was untouched, bloodhadnotbeendrawn.

“Very well,” Chandlersaid. “There is no blooddrawn, but will yougentlemen agree that honorhasbeensatisfied?”

Jack and William said,“No” in virtually the sameinstant, but in neither case

was the response overlyforceful, as both men werestillgaspingforbreath.

“Very well,” Chandlersaid and Jack thought heheard a note of exasperationin his voice. “Pray, return tothe center, here.”He steppedback to the point where theduel had begun andWentworth turned andfollowed and Jack followed

him.Tuckerfollowedaswellon the inland side, unsure ofwhat was going on. Therewas nothing energetic inWentworth’s stride, and heseemed to be limping a bit,and that would have madeJackhappy ifhehimselfwasnotdragginghisanchorsso.

Chandler called for themto come en guarde oncemore. They did, the

handkerchief fell, and theycame at one another, theathleticgraceof the first fewmoments of the duel all butgone. Jack hacked atWentworth’s sword, hopingto disarm the man, or breakthe blade, or knock it asidejust enough for him tomakeone little nick in the man’sskin, but Wentworth parriedinthefirstposition,elbowup,

bladedown,andJackfelttheshudder through his swordandhisarmassteelhitsteel.

Then Wentworth broughthispointupandJackknockedit aside, thrust, had his bladeknocked out of the line ofattack. It was maddening, itwas as if Wentworth wasencased in a glass dome andevery thrust, every perfectlyplaced attack, just bounced

off. He could not get at theman. He danced back a fewstepsandwipedhisbrow.Hiseyes were stinging from thesweat running down intothem. But he could seeWentworth’s hair and shirtweresoakedas ifhehad justbeen out for a swim. Hismouth was open, his eyeswide, his strength drainingfast.

Theycameatoneanother,slowly, weapons raised, andJack was thinking that thiswas it, it had to end soon,becausetheycouldnotgoon,and he knew, just knew, thatWentworth was thinking thesame. Their swords cametogether as each tried to taketheother’sblade.Jackthrust,Wentworth steppedawkwardly back, Wentworth

thrust and Jack went back.And a heavy voice cutthroughthequiet,throughtheclashofsteel,theonlysound.

“Damn it all! That isenough!” It was Frost, andJack could hear him puffingup, but he did not take hiseyesfromWentworth,notfora fraction of a second,because thatwasall itwouldtake, andWentworth did not

takehiseyesfromhim.“Stop thisnonsense!Stop

it at once, I say!” Frostroared, and the two menignoredhim.

“Sir,” Chandler said,“honor has yet to besatisfied,” and the two menignoredhim.

“Damntheirhonor!”Frostroared again and Jack andWilliam went at one another

in the same instant, swordsclashing again, blade onblade. Jack thrust, though hewas sure Wentworth wouldavoidthetipwiththenimble,quick footworkhehadso fardisplayed.ButWentworthdidnot jump back, because heapparently thought Jackwould do the same and thetwo points reached out andeachcaughtthelooseclothof

their opponent’s shirt andpassedrightthrough.

Jack saw his blade ripthrough Wentworth’s sleeverightneartheshoulderandhefelt the blade tear acrossWentworth’s flesh. In thesame instant he feltWentworth’s blade passingthrough the cloth of his ownshirt, justathis stomach, feltthe razor-sharp edge and the

jagged nicks it had sustainedthatmorning tearing the skinas it passed, lacerating hissidebutneverpiercingit.

The both of them, Jackand William, pulled theirswords free, held them attheirsides,pointdown.Bloodgleamedon the steelofboth.Chandler was shoutingsomething. Frost wasshouting something. There

was a roaring inBiddlecomb’searsbuthedidnot know what it was. Thenhe and Wentworth,simultaneously, sat down onthecoolgrassandclosedtheireyes.

***

Three leagues away to theeast southeast and well towindward of English

Harbour, Captain Jean-PaulRenaudinwasalsoclosinghiseyes,andforthesamereason;sheerexhaustion.Hiswasnottheexhaustionoftenminutesof extraordinary and intenseeffort.Hiswastheexhaustionof a week and a half ofdriving men, overseeingevery detail of their work,navigating a ship, planning,tamping down anxiety, and

slowly stewing in fury andhumiliation. It was theexhaustionofcatchingonlyafew hours’ sleep here andthere as he pushed the men,watch on watch, to set abatteredshiptorights.

Thefact thatFirstOfficerPierre Barère had not beencrushed to death by thefallingboomwasonlyoneofa numberof frustrations, and

noteven theworst.The fightwith the Americanmerchantman had been likenothing Renaudin had everexperienced, the shift offortunes and emotions inthose brief minutesunprecedented in his nearlytwodecadesatsea.

They had stood into thefight confident. L’Armançonhad the heels on the

American, they could sail acircle aroundher.Their gunswerebigger, theircrew,evenif they lacked the disciplineRenaudin thought ideal, wasexperienced and numerous.Their adversary was amerchantman, for the loveofGod!Renaudinhadnotreallyconsidered the manner inwhich they would attack, hedid not see the need, and

perhaps that was where theproblem was, because fromthat moment on, things hadbeguntogovery,verywrong.

Renaudin stood onL’Armançon’s quarterdeck,leaning against the weatherrail, his eyes closed, andplayed thosemoments out inhis mind once more, and ashe did so he drifted off intotheedgesofsleep.Heswayed

andbegantofallforwardandhiseyessnappedopen.Totheeast was the unbroken sea,thedeepblueAtlantic.Tothewest thewater faded into thelighter blue-greens of theCaribbean, and he could seeon the horizon the greenhumps of Antigua andBarbuda,andtothesouthwestGuadeloupe. If those islandshadbeenshipshewouldhave

saidtheywerehulldown,justtheirtop-hampershowing.

He looked aloft. Themizzen topgallant yard wasstanding vertically, hangingfrom its yard rope, and evenas hewatched, it tipped overto the horizontal and thehands working up therescrambled to reeve off theliftsandseetheclewlinesandbuntlinesrunfairtothedeck.

Atthebaseofthemast,likeaviciousdogthathaschasedadozen squirrels up a tree,stood Second Officer RenéDauville. Not a man aloftwould dare come down untilthe mizzen rigging wassquared away to Dauville’ssatisfaction.

Movement fartherforward caught Renaudin’seye and he saw Barère

emerging from the afterscuttleandmakinghispainfulway toward the quarterdeck.His head was still bandagedand he squinted in thebrilliant sun after coming upfrom the twilight of the’tweendecks,wherehespentmostofhistime.

He struggled up the fewsteps to the quarterdeck andRenaudin made no move to

help him. “Citoyen Barère,howareyoudoingtoday?”heasked when the first officerfinally reachedhimwherehestoodaft.

“Better,Citoyen, better, Ishould think,” Barère said.“My headaches are lessfrequent,agoodsign,surely.”

“Surely,” Renaudinagreed. It would have beennice had Barère been killed

outright, but still the viciousblow to the head had beenhelpful.Hehadspentaweekbelow,undertheincompetentcare of L’Armançon’sincompetent surgeon. Theamazing thing about thesurgeon, as far as Renaudincould see, was that the mandid not drink. Shipboardsurgeons were generallyuseless because they were

drunks, but the medical manaboardL’Armançonmanagedtobeuselesswithoutthehelpofalcohol.

But in Barère’s caseRenaudin did not mind thesurgeon’s bungling. Itallowed Dauville to assumethe role of first officer andallowed the two of them todrivethemenasiftheywereslaves on a West Indies

plantation,notcitoyensoftheRepublic of France andfellow revolutionaries. Itallowedthemtotreatthementhewayaship’screwshouldbe treated, so far below thestatusof thecaptainand firstofficer that theycouldbarelysee to those lofty heightsfromwheretheystood.

And that was important,becauseRenaudinwasnowa

man possessed. He had beenlike a sleepwalker before,stumbling through thenightmare of his life, thedestruction of his belovednavy of France, the exile ofhisfamilyandhisfriendsandfellow officers, the ceaselesspropaganda from Paris. Butnow he was awake. TheAmerican’s guns had shakenhim from his slumber. Now

he was awake and he wouldbeat that arrogantmerchantman into flotsamand there was not one otherthingthatmatteredtohim.

ThefighthadendedwhenL’Armançon’s mizzen hadgone by the board. The menwere running around like aherdofbaboonsbutRenaudinkepthishead,forall thefuryhe felt in his soul. He had

orderedthelaunchaway,withacrewofthebetterhandsandDauville once again incommand. He orderedDauville to follow themerchantman as far as hecould, until she ran over thehorizon,oruntiltheboatwasdangerously low on food orwater,oruntilheknewwhereshewasbound.

He returned five days

later, having achieved thethirdpossibility,ornearlyso.He had followed her forseveral days, and though herleadstretchedoutquicklyandcontinued to grow, he wasstill able to keep hertopgallants in sight for sometime.Shemusthavesustaineddamage during the fight, hesurmised,assheseemedtobenursing her mizzenmast and

not driving as hard as shemight.Otherwise, she shouldhave been able to put thelongboat over the horizon innotime.

Dauville followed longenoughtobesatisfiedthatshewasboundforAntigua.Ifshewere heading south shewould not have kept thecourse she did, and most oftheotherislandsshecouldbe

making for on that headingwereFrenchpossessions,andshe certainly was not boundfor one of those. Therewereany number of harbors onAntigua where she could beputting in, but if she neededrepairs, the best facilitieswould be found at EnglishHarbour.

English Harbour, ofcourse, was British, a naval

dockyard. But even after along and bloody war, and avictory made possible onlythrough French intervention,the British and Americansseemed to be climbing intobed with one another, to thedetriment of France. It wasentirely possible that theYankee would find awelcomethere.

Renaudin was no fan of

the Directoire and all thatcame before it, but hewas aFrenchman to his very soul,and as such he could onlyresent the ingratitude of theAmericans.Twogovernmentsborn of revolution, and theAmericans entirely beholdento French support for theirunlikely victory, support thathad nearly crippled Franceand led directly to the

convulsions that nation hadsuffered. They should havestoodtogether,butinsteadtheAmericans were cozying upto thehistoricenemyofbothnations.

Renaudin would alwaysfight for the pride of France,regardless of who wasclaiming political leadership,and in this instance he sawthe duplicity of the United

Statesasaslaptohiscountry,not its revolutionarygovernment.

WhileDauvillewasaway,Renaudin personally drovethecrew,andhecouldseetheshock and surprise they feltwhen their previouslydisinterested and disengagedcaptain was suddenlytransformed into the mostvicious and demanding of

lunatics. They looked forBarère to restrain him, toremindhimof their rights ascitoyens, but Barère was notto be found, and no matterhow often the surgeon bledhim, he did not seem toimproveoverlyfast.

The mizzenmast washauled alongside andanything of use was strippedoff it, including the yards,

sails, the mizzen top, andmuch of the standing andrunning rigging. Sheer legshad been rigged to pull thestump of the old mast andthentheyhadmadetheirwaytoBasseterrewhereasuitabletree, a mostly suitable tree,had been felled, shaped, andstepped in the old mast’splace. Standing rigging hadbeen set up, the mizzen top

got over, the rest of the top-hamperswayedaloft.

It had been done at sea,save for the cutting andshaping of the mast. It hadbeendoneprettymuchonthesame patch of ocean thatL’Armançon now occupied,the most ideal spot tointerceptanyshipboundfromAntigua to Barbados, theAmerican’s original

destination, or soBarère hadinformed him. And Barèreseemed to be right aboutthesethings.

The American was mostcertainly at EnglishHarbour.Renaudin did not dare takehis corvette within threeleaguesofAntiguaforfearoftipping his hand, but he tookthelaunchincloseenoughtointercept a fisherman, whom

he paid to take him withinsight of the place. From thedeck of the filthy, stinkingfishing sloop he once againlaideyesonthatshipthatwasthefocusofhiswakinghoursandfilledhisdreams.Andsohewaited.

“Monsieur Dauville!”Renaudincalled.

Dauville turned on hisheel.“Sir?”

“Once the mizzen issquared away we will clearfor action and exercise thegreatguns.Dumbshowonly,no powder. We shall remaincleared for action and themenmaysleepatquarters.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Dauvillesaidcrisply.

Barère took a step closer.“Citoyen Renaudin,” he said,his voice raspy and

noticeably weaker. “Allowme to remind you of theordersfromtheDirectoire—”

“Masthead, there!”Renaudin shouted, ignoringBarère, mostly because heknew it drove Barère mad.“Do you see the fishingboat?”

After his look intoEnglish Harbour, Renaudinhad decided to retain the

fishing boat, assuring theownerandhissmallcrewthathe would pay for the boat’suse, a promise that did littletomollifythem,butRenaudindid not care. He kept thefishermen aboardL’Armançon as grudgingguestsandsentthesmackoffunder the command of anenseignede vaisseau to keepaneyeonthevesselsoutward

bound from Antigua. Theenseigne de vaisseau wasyoung but hewas bright andcompetent, and there was nomanaboardL’Armançonwhowould not recognize theAmericanmerchantman.

“Boat’sstill insight,sir!”themastheadlookoutshouteddown. “No change! Nosignal!”

“Citoyen!” Barère said

again,histonemoreinsistent,demanding to be heard. “Donot forget your orders, as Irelated to you, from theDirectoire. You are to fighttheAmerican and you are tosuffer somedamage, but youare to take him withoutdestroyinghim.AmIclear?”

“We tried that last time,CitoyenBarère,anditdidnotworkoutsowellforus.”

“ThenIhopeyou learneda lesson. I hope you havedevised some way to claimvictory over a lightly armedmerchant vessel, because Iassure you, Monsieur, theDirectoire will not lookkindlyonyet another failure.Do you perceive mymeaning?”

“Oh,yes,”Renaudinsaid.In his mind he felt the snap

andkickofthepistol,sawtheback of Barère’s head blowapart. “I perceive yourmeaningverywell.”

26

AmongthespectatorsatJackand William’s duel was thesurgeon from His Majesty’sShip Warrior, whom

Chandler had asked bepresent, an unnecessaryrequest given that, like hisfellow officers, the surgeonwouldneverhavemissed thefun of watching two YankeeDoodlesgoafteroneanotherwith swords. He addressedthe combatants’ wounds,which were minor andrequired only bandaging.Chandler made the two

exhausted men agree thathonor had been satisfied.They shook hands, also onChandler’sinsistence.

“Well fought, Captain,”Wentworthsaid.

“And you, Mr.Wentworth,” Biddlecombsaid.Theyspokeintonesthatwere stilted, overly formal,whatonemightexpectoftwomen who had spent the

morning trying to run oneanotherthrough.

They returned to EnglishHarbour; the combatants, theseconds, the sizable crowdwho had turned out for theaffair. Jack went back towork on the Abigail.Wentworth, for lack ofanything better to do, begantodrinkandtomarinateinhisvarious concerns. The

officers of the Warriorcontinued to hope CaptainWallacewouldseehiswaytobribing the dockyardsuperintendent to speed upworkontheseventy-four,andhercrewcontinuedtohopehewouldnot.

Two days later, whenAbigail’s hands beganheavingthewindlasstobringtheanchorcabletoshortpeak

and prepare to weigh, thelacerationon Jack’s sidewasstill sore and restricting hismovements.Hewas standingon his quarterdeck in hisfavorite spot at the starboardrail,justforwardofthehelm.Helookeddownthelengthofthe deck, and what he sawwasverydifferent fromwhathe had seen from that samespot on the day they had put

outfromPhiladelphia.That sight had been odd

enough, with six new gunsrun out through six fresh-cutgunports, but this wassomething new entirely.Rather than a clusterofgunsaft there were now six gunsper side, a dozen great gunsevenly spaced fore and aft.Rather than a handful ofmerchant sailors he now had

thirty or more men on thecrew, twenty of whom wereexperienced men-of-war’smen, hands from a sloop-of-war that had beencondemned, stranding themin English Harbour. Theywere slated to be put onWarrior’s books, butsomehow the dockyardsuperintendent had shippedthemaboardAbigail,withthe

understanding that theirpassage back from Barbadoswould be paid for by Mr.Frost.

That must have set Frostback some considerable sumofreadymoney,Jackthought.

“Short peak!” Tuckercriedfromtheforedeck.

“Hands aloft to loosesail!”Jackcriedand themenswarmed up the shrouds, far

more men than he was usedto seeing on any vessel hehad ever sailed aboard. Theylaid out on fore and maintopgallantyard,topsailyards,lower yards, the mizzen aswell, and after what seemedto Jack an extraordinarilybrief time theywerebackondeck, the sails hanging intheirgear.

Impressive…he thought.

Hecouldgrowaccustomedtotheseman-of-war-stylecrews,dozensofmentodoajobthatwouldbedonebysixaboarda merchantman. The sailswere sheeted home, halyardshauled away. With manyhands on the braces theforesails were braced aback,main and mizzen hauledaround to cast the ship tolarboard, with Israel Walcott

thecookgrumblingaboutthemouths to feed but happilyignoring his usual station attheforesheet.

The anchor tripped,Abigail fell off to larboard,the foresails were bracedaround,andtheshipgatheredway.Thetidewasebbingandthesunwasnearherzenithasthey stood out of EnglishHarbourandmettheAtlantic

rollerscomingin.Ten knots of breeze was

blowing from the eastsoutheast as Biddlecomb putthe ship on a larboard tack,full and by, plunging alongand sending the occasionalshower of warm spray aft.They had pretty well clearedthelandbythetimeJackfelthe could stand it no longer,looked aloft, and shouted,

“Masthead, there! What doyousee?”

Lacey was on the maintopgallant and Wentworth,Jack noticed, was in themaintop, but sitting with hisback against the mast andlooking aft, staring off atnothinginparticularthatJackcould see. Their interactionshad been formal and stiffsince the duel, and they had

largely avoided one another.Or, more correctly,WentworthhadavoidedJack,becauseJackdidnothavethetime to give any thought towhomhemightbumpintoorwhomhewishedtoavoid.

There was a moment’spause asLacey took one lastscan of the horizon andcalled, “Looks like a fishingboat a half a league to

weather, sir, nothing beyondthat.”

Jack was not sure if hewas relieved or disappointedby this report. Certainly hehad thought it very unlikelythat the French corvette, orany armed French vessel,would be hovering aroundEnglish Harbour. But Frosthaddisagreed,andsaiditwasin fact quite likely indeed.

Frost felt the master ofL’Armançonwouldhavebeenhumiliated by his defeat andeagertomakeamendsbeforetheDirectoire made amendsfor him with the help of aguillotine. And so far Frosthad been right about suchthings.

“What ho, Captain?”Frost’s big voice rang outfrom the leeward side. “No

signofJeanCrapeau?”“No,”Jacksaidasthebig

man approached. Frost waslooking very much in hiselement, very pleased withthe improvements to theAbigail. But there was apatina of anxiety there aswell, as if he felt personallyresponsible for how thingsmightworkout.Andwellhemight, given how much of

their present circumstancewashisdoing.

“Themanaloft said therewasafishingboattoweather,nothing more,” Jack said.“Visibility is everything wemightwish,soiftheFrenchiewas anywhere within threeleagueswe’dseehim.”

“Indeed?” Frost said, andthe disappointment in hisvoicewasunmistakablenow.

He looked aloft. Abigail hadall plain sail set and topmaststuddingsails on the weatherside. “Mayhaps you shouldreduce canvas?” hesuggested. “Not run clear ofheresofast?”

Jack, who had beenscanning the horizon towindward, turnedand lookedat him. This was an oddsuggestion, bordering on the

bizarre.CertainlyJackagreedwith the plan to fight theirway to Barbados if need be.He was enjoying thecommandof thisersatzman-of-war. He had come toappreciate the aesthetics oftheneatrowofguns,larboardand starboard, in theirsymmetrical perfection, theoversized crew that couldperform tasks so fast, so

efficient.He secretly relished his

role of naval commander, ofbeing predator and not prey,and he was secretlyembarrassedtoberelishingit.Silently he assured himselfthathewasnothisfather,didnot wish to be and wouldnever be his father, while atthe same time understandingatlastwhyamanmightwant

tostandonthequarterdeckofa man-of-war and thinkhimself master of all beforehim, and of anything thatmight come up over thehorizon.

Butforallhisembraceofthings naval, Jack stillpreferred to run to Barbadosunchallenged. He had beenraised on stories of men-of-war and the bold men who

sailed them, and he hadlearned a lot, even when hewasnot trying to.And soheknewthatcaptainsofmen-of-war (which he remindedhimself he was not) did notput their ships and men inharm’s way without a goodreason for doing so. And hewas not sure what reason hemighthavetoseekbattlewithL’Armançon.

“Mr. Frost,” Jack asked,“youhavesaidyourselfmanytimesthatMr.OxnardwishesAbigail to reach Barbadosunharmed,andnotwindupaprize of the French. I wouldthink if we could sneak pasther in the night, leave herover the horizon by dawn,that would be preferable tofighting.”

“Well, of course it

would!” Frost said, all butspluttering. “Of course, onlyafoolwouldthinkotherwise.But I’m saying only weshould proceed with caution,slow,youunderstand,likeanIndian sneaking alongthrough the woods, or somesuch. If Jean Crapeau is justover the horizon, say, andhere we come blunderingalong,allthekitesflying,and

werunrightunderhisgunsasfast as ever we can, thatwould be a disaster. That’swhatI’msaying.”

Jack nodded. “I see,” hesaid, and thought, what sortof fool do you reckon I am?Heglancedupatthemaintop,and suddenly he wasenvelopedwith the sickeningthought that, possibly,contrary to all reason,

Wentworth might actuallyhavebeenrightaboutFrost.

“Letmeputsomethoughtinto that, Mr. Frost,”Biddlecombsaid,“butforthemomentIamloathtonottakefull advantage of a finetopgallantbreeze.Nomarinercould stand to lose such amainchance.”

“Of course, Captain, ofcourse, you would be

negligent to do otherwise,”Frost assured him. Heretreated to the leeward sideand Jack kept his station attheweatherrail,kepthiseyesmoving from sails to thehorizon, to the wake astern.Occasionallyhewouldambleover to thebinnacleand takealookatthecompass.Hefeltthe warm, comfortable,driving breeze flow over his

face and judged from longexperience any minutechanges in strength ordirection.

Theglasswas turned, thebells rang out, the sailswerecarefully adjusted until Jackwassatisfied.Butnotaninchof canvas was taken in, andwhen he was not directlyconninghisship,Jack’smindwent over that odd

conversationheandFrosthadhad.Hewasthinkingonwhatitmightmean,whatmightbeat the back of Frost’senthusiasms, and his money.He was considering theunthinkable; askingWentworth just what it washesuspected.

Abigailcontinuedtoplowher long, white furrowthrough the sea, heeling to

leeward and pitching in asoft,pleasing,rockingsortofmotion. Eight bells rang outand the watch changed, andthenonebellintheafternoonwatch.Jackwasstillthinkingabout whether he shouldshorten sail, if there wassomething that Frost knewbutforsomereasoncouldnotsay, when the man at themasthead—it was Adams

now—sang out, “Sail ho!Right to windward it is, sir,t’gan’slsisallIcansee!”

Two hours, Jack thought.Two hours and this fellowwill be up with us, if heintends to come up with us.And if it’s L’Armançon thenit won’t matter much whatintriguesFrostorWentworthoranyofthemareplayingat.

***

There was a spot on thesecond floor of the CityTavern where, if Rumsticksquatted a bit, he could lookdown the stairs and seeNessseatedathisfamiliartablebythe fireplace. It was tenminutes before the hour theyhad appointed for theirmeeting, and both men wereinplace;Ness inhisseatand

Rumstick squatting down,ignoring the looks of thetavern girls and watchingNesswait.

He was not waitingcalmly. He was nervous.Even though his back wasmostly turned towardRumstick (which is whyRumstick remained unseen)his agitation was clear. Hewasfiddlingwiththeclothon

the table, fiddling with thepewter plate, darting glancesaround. Itmight have been agoodideatocheckthetavernto see if Ness had plantedsome of his compatriotsaround,butitwastoolateforthat.AndRumstickhaddonewhathewantedtodo.Hehadtakenthemeasureoftheman,gotagoodsenseforhisstateof mind, which was not

pacific,notatall.Rumstick went down the

back staircase, out the doorthatledintothealley,aroundtothefrontofthetavern,andin through the frontdoor.Helooked around the room anddid a credible job ofappearing toseeNess for thefirst time, crossed the noisy,crowded space, and sat withcareatNess’stable.

“Goodday,sir,”Rumsticksaid,pretendingnot tonoticeNess’s irritation. “Have youhad a chance to make someinquiries?”

“Ihave,yes,Ihave,”Nesssaid, speaking much softerthanRumstickhaddone, andinamoreconspiratorial tone.Heleanedforward,thenbackagain as one of the servinggirls brought two tankards.

Rumstick thanked her andNessshooedheraway.

“Here’s what I know,”Ness continued, “and I’llwarnyou, it’snotmuch.Thetruth of the matter is this:myself, some of my friends,we hoped to stop Oxnard’sshipfromsailing.Themanismaking money like a fiend,and he funnels it right toBache and other enemies of

the administration. Stop hismoneycomingin,youstopitgoing to our enemies, yousee?” Ness put just theslightest emphasis on thewordour,nodoubttoremindRumstick that they were onthesameside.

“In any event,” Nesscontinued, “that was ourthinking, andwe acted on it.This Bolingbroke fellowwas

hiredbyanassociateofmine.Notanassociate,really,moreasortofglorifiederrandboy.He’sthekindwhoknowshiswayaboutthewaterfront,youunderstand. Knows, forinstance,ifyouneedsomeonefor this or that sort ofmischief,whototalkto.”

“I know the sort,”Rumstick said, and he did,verywell.“Butyou’retelling

me, Ness, that Bolingbrokewas hired to kill JackBiddlecomb just to make asmall dent in Oxnard’swealth?”

“Well,Ineverthoughtmymanwouldtrysuchathing!”Ness protested. “I told himsimply to find away to stopthe ship from sailing. Iexpected him to spread theword that no hands should

signaboardforthevoyage,orkeepthestevedoresfromoff-loading the ship, somethingalong those lines. I hardlyexpectedhimtofindsomeoneto challenge the master to aduel,whichIdaresaywastheleast effective means ofkeepinghertiedtothedock.”

Rumstick leaned back,tookuphistankard,andtookalongpullof theale,buthis

eyesdidnotleaveNess’s,anditmadetheman’sdiscomfortvisibly worse. At last he putthetankardbackdownonthetable. He was sailing intoshoalwaternow. Itwas timetocastthelead.

“That’s interesting.Interesting,”hesaid,andletithang in the air. “But I’ll tellyouthetruth,Ihadthoughtitran deeper than that. And

perhaps involved some moreprominent people. Not that Idon’tthinkyou’reprominent,Ness, but I was thinking ofmenhigherupthanyou.”

“Suchaswho?”“Well, Jack’s father, my

dearfriendIsaacBiddlecomb,who you certainly know…”Ness nodded his agreement.“… he received a letter.”Rumstick leaned closer and

Ness leaned toward him. “Aletter from AlexanderHamilton. Like you,Hamilton also thought Jackshouldn’tsail,saiditcouldbedangerous. Hinted at someintrigue.Buthere’sthething;hementionsyourname.”

“My name?” Ness said,surpriseandatraceoffearinhisvoice.

“Yes,” Rumstick

continued. He had beentrackingalong the lineof thetruth, but now he started toveer off course. “Mostly hetalked about McHenry, ofcourse, but you as well, asMcHenry’sassociate.Hesaidsomething about youarranging tohavesomeharmdone to Jack, said if Isaacdidn’t prevent Jack fromsailing, you and McHenry

might have some intriguecooked up to stop him. Hewasn’t clear about what, butthere it is, in Hamilton’shand.YouandMcHenry.”

For a long moment Nesswas silent andRumstickwassilent as they looked at oneanotheracross the table,overthetankards.ThenNesssaid,“Why would Hamilton writesuch a thing?Whywould he

wish to expose McHenry?McHenry is his man, for alllove!”

“‘Expose McHenry?’”Rumstick asked. “So, therewas something to expose?Someintrigue?”

More silence. A longsilence asNess lookedat thevarious implications of whatRumstick was asking. Butratherthananswer,heaskeda

question of his own. “If youdonotgetananswerthatwillsatisfy you, Rumstick, whatwillyoudo?”

Rumstick shrugged as ifhe had given it no thought.“My only concern is to findthe truth, and to see that noharm comes to Jack. Igenuinely do not give atinker’sdamnaboutHamiltonor McHenry or the rest. If

harm comes to Oxnard orBache I’ll cheer. But if Idon’t find out what sort ofdanger my godson has beenbrought into, I’ll give theletterHamiltonwrotetoIsaacto theAurora and let you allgo to hell, even if we aresupposed to be on the sameside. I’ll look to protectfamilyoverpartyeveryday.”

There was another long

silence.Rumstickwasacutelyawareofeverysmallsoundinthe room, the murmuredconversations, the clink ofsilver, the soft pad offootsteps on the worn pineboardfloor.ThenNessbegantotalk.

“This is very involved,”he said with a note ofresignation,“anditgoesveryhigh. But I will tell you,

because I know you are afriendtotheadministration.”

And because you thinkHamiltonhasthrownyouandMcHenry to the wolves,Rumstick thought,buthedidnotspeak.

“Hamilton has a manwho’s close to Bache,” Nesscontinued. “Don’t ask mewho because I don’t know.But this fellow informed

Hamilton of a great plancooked up by Bache andOxnard. They’ve been at itforhalfayear.Youknowthatthese Republicans wantnothing more than to showtheworldthatAdamsiseagerforwarwithFrance,eager tohelp the British, which isnonsense, of course. WarwithFrance?Ourentirenavyconsists of the half-built

frigatelyingatthedockhalfamilefromhere.”

“SoBacheandOxnardhiton some means of showingthe world Adams wantswar?”Rumsticksaid,steeringNessbackoncourse.

“It was clever, I’ll grantthem that. What if anAmerican ship, ostensibly amerchantmanbutwellarmed,weretoattackaFrenchman-

of-war?Whatifthemasterofthat ship were the son of aprominent Federalist, aformer hero of theContinentalNavy,afriendofPresidentAdams?You coulddrawastraight linefromthatact of aggression to theadministration, show theworld that theFederalists arechamping at the bit for war,turnthecountryagainstus.”

Rumstickleanedbackandshookhishead.“Nonsense.ItwasOxnardarmedtheship,itwould be easy enough toshowthat.”

“Really? As I understandit,yourJackwastheonewhosigned for all the guns, thepowder, shot. It’s likely hedidn’t even know what hewas signing, but his name’sonallof it.What’smore, the

youngman is an intemperatehothead, everyone knows it.Forgiveme.”

“No, no,” Rumstick said,“no forgiveness needed. Noone knows the truth of thatbetter than me. I’ve had tohaulhimoutofmanyanuglyscrape. But that still don’texplain how they knew Jackwouldgetintothisfight.”

“Oxnard put an associate

aboard, fellow namedChapman but he was goingby the name Frost, put himaboard to goad Jack on.Apparently Bache hasconnectionsenoughinFranceto see that a small man-of-warwouldbestationedwherethey needed it. He lived inFrance,youknow,yearsago,with his grandfather. In anyevent, they arranged to have

this man-of-war on station.This Chapman, or Frost,convincesJacktoattack,theyfight, theFrenchmansustainssomedamagebuttakesJack’sship as a prize, and there’syourinternationalincident.”

Rumstick shook his headagain, slowly, trying tofathom the depth of thisintrigue, but the man in thefore chains was calling No

bottom!Nobottom,here!“It all hingedon Jack,do

yousee?”Ness said.“SonofIsaacBiddlecomb,youngandimpetuousenoughtogoaftera man-of-war, with a littleconvincing.Wethought ifhecould be wounded—notkilled, mind you, justwounded enough that hecould not sail, then the planwouldfallapart.”

“Why didn’t you justinformJackofthis?OrIsaac?Convincehimnottogo?”

Ness said nothing. Helooked at Rumstick,apparently waiting forRumstick to figure it out onhis own. “No, never mind.Thatwasa foolishquestion.”Whichitwas.Rumstickknewbetter than anyone that Jackwould not listen, and that

tryingtowarnhimoffwouldjustmakehimwanttodothething evenmore. Itwas howhewasmade.

And it went beyond that.If Jack resigned fromcommand of the Abigail,Oxnard would knowsomething was acting,perhapscottontothefactthathe had a spy in his midst.Hamilton would not allow

that tohappen.Hamiltonwasan intriguer, his plots moreimportantthanthelifeofoneyoungsailor.

Rumstickwasquietagain,but at length he spoke. “Andwhat has happened? Has itplayed out as Oxnardhoped?”

“We don’t know,” Nesssaid. “There’s been noword.We would have thought to

have heard something bynow, but there’s beennothing. We fear the worst,and we are bracing for thenewsfromtheWestIndies.”

Rumstickconsidered that.Therewasonepossibilitythatno one seemed to haveconsidered. At the center ofallthiswasJackBiddlecomb,sonofIsaacBiddlecomb.Didit occur tonoone that in the

fightwith this Frenchman hejustmightwin?

27

Intheenditwasnotaboveanhour and ten minutes beforeJack was certain that thedistant vessel was indeed

L’Armançon.Shewasrighttowindward and running downon them, and though the twoships were not headingdirectly at one another theywere converging at acombined speed of probablyeightknots,whichmeantthatin the space of seventyminutestheyhadreducedthedistancebetweenthembytenmiles or so, leaving only

threemilestogo.Seventy minutes was as

long as Jack could toleratestanding on the quarterdeckfeigning disinterest. He shedhis coat and hat, took up hisglass, and climbed aloft. Hedid not know if Wentworthmadeapointofignoringhimbecause he made a point ofignoring Wentworth and sodid not see if the man had

even glanced his way as hecameupover theedgeof themaintop.

He settled on thetopgallantyardbesideAdamsand focused the glass toweather. Lovely ship, hethought. And she really was.The steeve of her bowsprit,the sweep of her sheer, thedegree of tumblehome, it allworkedtogethertopresentan

image of strength and grace,thefamedworkoftheFrenchnaval architects, from thenation that had given theworld Versailles and NotreDame.And like those famededifices, the French navy, asJack understood, was lookedon by the radicals as someleftover from the AncienRégime,asuspectthing.

The corvettewas running

with a bone in her teeth,carrying much the same sailas Abigail, though, sailingwith the wind betwixt twosheets, she had studdingsailsset to weather and to lee.Fight or flee? Jack thought.Herewasthequestion.Wasitworth cracking on andmakingarunforit?Theonlyway theymightsucceedwiththatplanwouldbetokeepthe

Frenchman astern untilnightfall, and then do someclever thing to shake them.He looked to the west. Thesun was at least six hoursfrom setting. L’Armançonwas at most an hour awayfrom having Abigail underherguns.

“I guess that’s settled,then,”Jacksaidoutloud.

“Pardon, sir?” Adams

said.“It’snothing.Keepaneye

on her, Adams, let me knowof any changes she makes,changes to sail or course,anything.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Adamssaid as Biddlecomb swungdown to the topgallantshrouds and began headingbacktothedeck, theshroudssticky and warm under his

hands, the tar and varnishmixture growing soft underthe wicked sun. He climbedaround the crosstrees anddown the topmast shrouds.His feetwere on the edge ofthe maintop and he still hadnot yet decided if he woulddothematurething,thethinghe knew he should, but didnotwishtodo.

Oh, damn it all, he

thought, then stopped andswung inboard. “Mr.Wentworth?” he said, tryingfor a conversational tone.Wentworth, still leaningagainst the mast, looked up,pretending to have notrealizedhewasthere.

“Captain?” he said. Heclimbed to his feet. Jacklookedtoseeiftherewasanysign of soreness, any

impediment to hismovementin thewakeof thewoundhehad delivered, but he couldsee none. Wentworth wasstanding easy, with theathletic grace he generallydisplayed.Hissandyhairwasboundbackinaqueueandhewore just a linen shirt andbreeches, with wool socksand his now battered shoes.He lookedmore like a sailor

thanhedidthemacaroniwhohad come aboard. Jack hadseen that sort oftransformation before. Theseahadawayofdoingit.

Jack hesitated because hehad not decided what hewouldsay,outof thevariousthings he wished to say. Hewanted to ask Wentworthwhat he knew about Frost’sintentions, and how he knew

it. He wanted to ask if heknew anything at all aboutwhoFrostwas.Hewantedtotell Wentworth he hadprobablybeenrightallalong,though that one was prettylow on the list of statementshewishedtomake.

He could not decide, andhe could not stand there likean idiot any longer, so hesaid, “That’s L’Armançon to

weather, as you may haveguessed. I imagine we willengageher.Ifyouwouldcareto take your place in themaintopwithyourrifleagain,Iwould be grateful.You didgreatexecutionthelasttime.”

Wentworth nodded hishead. “Thank you, Captain,forsayingso.”Hisvoicewasless rigid and formal than ithad otherwise been since the

duel. “Iwouldbehonored tohelpinwhateverwayIcan.”

Theyremainedsilentforafew seconds, neither manknowingwhatmoretosay,soJack mumbled, “Verygood…,”foundtheratlineonthe futtock shroud with hisfoot, and continued on thedeck.

Frost was aft, of course,though his presence was

really starting to grate onJack, just as Wentworth’shad. “L’Armançon, I’llwarrant!” he said, delight inhisvoice.

“L’Armançon, indeed,”Jacksaid.

“Should we clear foraction, Captain?” Frost saidnext, which Jack foundsupremely irritating. If hesaidyeshewouldbeallowing

Frosttotakecontrol.Butifhesaid no he would just soundpetulant, since they did needto clear for action, and hewouldhave togive theorderanyway,aminuteortwoafterthat.

“We’ll clear for actionwhen I give the order, Mr.Frost,”hesaidandFrosttookthe hint, stepped back,removed the grin from his

face, and said, “Of course,Captain,ofcourse.”

Jack managed to drag itout for another fiveminutes,examiningthesetofthesails,scrutinizing the corvette toweather through his glass,passing a word with Tucker.At last he said, “Mr.Tucker,let us clear for action andsendthementoquarters.”Hesaid it softly and could not

deny the thrill that he felt insaying thosewords,aburgooof exhilaration, fear,uncertainty,andresolve.

Tucker turned, shouteddown the length of the deck,“Clear for action! All hands,clear for action, there!” Jackwondered if Tucker had eversaid those words before. Hedoubtedit.

In the naval service, Jack

understood,therewouldhavebeen drums beating andboatswain’scallsandallsortsofmartialsounds,butaboardthe merchantman they hadonly the strong voice of themate.

But it was enough. Themen, who had beenanticipating the order, leaptto,castingofftheguntackles,laying out sponges, crows,

handspikes, and rammers,getting fire buckets ready,spreading sand on the deck.The new men had sailedaboardAbigail for all of fivehours but they showed thediscipline and training forwhichtheRoyalNavywassowell known, and fell to theirtasks with ease andfamiliarity.Jackhadassignedthem to the guns, mostly,

because they knew far moreaboutsuchthingsthandidtheAbigails, and the Abigailsknew far more about sailingtheirshipthandidtheBritishjacks. To weather and leethey were heaving the gunsin, drawing the tompions,castingofftheleadskirtsoverthevents.

Meanwhile John Burgesssaw chains rigged to the

yards, and extra braces roveoff. TheAbigails hoisted thenew launch up and over theside to tow astern, unwillingtomakethedumbmistakeofleaving it on deck this time.No hammocks were stackedinhammocknettingsbecausethere were no hammocks orhammock netting, nor wastherenetting to stretchabovethe deck to protect from

falling debris, or a gunner toretire to the magazine or acarpentertogetplugsforshotholes,becauseAbigail,forallherfinearmament,wasstillamerchantman.

Aminutebefore,thedeckhad been the epitome of amerchant ship at sea in fineweather, the men movingabout with a busy butunhurried quality. With one

order all that changed as themen plunged into the job ofgetting the ship ready for afight, of putting her in theproperstateforbattle,abattlefor which they had beenpreparing since the day theyarrived in Antigua. It was awonder to Jack that not oneof the original Abigails hadpointed out that this was notat all what they had signed

aboardfor.Too caught up with the

drama of the thing, Jackthought, shaking his head atwhat blockheads such mencould be. Irony wassometimesaforeignlanguagetohim.

“Cleared for action, themen are at quarters,” Tuckersaid,hisvoicefalteringashewas not sure if that was

indeed what he should say,and likely feeling a bit sillyusingsuchnavalparlance.

“Verygood,Mr.Tucker,”Jack said. He looked out towindward.L’Armançonwasamileandahalfaway,andthetwo ships were closing fast.He looked aloft. Wentworthwas in the maintop, rifle inhand.Hehadnotseenhimgoback up there. There were

others as well, some of thenew hands from EnglishHarbur withmuskets cradledintheirarms.

Frostmusthavesentthemup, Jack thought, but FrostwaskeepinghisdistanceandJackdidnotwish tocallhimovertoask.HeturnedbacktoTucker.“Intenminutesorsowe’llclewupthecoursesandget stuns’ls in, leave the rest

of the sails set. I want theguns on the starboard sidedepressedjustabitbelowthehorizontal,ifyoufollowme.”Hesuspectedtherewassomemore technically proper wayto express this, butwhat thatmightbehehadnoidea.

“Aye,sir,justabitbelowhorizontal,” Tucker said,apparentlyunderstanding.

“We’ll man the larboard

battery, make it look as ifwe’ll be engaging that side.Then, as we get close toL’Armançon, very close,we’llcomeabout,justspinonour heel, and the men willcross quickly over to thestarboard side as we’recoming about, do you see,starboardgunswillberunoutand ready, and we’ll givethem that broadside as we

pass. They’ll be quitesurprised,Ishouldthink.”

Tucker was smiling.“Goodplan,sir!”hesaid,andJack found his approval acomfort, despite the fact thatTuckerkneweven lessaboutsuchthingsthanhedid.

Twenty minutes later,looking through his glass,Jack could clearly make outindividuals on the

Frenchman’s deck, the whiteshirts of the men, the bluecoats of the officers. As hewatched, the perfect smoothdomes of the Frenchman’sfore and mainsail collapsedand flogged and the clewsroseup as those lower sailedwerehauleduptotheyards.

“Mr. Tucker,” Jack said,“letusget thestuns’ls inandclewupthecourses.”Hesaid

it calmly, slowly, hoping todisguise the fact that he hadcompletely forgotten about ituntil thatmoment.Thespeeddropped off and the Abigailstood more upright as thecanvaswasreduced.Themenstood silent at their guns, thesail trimmers ready at thebraces and bowlines. Frostwas forward of themizzenmast, supervising the

threegunsaft.Apettyofficerfrom the English Harbourmen was in charge of theforwardbattery.

Jacknolongerneededtheglass to see the figuresmoving about L’Armançon’sdeck. A minute or so more.All thiseffort, all thisworry,leading up to this inevitablemoment: two shipsconvergingontheopensea.

“Stand ready…” Jackshouted. L’Armançon’sforward-most guns wouldbear, he wondered why theydidnotfire.Ahundredyardsseparated the ship. Half aminutemore.

The first time they hadmet L’Armançon Jack hadbeenunabletogivetheordertoengagebuthefeltnosuchhesitancy now. “Helm’s

a’lee!” he shouted and thehelmsman turned the wheelandAbigail flew up into thewind. “Let go your headsailsheets! Mainsail haul!Gunners,shiftsides,now!”

The headsails made athundering sound as theyflogged in the wind, theforesailscameaback,pushingthe bow around, and like aherd of spooked cattle the

gunners abandoned thelarboard battery and chargedacross the deck to take theirplacesonthestarboardside.

“Let go and haul!” Jackshouted asAbigail settled onthe new course andL’Armançon came chargingdown on them, fifty feet offthestarboardside.

“Fire as you bear!” heshoutedandtheforemostgun

onthestarboardsidewentoffwith a great roar, the jet offlame visible even in thebrilliant sun, and a hole waspunched right throughL’Armançon’s bulwark, deadcenterbetweentwogunports.

The next gun fired, theball hitting the Frenchman’shull and lodging there. Thenext smashed two deadeyesonthemainshrouds,andstill

the Frenchman did notrespond. Then, in the instantbefore the fourth gun wentoff, Jack heard, clear asbirdsong, an order shouteddown the length of theFrenchman’s deck andL’Armançon fired her entirebroadside, six twelve-poundersfiredfromfortyfeetaway,levelatAbigail’sdeck,and Abigail’s guns seemed

likepunytoysincomparison.Jack had time enough to

see the first jets of graysmokeand thenaballhit thebulwark just forward ofwherehestoodandhisworldwasknockedasideinastormof shattered wood andsplinters and smashed planksfrom the new-built sides. Hewasawareofputtinghisarmup, of being lifting off the

deck,oftheagonyofcomingdown hard. He could hearshouts and high-pitchedscreams. His head spun andfor an instant he thought,genuinelythought,thatitwasa dream, that it was all toounreal to be a wakingmoment.

He pushed himself upwith his arms, felt a pain inhisside.Therewasasplinter

likealongknifestickingout,and without thinking hegrabbed on to it and pulledandscreamedinagonyasthewoodcamefreeandthebloodbegan to spread across hisshirt.

Thedeckwasaruin.Oneof thegunshadupendedandthe screaming was comingfrom the man, one of theBritish sailors, who was

caught under it. His mateswere working at the barrelwith crowbars andhandspikes. Beyond him thebulwarkhadbeenbeatenflat,the windlass, so recentlymoved, nomore than debris.Ropeshunglooseandswayedwiththerolloftheship.

Jack realized that themotion was wrong, the shipdid not feel right underfoot.

He looked up. They were inirons, the bow pointing rightintothewind,thesailsaback.He spun around. There hadbeen only one man at thehelm, and he was down,knocked to the deck bysplinters, alive or dead Jackcould not tell. “Mr. Tucker!Get forward, get the sailtrimmers to back the jibs!You there, Maguire,” he

called to the Irishman, whowas captain of the aftermostgun but one, “get on thehelm!”

He looked over atL’Armançon. She had sailedclean past and was roundingup behind Abigail, whichmeant they would be firinginto the stern,abadsituationfor a ship with a lower gundeck, but the merchantman

did not have much belowdecks to hit. His cabin, Jackknew, would be destroyed,butifthatwastheworstofithewouldbehappy.

“Sail trimmers!Brace theforesails for a larboard tack!We’ll cast to starboard!” Hecould see there were moredead and wounded than hehad thought, great franticpatches of wet blood on the

deck.The fore yards swung

around,thesailscameaback,the bow began to fall off tostarboard as L’Armançon’sgunsfiredagain,oneaftertheother, destroying the greatcabin windows below Jack’sfeet. He had a vision of thestern rail blowing apart thelast time they were in thiscircumstanceandeverybitof

himwantedtomoveforward,out of theway of any flyingdebris,buthefoughtthaturgedown, remained where hewas,claspedhishandsbehindhis back. He could feel theblood fromhiswound,warmandstickyandspreadingoverhis side, just opposite theplace where Wentworth hadcuthim.

Now I shall have

matching scars, he thoughtandresistedtheinsaneurgetogiggle.

Helookeddownthedeck.The man under the toppledgun had died and his mateshad abandoned him and theother gun crews were busyloading and running out.L’Armançonhadcomeupona starboard tack and Abigailwas casting off onto a

larboard tack and the spacebetweenthetwowasopeningup. For a wild moment Jackconsideredrunningfor it,butthere was no point; evenpoorly handled, the Frenchcorvette was faster than themerchantman by a couple ofknots, and it seemed to Jackthat the Frenchman’s shiphandling and gunnery wasmuch improved from the last

timetheyhadcrossedpaths.“Let go and haul!” Jack

shouted and Abigail swungoff the wind and her sailsfilled and she gathered wayonce again. He turned toMaguire on the helm. “Keepher coming around,we’ll getthewindrightaft.”Helookedastern.L’Armançon was alsoturning, falling off, so soonthe two ships would be

sailing side by side, rightdownwind and about fiftyyardsapart.

That’s no good, nogood … Jack thought. Thatfirst broadside had showedhim the absolute folly ofgoing up against a ship thatmounted guns twice aspowerful as his own, withscantlings a third again asthick. He kept seeing the

imageofthatsix-pounderballlodgedinL’Armançon’sside.It had not even pierced herhull, while L’Armançon’stwelvesseemedtogothroughAbigailasifshewasmadeofwetpaper.

And then the ships werebroadside to broadside andL’Armançon started in again,firing at Abigail’s alreadycrippled starboard side.

Roundshotscreamedoverthequarterdeck and like amagictrick the head of one of theBritish sailors disappeared.Onemomentitwasthere,thenext it was gone, and hisknees buckled and hisheadlessbodyslumpedtothedeck and Jack thought hemightvomit.

Round after roundslammed into Abigail’s side.

A ball struck amidships, justbelowthestarboardgunwale,andJacksawitburstfromthelarboard side in a swarm ofshattered planking, passingright through the hull andplunging into the sea. TheAbigails were firing backnow,andJackcouldseesomeof the shot strike, saw arespectablehole shot throughthe after side of the

mainmast, but he could seenodamagebeyondthat.

“Keep coming around,Maguire, keep comingaround!” Jack shouted. “Sailtrimmers, starboard tack!” Ifhe kept turning, then hewouldpresenthisship’sbowto the enemy, which at leastwould make for a smallertarget.Abigailwas turning tostarboard and Jack could see

L’Armançon turning tolarboard so the two shipswere coming bow to bow,fiftyyardsbetweenthem,andJackhadanotheridea.

“Hold her there,Maguire!” he shouted. “Sailtrimmers, stand by!” Thesmokewasthicklikeafog,ornearly so, a heavy morningmist, and the guns belchedmore and more even as the

breeze whipped the oldsmokeaway.

“Fall off, Maguire, falloff! Sail trimmers, squareup!”Maguireturnedthehelmthe other way. Abigailstopped in her turn tostarboardandbeganswingingback to larboard, downwind,turning to crossL’Armançon’s bow. TheFrenchman checked in her

turn as well, turned back tomeet Abigail, but it was toolate to stop the Americanfromcrossingaheadofher.

“Bear up now, just apoint!” Biddlecomb shoutedto Maguire and Maguire,good hand that hewaswhensober, turned the wheel. Buthewasamerchantsailor,nota man-of-war’s man, so hefelt he had the right to say,

“Sir!We’llbeaboardher!”“Not full aboard her,

Maguire!”Jackshouted, thenthought, Dear God I hopenot!

They were close, veryclose, L’Armançon comingdown on Abigail as Abigailtried to duck under her bow.Jack saw the tip of theFrenchman’s jibboomstretching up over his

foredeck. The forward-mostgun of Abigail’s starboardbattery fired and he sawL’Armançon shudder andthen the jibboom passedbetween the forestay and theforemast and fouled and theshipswerelockedtogether.

“Mr.Tucker!Handsupinthose fore shrouds, cut thatFrenchman’s headstays!”Jackshouted,butsomeofthe

British sailors were ahead ofhim and already scramblingupthestarboardforeshrouds,axes and cutlasses in hand,hacking away at theFrenchman’s rigging. Thesecond and third gun in thestarboardbatteryfiredandthetwo ships drifted together intheirweirdgrapplingdance.

L’Armançon’s foretopgallant stay swung free,

cut through by eager hands,and the guys that offeredsupport to the jibboom werehanging limp. A figure in ablue coat appeared on theheel of the Frenchman’sbowsprit and headedoutboard, sword in hand, agang of seamen behind him.Hemade it as far as the capofthebowspritbeforejerkingbackward as if suddenly

coming to the end of hisleash. His arms flailed outand he fell with an audiblesplash into the sea and themenbehindhim,discouragedby this, turned and racedinboardagain.

Jack looked up into themaintop.Thesmokewasstillwafting from the end ofWentworth’s barrel as heslowlyloweredtheweaponto

reload.AnotheroftheBritishsailors fired, but with hissmoothbore musket it wouldbeasmuchluckasskillifhemanaged to hit one of thefleeingFrenchmen.

Abigail was slowlydriftingontoa starboard tackand the Frenchman wasdrifting to larboard and theresult was an enormouspressure on L’Armançon’s

jibboom and bowsprit, like amanwrenchingachickenlegapart. Jack could hear thepoppingandthecracking,theblessed cracking, of theFrenchman’s head rig as itbegan to giveway.He couldseemoreboardersmassingonthe bow, ready to try oncemore to come up the bridgemade by the bowsprit, buteven as the officer leading

this new rush stepped ontothebowsprit’sheelthewholethinggaveway.Thejibboomsnappedofflikeatwig.Itfellonto Abigail’s deck, now soentangledtherewasnotellingwhat wasAbigail’s gear andwhatwasL’Armançon’s.

With that release Abigailbegantoturnfaster,draggingL’Armançon around. Jackcouldseethebowspritpulled

outofalignmentbytheforceexerted by Abigail’sdeadweight. He heard alouder cracking sound andsaw the end of the bowspritshivered, shards of woodsticking out like an uglybrokenbone.

The first three guns inAbigail’s battery were runout,almosttogether,andtheyfired as one and the

concussion dislodgedAbigailfrom the Frenchman’s headrig.L’Armançonwascripplednow, her bowsprit shattered,andAbigail had only to passher to windward and raceaway. The Frenchman couldnever follow because shecouldnot hope to sail in anydirectionbutrightdownwind,and even that would bechancy. Forward, someone

gave a cheer and the cheerwas takenupalongAbigail’sdeck,awild,exuberantcheer,a release of all the fear andhorrorofthepasthour.

But L’Armançon wasturning, her stern swingingoff thewind, and Jack couldsee they had hauled herspanker out to windward.They were turning her onpurpose, and there was only

one rational reasonwhy theymight do so with theirbowspritshottobits.

The Frenchman’sbroadside went off, not alltogether but one gun at atime, slowly, and Jackthought theymust have theirbestmanmovingfromguntogun, aiming each, no doubtbecause they knew that theyhadone last chance, and this

wasit.The cheer died on the

Abigails’lipsasthefirstshotclangedoffthemuzzleofthethird gun on the starboardbattery.Thegunrearedlikeamadhorseandmenscatteredandthetonandahalfofironcrashed down to the deck.The next shot struck thecaboose and went right onthrough,takingtheupperhalf

of the little building with it,leaving the oven and asmatteringofpotsexposedtothe afternoon sun. The thirdshotwashigh, noone saw itstrike, but the fourth passedrightoverthewaist,thewindof its passing knocking mentothedeck,but,incredibly,ithitnooneinitsflight.

Then they heard thecracking sound, the rending

of wood and a franticshouting from aloft. Eyeslooked up as the next of theFrenchman’s guns went off,partingtheforestay,butwhatthe Abigails were watchingwas the main topmast, shotthrough at the cap, leaning,leaning over, the sailflogging, the deadeyesexploding with the pressure,lanyards shredding, the

shroudsswingingfree.Thetopmastfellsoslowly

itwas almost dreamlike.Theterrible thunder of thecannons did not stop, theAbigails having regainedtheir senses and turned toloading and firing the fiveremaining guns on thestarboardside.

Then the topmast startedgainingmomentuminitsfall.

Itpaused,justforasecond,asthe strain came on the maintopmast and topgallantforestays, and then thoseparted, too, ormost of them,and the ones that did notdragged the fore topgallantmastdownastheentirethingfell in a thundering,wrenching crash, spewingcordage and shattered sparsand torn sailcloth over the

Abigail’s waist andquarterdeck.

Frostcamehuffingaft.Hehadacutonhischeekandhisfacewas streakedwithbloodand his shirt and coat had arent that showed white fleshbelow. “Captain! Captain!We’re done for now! DearGod,youmuststrike!You’vedoneallamancoulddo!”

It was all so unreal Jack

was having a hard timethinking, but the thought didoccurtohimthatthiswasthesecond time Frost hadinsisted he surrender, whichseemed an odd thing forsomeonewhoplayedthefire-eater as he did. He lookedover the hundred yards ofwater between him andL’Armançon.TheFrenchshipwas still turning. They had

brailed the spanker up to tryand keep the ship fromspinning like a weathervaneupintothewindbutthatwasnot working. What theyneeded to do was sheet thejibs flat, but there were nojibsleftbecausetherewasnobowsprit to speak of. Theymight back the foresails, butJack could see how themaster might not care to do

that, with so much riggingtornup.

L’Armançon slowlyturned to weather and in theoddquietJackcouldheartheFrenchmen shouting fore andaft and he could see menscrambling to do something,what, he could not imagine.TheFrenchman’ssternturnedpast them and two ofAbigail’s guns fired into it.

ThentheFrenchshipcameupinto the wind, pointing rightinto the wind, turning out ofcontrol. The steady tradescaught the foresails and laidthem aback, normally not aproblem, but now there wasnoheadriggingtokeepthemfromfallingbackward.

The Abigails were silent,fore and aft, watching withdisbelief as L’Armançon’s

fore topmast and foretopgallant mast, and all therigging and gear, tilted aft,tilted as slowly as Abigail’shad, then picked upmomentuminitsfallbecauseit did not have the intactrigging to slow it down. Itlooked like a felled tree as itcame down and the mainsailjerked and the maintopgallantwasrippedfromits

placehighaloftandthewholething collapsed, half on thedeck and half over the side.L’Armançon came to a stop,nowtwohundredyardsaway,spinningslowlyonthatpatchofocean.Twoships,crippled,drifting apart, a battle tableduntil one or the other couldgetunderway.

Jack was the first of theAbigails to return to his

senses. “Clear this wreckageaway! That topsail yard iskindling, get it overboard.Someone cut those lanyardsfree!”

The men leaped on thewreckage,becausethetacticalsituation was clear; whoevercouldmake sail firstwas thewinner, and the other,helpless,coulddonothingbutstrike or be beaten to death.

So they swarmed over thewreckage, axes rising andfalling, sheath knivesworkingatspunyarn.

Theywereatitfortwentyminutes before Jackremembered his great cabin.“Mr.Tucker,”hecalledtothemate, “carry on here. I amgoing below and see what’sleftofmycabin.”

“Aye, sir,” Tucker said.

Hehadabandageonhishandandbloodonhisfacethathadbeenimperfectlywipedaway.

Jack climbed down intothe ’tween decks. It wasbetter lit than usual,with thegaping holes larboard andstarboard where the ball hadpassedcleanthroughthehull.He made his way pastWentworth’s and Frost’scabins, which he could see

had taken a number of hits,and forced the door to hisowncabinopen.

The stern windows, justreplaced at Antigua, weregone again. His hangingbunk, which he used at sea,was shot clean through, bothends still hanging from theirhooks, themidsection on thefloor. His sea chest and itscontents,orwhatremainedof

them,werescatteredabout.Hesawhisbarometer,his

beautiful barometer, lyingfacedown on the deck. Hepicked it up with a knot ofsadness at its loss, but whenheturneditoverhesawtohissurprise that it was intact.Indeed, it looked as if it hadnot suffered a scratch. Jacksmiledindelight,onelittlebitof happy news in all of this

destruction. And then helooked at the mercury, andthen looked again. He hadchecked it only a few hoursago.Hewas not sure he hadeverseenitfallsofast.

28

Jack carefully wrapped thebarometer in layers ofbedding he pulled from hisshattered hanging cot and

wedged the instrument intothe corner of his fixed bunk.He tookone last lookaroundand then climbed back ondeck. The work had notslowed in his absence; ifanything, themomentumhadbuiltaswreckagewasclearedaway, torn sail cut free andpulled clear, allowing morehandstogetatthejob.

John Burgess, with the

frugality of boatswains theworldover,wasoverseeingagangofmenflakingdownthemuch torn main topsail, thetopgallantwaitingitsturninaheap on the larboard side.The sails represented aconsiderable quantity ofcanvas, as did the piles ofbrokencordagewaiting tobecoiled. Jack was not terriblyconcernedwithsavingRobert

Oxnard’s property just then,buthedidnotwishtooffendBurgess’s sensibilities, so hesaidnothing.

The starboard end of theshattered topsail yard wasfree of its gear and a dozenmengrabbed it up,walked itto the leeward side, andheaved it into the sea. Itstruck with a great splash,bobbed,andsettled.

The deck was swarmingwith men. If Jack was evergrateful for the extra handsFrost had brought aboard, itwasnow.Hehadnonotionofhow many men had beenkilled or wounded in thatexchange, but guessed ten atleast were out of action.Some of the men-of-war’smenhadpulledthecasualtiestowardthebow,themostout-

of-the-wayspotondeck.Even with his expanded

company, he suspected hiscrew was a third the size ofL’Armançon’s.Butatleasthenow had a chance of gettinghisshipunderwaybeforetheFrenchman. Without theBritish jacks, therewould benochanceatall.

He saw Wentworthstraddlingthemaintopgallant

yard, lying half across thebulwark,halfacrossthemainhatch, which it had stove inwhenitfell.Hewaswieldinga knife, a sailor’s knife,cutting away the robands tofree the topgallant sail fromthe yard. Jack guessed thatTucker or someone had toldhimwhat to do,what to cut.Wentworth certainly couldnotnameanyoneofthelines

he was so aggressivelyattackingwithhisblade.

Jack looked out towindward. In the short timehe had been below, the tradewinds had blown away thelingering cloud of powdersmokeandJackwassuddenlyaware of just how obscuredhis vision had been. It waslike fog. You often did notrealize how little you could

see until the visibility wasback to what it should be.Now he could clearly seeL’Armançon, every detailvisible over the half mileseparating them. LikeAbigail, she was lying ahull,her remaining sails clewedup.Thewindandcurrenthadslowly turned her, and nowJackwas looking at her bowandhe could see the swarms

of men there and on thebowsprit as well, could seethe glint of axes rising andfalling as the rigging andshatteredwoodwascutaway.

The bowsprit would betheir focus, their alpha andomega.Withoutittheymightbeabletosail,buttheywouldneverbeable tomaneuver inanymeaningfulway.Withoutthat heavy spar forward, the

support it would give to theforemast and the leverageexerted by the jibs that flewthere, theywouldnever havecontrol enough to outsailAbigail, or to avoid havingherhangon theirquarterandpoundthemtodeathwhentheduelresumed.

Jack’seyestrackedfartheroff to the east, and there hesaw what he had missed in

the smoke of the battle andthe distraction of having aFrench man-of-war trying tobatter his ship to shivers.Anugly dark line was buildingon the horizon, and above itgreat billowing anvil headclouds.Thiswasnottheusuallate afternoon rain squall ofthe Caribbean Sea, this wassomethingmoreprofoundandmenacing. This was the sort

of weather that made themercuryinthebarometerfallat an alarming rate, bad inanyinstance,butmuchworsewithAbigail’shullandrigsofrighteninglycompromised.

Tucker hurried over tohim.Hewasstrippeddowntoshirtsleeves and sweatingheavily. “Two of them gunswere upended, sir, carriagessmashed. I had thought I

might—”Jackcuthimoff.“Usethe

boat falls to drop themoverboard, just be rid ofthem.Thecarriagesaswell.”

“Aye, sir,” Tucker saidand turned to go but Jackcalledhimback.

“See here, Oliver,” hesaid, low, so no one elsewould hear. “There’s someverynastyweathercomingin

fromtheeast…”Tuckerturnedandlooked,

running his eyes along thehorizon,letoutalowwhistle,then turned back to Jack. “Ishouldsaynasty,sir.”

“Noneedtobringittothemen’s attention, they’reworking as hard as they canright now,” Jack said, “andthey’llnotice it soonenough.But once this wreckage is

cleared away Iwant the foretopgallantmastandyardsentdown,andthemizzenaswell.If we have time we mightstrike the fore topmast. TheFrench were kind enough totakecareofthemainforus.”

“Aye,sir.”“Get the boat aboard and

double-griped. Lifelines foreandaft.Andforall lovelet’ssee the guns double-lashed,

inspect the eyebolts, and setsomeofthemoregodlyhandsto praying that none of themcomeadriftthistime.”

“Aye, sir,” Tucker said,paused a second to see ifmorewas coming, andwhenherealizedJackwasdoneheturned and hurried forward,callingoutorders.

Jacklookedtothewest,adirectionhehadnotlookedin

awhileastherehadnotbeenmuch there to command hisattention, but now therewas.Theyhadruntothesoutheastduring their fight, and thewind and current had beendrifting them around somedistance since theengagement ended. Jack hadnot been paying muchattention to where on thewatery globe they were, but

heknewnow,andhedidnothave to use a sextant, a chiplog,oranyothernavigationaltooltofigureitout.

They were right towindward of Guadeloupe.Jack could see the high, dullgreenmountainsatthecenterof the island looming abovethe horizon. They were ahundred nautical miles ormore from actually running

up on the island’s sandybeaches,butthatwasnotthatfar as measured at sea,particularlynotwiththewindand current setting themdownonshoreandthemwithno way to sail clear, not atleast before the considerablydamagedrigwassettorights.

And that was no simplejob.Itwasnotjustamatterofclearing the wreckage away.

When the main topmast andthe topgallant came downthey tore out great quantitiesof running rigging in theirplunge to the deck; braces,bowlines, lifts, clewlines;notto mention the shrouds,backstays, and forestays thathad been pulled out or shotthrough, without which themasts would not bear thepressureofthesails.Itallhad

to be knotted, spliced, orreplacedbeforeAbigailcouldsail, fight, or beat clear of alee shore. Incredibly,L’Armançon had suddenlydropped to number three onJack’slistofmostimmediatethreatstohislifeandthelivesofhismen.

***

Barèrewasdead.Thatatleast

was a good thing. Renaudinhad had the supremesatisfactionofseeingit,closeup.Buthehadbeenwoundedintheprocess,andBarèredidnot die byhis hand, and thattemperedhispleasure.

It had happened near theend of the fight, a fight thathad been going just asRenaudinhoped,thoughtobesure the Americans were

betterpreparedforbattlethanhehadexpectedthemtobe.Ifever one needed evidence ofthe perfidious nature of theAmericans and the British,here it was. The Americanshad sailed toAntiqua,whichmeant they had turned to theBritish navy for help. TheBritish navy. The same navythat France had fought inthose very waters to defend

the United States, the navythat had made Renaudin aprisoner while he fought forAmerican freedom, and theBritish had not only repairedtheirshipbutalsodoubledthearmament and crew.Incredible.

Renaudin did not like tothink that Barère and theDirectoire could be rightabout anything, but he could

not argue with this clearexample of Americantreachery.

Intheend,however,itdidnotmatter,becauseRenaudindidnotseethisasanissueofinternational relations, orrepublicanism versusmonarchy, or the world’sattitude toward the newFrench Republic or theAncienRégime.Forhim, this

was personal. For nearly adecade his professional pridehad been smothered under ablizzard of orders,propaganda, and uselessrevolutionaryofficerssentoutfrom Paris. His honor hadbeen slumbering, and thisimpudent American hadwokenitup,andnowhewasfocused entirely on crushinghim, to the exclusion of all

else.He and Dauville had

driven the bastards on thelower deck hard, watch onwatch, pushing them throughgun drills and sail-handlingdrills. They hadmet protestsand grumblingwith fists andbelaying pins. And the drillspaid off. The first broadside,fired point-blank range intothe American, who once

again thought himself soclever in his quick shiphandling, had beendevastating. One gunupended, the thin strakes ofthe merchantman punchedclean through. They hadcome under the American’sstern and fired again, rightthroughthetransom,themostsatisfyingvolleyofroundshotRenaudin had ever fired, his

guns twice as powerful asthosetheAmericanmounted.

The American had flownup into irons, rocked by theonslaught, andRenaudin hadworn around to come backandendit,thecoupdegrâce,astheAmericanflattedinhisheadsails and cast onto astarboard tack. That waswhenithappened.Barèrewasshouting something,

Renaudinmanagingtoignorehim, untilBarère took a gripon his forearm and turnedhim so they were face-to-face,Renaudinwithhis backtotheAmericanship.

“See here, CitoyenRenaudin!” Barère said, hisfinger raised as ifadmonishing a child, butRenaudin was still toostunned by the fact that the

man had had the audacity toactuallygrabhimby thearmand spin him around that hecouldnotspeak.

“You have your orders,straight from the Directoire,bywayofme,whospeaksforthe Directoire,” Barèrespluttered. “You are not todestroy this ship, you are tocapture it.” Itwas apparentlyclear even to Barère what

Renaudin had inmind. “Youwill call for them to strikebefore you fire another shot,isthatunderstood?”

Renaudin’s shockdissipatedbuthe stilldidnotspeak. Insteadhe reached forthe pistol in his coat pocket,thinking that the weaponcould express his feelingsbetter than any words. Butjust as his hand found the

walnutgripofthegun,hefelta burning on the top of hisear, heard a loud buzz like aswarm of bees, and a roundhole appeared in Barère’sforehead. His mouth flewopenandthebackofhisheadexplodedinasprayofblood.It was just as Renaudin hadalwaysenvisionedit.

Barère’s blood sprayedover the helmsman, who

flinched at the sight, andBarère was flung backward.Hecrashedagainst thebarrelof thehelm,hung there foramoment,andthenslumpedtothedeck.

At that moment theburning in Renaudin’s earbecame a pain like a knifethrust.Hereachedupandfeltwarm, wet blood on hisfingers.Heturnedandlooked

across the water at theAmerican. The rifleman, hethought. The damnedriflemanwho had shot downhis helmsmen and theenseigne de vaisseau the lasttime they had tangled. Thistimehenearlytookdownthecaptainandthefirstofficerina single shot. Instead thebullethadclippedRenaudin’sear on its way to taking off

thebackofBarère’shead.Renaudin looked back at

Barère’s immobile form. Hiseyes were open and crossed,givinghimanexpressionthatmight have been comical ifnot for the gore and greatquantities of blood soakinghis uniform and the deckbelowhim.Renaudin felt therage building.All of this, allthehumiliation,thedeath,the

insanity, Barère had broughtitall.

Straight from theDirectoire,bywayofme,whospeaksfortheDirectoire…

“Bastard!” Renaudinshouted. He stepped acrossthedeckandkickedBarère’sbody hard, then kicked himagain,but thedeadmanonlyslumped over in a mostunsatisfying way. Renaudin

grabbed him by the collar ofhis coat and hefted him up,surprised at how light themanwas.Hehalfcarriedandhalf dragged him over to thetaffrail, hoisted him up, andflung him over, watchingwith satisfaction as the manspun through the air, slowlytwisting as he fell the fifteenfeettothesea,thenhitwithasplashthathidhimfromview

for a moment before hebobbed up and settled, faceup, still wearing thatexpression of surprise.Renaudinhopedhemightseea shark set into that despisedcorpse.

“Sir!” It was thehelmsman and there was anurgent tone in his voice.Renaudin spun around. TheAmerican, who had been

bearingupasiftopassasternof L’Armançon, was nowfalling off again, apparentlylookingtopassahead,andindoing so threatening to takeL’Armançon’s head rig cleanoff.

“Merde,” Renaudin said.“Bear up, bear up!” He sawL’Armançon’s bow swing tolarboard but already it wastoo late. The end of the

jibboom was reaching outovertheAmerican’sforedeckand the corvette was drivingcloser still. Renaudin felt agentlethumpasthetwoshipslocked together andL’Armançon’s way waschecked.

René Dauville cameracing aft, his face streakedwith soot, a tear in his bluecoat. “Sir, where is Barère?”

heshouted.“Dead,” Renaudin

shouted back. “Get aboarding party, right up thatbowspritandsee ifyoucan’tget aboard that whoreson!”Renaudin could see theAmerican sailors hacking atL’Armançon’s rigging, couldsee the jibboom twistingdangerously under thepressurebeingexertedbythe

Americanship.“Aye, sir!” Dauville

shouted, but before he couldturn,Renaudinsteppedcloserandsaidinalowertone.“Donot lead the boardersyourself.Sendanenseignedevaisseautoleadit.”

“Sir, I must protest…”Dauvillebegan,butRenaudinwas thinking about therifleman.Hecouldnotafford

to lose his second officer.Firstofficer,now.

“That is an order,Lieutenant Dauville, a directorder,understand?”

“Aye, sir,” Dauville said,not mollified, and ranforward. And five minuteslater, Renaudin wasvindicated in his decisionwhen the damned riflemandropped the enseigne de

vaisseau intothesea,andtherest of the boarders, cowardstoaman,turnedandfled.

Then the American ship,twisting in the breeze,snapped L’Armançon’sjibboom and wrenched thebowsprit sideways until itwas hanging like a brokenwing. Renaudin ordered thespanker backed, and asL’Armançonturnedunderthe

pressureofthatsailtheygavethe arrogant, cheeringbastards a broadside theywouldremember.HeorderedDauville to personally aimeach gun for Dauville hadbroughtdowntheAmerican’smain topmast. But withoutthe headsails they had beenunable to checkL’Armançon’s swing. Thecorvette turned up into the

wind and the fore topmastcamedownaroundtheirears.

And here they lay,crippled, frantically trying tosort things out, to getsteeragewayatleast,asahalfmile away the Americanstriedtodothesame.BecausetheAmericanmasterknew,asRenaudin did, that the firstshiptogetunderwaywastheship that would bring the

otherinasaprizeofwar.They worked like

madmen, the newlydisciplined crew, andRenaudinandDauvilledrovethem in themanner towhichthey were becomingaccustomed.Atsuch times,amariner’sworld closed downto the space between thebulwarksandstraightup intothe rigging, as if nothing

existed beyond the gunwalesor above the trucks of themast.AtfirstRenaudinwouldglance over at the Americannow and again, to see thestateoftheirreadiness,buthesoon realized they weremaking no more progressthan he was, and he stoppedlooking.

And so it was severalhours after the battle that he

happened to look out to theeast.Hewasactuallylookingat the bowsprit to see whatprogress was being madethere,andithappenedthatthebow, which had beenswinging all over thecompass,waspointingeastatthat moment. Looking pastthe bow, Renaudin saw forthe first time the long blackline creeping up over the

horizon, the great heaps ofclouds building above it, thesign, well known to a manwho had spent asmuch timeintheWestIndiesashe,ofaquick-moving and brutalstorm.

He looked over thewreckage strewn aroundL’Armançon’s deck, therigging hanging in shredsabovehishead.“Merde,”he

said for the second time thatday.

***

Bythetimethesunwasnearto setting, the ugly blackclouds, which earlier hadbeen confined to the easternhorizon, were spreadoverhead, with the leadingedge of the storm off to thewest of them, making for a

weird red-and-yellow sunsetthat bathed Guadeloupe,closernowbythirtymiles,inits unearthly light. TheAbigails were exhausted buttheir efforts had barelyslacked because every manaboard could now see whattheywereinfor.Theyneededno encouragement fromBiddlecomborTuckertostepit up. The black sky and the

dull graywater, the breakingwaves flashing dull in thefadinglight, thefirststirringsof a cold wind like a spiritwafting by, these wereenough to provide all themotivationneeded.

“Adams, Fowler, take aturn there!” Jack shouted totwoofhisseamentendingtheforetopgallantheelrope.Thehands had turned their

attention to getting theremaining topgallant mastsand yards downon the deck,reducing the weight andwindage aloft in preparationfor the storm, but those twowere getting sloppy in theirexhaustion. If the line gotaway from them, the mastwould come crashing down.“We don’t need it to comedownthatdamnedfast,”Jack

added, as Fowler took a turnof the line aroundabelayingpin.

The debris had beencleared, the rigging knottedand spliced. Frost seemed tohave disappeared after Jackbroke off the fight withL’Armançon,butsoonhewasback on deck, fussing aboutthecannons,seeingtheyweredouble-lashed, then checking

themandcheckingagain.Thetopgallant yards were downand Tucker was seeing themizzen topmast down todeck, and Jackwas seeing tothe fore topgallant. The foretopsail was triple-reefed, anarrow strip of canvasquickly being lost from sightin the gloom. The mainsailwas also reefed, though Jackdid not imagine they would

holdontothatforlong.Abigail had way on at

last, driving along under thereefed topsail, mainsail, forestaysail,andthespankerwitha balance reef. She wasplunging into the chop,pitching and throwing upspray as the wind built andthe seas came on, steep andbreaking, and getting steeperstill.

“Deck there!” a voicecalled from the mizzen top,one of the British hands.“Losther,sir!”

Jackhadsenthimupthereto keep an eye onL’Armançon. For all theirworry about the storm, shewasstill a threataswell, shehad to be considered. If hercaptain felt particularlyambitioushemightfireaball

into Abigail as they werestrugglingtoclawawayfromGuadeloupe. It would nottake much damage to therigging to put themerchantman in seriousjeopardy.

But it did not appear thatthatwouldbeaproblem.TheFrenchmen were stillstruggling to get sail on, andthey were being set

downwind much faster thanAbigail.Itwasnotnecessarilya matter of seamanship. Theloss of the bowsprit and foretopmast was much moresignificant than the damageAbigail had suffered. NowAbigail, with sail set andmaking way, was nearlyholding her own, fighting towindward to keep offGuadeloupe’s lee shore. The

corvette was fighting thesame fight and losing. Thelookout had kept an eye onher for as long as he could,calling down occasionalreports, but now he had lostsightofher.

“Verywell!”Jackshoutedup, “”You may lay back todeck!” A gang of men camestaggering aft. Walking wasbecoming markedly more

difficultwiththewildmotionoftheshipandthestumblingexhaustion that all handswere feeling. Themen had alee cloth in their hands andthey began to lash it up intothe mizzen rigging, a luxuryJackhadnotexpectedbutoneforwhich he knewhewouldbe grateful. And he knew hehadTuckertothankforit.

Another figure came aft,

barelyseen,andJackrealizedit was nearly full dark.Abigail’s bow rose up, hungthere,plungeddown,and thewater ran inches deep alongthe deck, rushing like areceding tide to the leewardside. William Wentworthpulled himself to thequarterdeckbythelifeline.

“Captain!”heshouted,thewordmorelikeagreeting.

“Mr. Wentworth!” Jackcalled back. Wentworth hadhisoilskincoaton,buthalfofit seemed to be hanging intatters. “Your coat hassufferedsomeinjury,Isee!”

“Ah, theFrenchies, damntheir revolutionary eyes! Puta ball right through my seachest. This coat got off easycomparedtosomeofit!”

“I’m sorry to hear that!”

Jackshouted.Wentworth shrugged, the

gesture barely visible.“Casualty of war!” he said,then added, “It would seemwe’reinforyetanothernastynight!”

“May be worse than thelast!”Jackshoutedback.“Butshorter!” Along with thedeteriorating visibility, Jacksaw that it was becoming

moredifficulttospeak.Therewas water in the air, somerain,somespray.

“Howdoyouknowthat?”Wentworthasked.

“Thebarometer!Recall, Itold you about it, secondnightof thevoyage!When itdrops fast, itmeans theblowwillbeshortbutstrong!”

Wentworth nodded. Hewas silent for a moment.

“Captain,Iwantedtosay,I’msorryaboutthatincidentbackat Antigua! I have anotoriouslyshort temper,andmaybe have become a bitprickly on the matter ofhonor. Or I’ve come to likedueling too much, that canhappen,youknow!”

“Never think on it, Mr.Wentworth!” Jack shouted.“In all decency I should say

you were probably right allalong!”

Bothmen fell silent onceagain thoroughlyembarrassed. “Is this normal,all this dirty weather we’vemanaged to find?”Wentworth shouted at last,certainly to break the silenceasmuchasanything.

“We are at sea, Mr.Wentworth!There isnosuch

thing as ‘normal’ at sea!”They were silent again, andthen Jack added, “Butwe doseemtohavehadourshareoffoul weather! And thisbusiness about being shot upbyaFrenchman-of-war, thatis not what I would callnormal,inmyexperience!”

Wentworth nodded. Jackreachedupandgrabbedontooneofthemizzenshrouds,an

ingrained gesture, andWentworth steadied himselfon the lifeline. And then thenote in the rigging rose anoctave,theAbigailheeledfarto leeward, then farther still,and the brunt of the stormrolledoverthem.

29

Wentworth remained wherehe was and Jack remainedwherehewasbutneithertriedto speak, because the effort

required was too great.Abigail rolled hard toleeward, held there, shippinggreen water over the lee raillike a dipper in a scuttlebutt,tonsofwater.Thenshestoodagain, slowly, the groaningand popping audible evenover the shriekingwind.Thewater cascaded across thedeck as the ship rightedherself.Ithitthefiferailsand

masts and combings and thelegs of the men clinging tothe lifelines like surf on arocky shore, jetting high andfoaming white around theobstacles.

The water gushed fromthe scuppers and through thegunports,partiallyblockedbythe big guns thrust out andlashedinplace.Itrolledbackacross the deck and out the

gunports on the other side.AbigailseemedtoWentworthlike a man struggling over aroughroadwithaheavyloadonhisback.

Thebowroseupagainastheseapassedunder,plungeddown in a welter of spray,water jetting up on eitherside. She rolled and scoopedanother sea and once againthetidalsurgecrashedacross

the deck. Wentworth lookedat Jack, a dark shape by themizzen shrouds. Lightningflashed and in the sameinstant thunder cracked likethe cannon blasts of theirfight with L’Armançon, butmuch louder, much sharper,morefrightening.

Jackwaslookingaloft; intheflashoflightningWilliamsaw him, contemplating the

sails. Here was the calm hehad seen during that firstawful storm, so far beyondanythingWentworthhadeverexperienced. Then, as now,Jacklookedasifhemightbeconsidering a paintinghangingonagallerywall.

Wentworth had seenstorms of course, severalworse than this one, butalways from the solid

foundationofhisBeaconHillhome. Save for the fewoccasions when he had beencaught in the rain, a stormhad never caused him anyreal discomfort. It certainlyhadnevercausedhimtothinkhe might be dead within afewhours.

That was what made thisunique. The storm wastossing them, rolling them,

making theshippitchwildly.They were part of the storm—the wind, the seas, thelightning, theship, theywereall part of this mad world.The storm was not anacademic consideration, andWentworth, for once, not adisinterested observer. Thisstorm could kill him, couldtaketheAbigailtothebottomorpileherupontheshoreof

Guadeloupe, and that madeWentworth as interested as aman could be.The samehadbeen true of the fight withL’Armançon and Wentworthwondered if it was also thereason for his growingaddiction to dueling.Hewaslikeamanwakingup.

Jack letgoof the shroud,grabbed the lifeline, andstumbled forward, the water

breaking around his legs. Inthe odd flashes Wentworthcould see someone, hethought itwas JohnBurgess,goingfromguntogun,takingholdofthemany,manyropesthatbound them to the sides,and pulling to check theywerestilltaut.Jackwaitedforthe ship to stand moreupright, then leapt across tothe midships gun, and

grabbed hold as the shiprolledofftoleeward.

With every burst oflightning Wentworth couldseeJack frozen inadifferentpose;armpointed toward thesails,armpointedtothebow,both hands grabbing on thebreech rope of the gun tokeep himself from beingsweptaway.Andthenhewasheading back to the

quarterdeckand the lightningshowed Burgess and a gangof men at the pin rails, themen on the leeward sidesometimes waist deep in theboarding seas as they castcertain lines off the belayingpins and grabbed hold,swaying with the rolling oftheship.

They are clewing up themainsail! William thought.

He had been watching themen at work long enoughnowthatheunderstood thesebasic operations, and he wassecretly proud of that. Jackhadpausedonhiswayaftandwas takingoneof the thickerropes off … not a belayingpin … Wentworth struggledfor the word. A kevel! herecalled,and thenrealizedhecouldbeofhelphere,andnot

just a passenger standingdumb and useless on thequarterdeck.

Heshuffledforward,kneedeep inwater, thenmade theleap to the weather rail,grabbing hold of the ringbehind where Jack stood. “Ican tend the…main sheet!”he shouted, the name of therope coming miraculously tomind just as he needed to

speakit.Jack turnedand lookedat

him, water streaming downand filtering through thestubbleonhisunshavedface.William could see theindecision,theinternaldebateas to whether the uselesspassenger could be trustedwith this task. “Very well!”heshoutedatlast.“Payitoutas they clew up!Don’t let it

getawayfromyou,butdon’thold it fast and make thosepoorbastardsworktoohard!”

Wentworth nodded. Healmost said “Aye, aye,” buthe could not summon thenerve, so he said, “Iunderstand, Captain!” andtook the line from Jack’shand.

Jackmadealungeforthelifeline and almostmissed as

the ship took an unexpectedrollandhithimwitharushofwater that knocked himsideways. But he hung on,and soon he was moving aftandWentworth turned to hisassignedtask.

He understood inprinciple what he had to do;as the hands at the starboardclewgarnet hauled that line,which would pull the

starboard corner of the sailup, he had to ease the mainsheet, which held the cornerof the saildown.Presumablyhehadanoppositenumberonthe larboard side. The mainsheet was still wrapped in afigureeightaroundthetopofthekevel.Hehadtounwrapitenough that he could let itslip free as the sail went up,butnotsomuchthathecould

not hold it and keep the sailunder control. Itwas the sortof thing that seemed verysimple when he watchedothers do it, but appearedmuchmorenuancednowthathehadtodoithimself.

Carefully he removed aturn from one of the kevel’shorns and felt no addedpressure. But themen of theclewgarnet were hauling,

pulling, swaying, stumbling,andWentworthknewhewaskeeping them from haulingthe sail up. He took anotherturnoff.Theropewashardtohold now, he could feel theenormous tension both fromthe clewline and from theshriekingwind.Buthishandswere tougher now than theyhad ever been. After havinghis palms flayed in the last

storm while trying to holdbacktheslidinggun,theskinhad grown back nearly ascalloused as a sailor’s handswouldbe.

He considered thepleasureofrunninghishandsover a young lady’s smoothskinandwonderedhowmuchthat sensation would now bediminished. Quite a bit, heconcluded, but nonetheless,

like his growingunderstanding of theworkingsofasailingship,hetook certain delight in histoughhands.

Foot by foot the linesnakedthroughhishandsandaroundthekevelandthemenat the clewgarnets hauled itup.Theyfoughtwiththeline,pulling against the force ofthe wind, struggling to keep

their balance as the boardingseas bashed against themagainandagain.Thenthesailwas up: in the seconds ofillumination Wentworthcould see it hanging belowthe yard and beating angrily,as if it was infuriated athavingbeenbroughtin.

Themenatthelinesmadethemoff to thebelayingpinsand Wentworth looped the

sheet around the top of thekevel. Then the handsforwardbegantostumbleandpulltheirwayacrossthedeckto the main shrouds on theweather side. The first ofthem stepped up on a guncarriage, swung outboard,tookholdoftheshrouds,andbegan the long struggle aloftto stow the sail.Theymovedlikemenoff tobe sacrificed,

but Wentworth knew it wasjustthedifficultyofclimbingwith sowild amotion of theship, and not any shynessabout going aloft, that madethemmovethatway.

There seemed toWentworth to be quite a fewmen,andthenherecalledthatthey had the British handsaboard, more than doublingthe crew,whichwouldmake

the work of stowing the sailblessedly simpler. That factaside, Wentworth wasdetermined that this time hewould join them. He couldnot stand to think he wasbackward inhiscourage,andhe did not think he was, buthismemoryofdecliningtogoaloft nagged at him. Heheaded forward now,determinedtokillthatghost.

“Mr. Wentworth!” heheardthevoicerolldownthedeck even over thewind.Heturned and could just makeout the figure of CaptainBiddlecomb,waving him aft.He reversed direction andfought his way back to thequarterdeck, up toBiddlecomb’sside.

“Well done with thesheet!” Biddlecomb shouted.

“But going aloft in thisweather is not for landsmen!Best keep your feet on thedeck!Ifyoucan!”

Various reactions hitWilliam like a boarding sea.Relief was one of them, hecould not deny it. It was nodecision of his, but a directorder from the master thatkept him relatively safe ondeck. But there was also

disappointment, and anger.Was Biddlecomb implying awant of aptitude on his part?A want of courage? Histhoughts turned, as theyalwaysdidinsuchsituations,towhetherheshoulddemandsatisfaction.

Don’t be an idiot! hethought. There was not theleast implication of anythingin Biddlecomb’s voice. And

what’s more, Biddlecombwas right. Proud as hemightbe of his gained knowledge,Wentworth had to admit hewas still a landsman andwouldonlybe in thewayupaloft.

“Very well, Captain!” hecried. He reached for thelifelinebutBiddlecombputahandonhisarm.

“Ifyouwishtoremainon

thequarterdeck,Isuggestyougetbehindtheleeclothhere!”heshouted.Theleecloth,tiedup in the mizzen shrouds,offered a modicum of relieffrom the rain and spray.Wentworth nodded histhanks, stepped up to theweather rail, and shelteredhimselfasbestashecould.

It was immediatelyobvious, even toWentworth,

that the ship was behavingmuchbetterwiththemainsailstowed. She still rolledheavily, still took boardingseas,butthewaterdidnotrunso deep along her deck, andher motion had less of thelaboring,desperatemotionofearlier.

Wentworth remained ondeck for an hour more,watching the ship plunging

along, utterly unable todetermine if shewasmakingheadway, sternway, orstaying in one spot. She didseem to have a sort ofequilibrium; the amount ofsail set was enough to driveher,notenoughtooverwhelmher, and the seas rolled insteepandbreakingbutwithacertainregularitytowhichhebecame accustomed. The

deckwas snugged down, thewatch seeking what shelterthey could because, for themoment, there was nothingtheyneeded todobutwait itout.

Jack kept looking astern.Wentworthcouldnothelpbutnoticeit,andoncehehimselfstolea lookaftbutcouldseenothingbutblacknessandtheoccasionalflashofabreaking

wave,and,whenthelightningcame, the huge and unrulyseas lit up with that strangeyellow light and deepshadow.

“What are you lookingat?”Wentworthfinallyasked,as Jack did it again. He stillhadtoshouttobeheard,evenfromafewfeetaway.

“Guadeloupe!” Jackshouted.“OrL’Armançon!Or

both!”Wentworth nodded. Jack

paused, then added, “If itwere not for those, I’d likelyturn and run before this!Butwe have no sea room! If wehit either the island or theFrenchiewe’redonefor!”

Williamnoddedagainandturnedandlookedasternoncemore. He could not helphimself.Andagain therewas

nothing to see, and half anhour later, when thehelmsmen were relieved,therewasstillnothingtosee,and William was soakedthrough and chilled, despitethe relatively warm WestIndian night. He thoughtabout leaving the deck, buthis pride suggested ifBiddlecomb was going toremain there all night, he

should, too, even though heserved no functionwhatsoever. Finally goodsense asserted itself and hebade good night toBiddlecomb and fought hisway below. A storm lanternwas hanging from a hook,whichgavehimlightenoughto findwhat remained of hiscabin and he lay down, fullydressed,inhisbunkandslept.

Hewokesomehourslaterwith the sense that it wasdaylight and that somethingwastakingplaceondeck.Helay still and listened. Themotionoftheshipwasnotasbad now, the shudder of thehullinthewater,thesoundofthe wind in the rig alldiminished a bit. Therewerefeet running topside andmuffledshouts,heardthrough

the planks of the deck. Andnot just topside. He couldhear activity in the ’tweendecks and down in the hold,the entire ship’s company atsomeurgenttask.

William swung his legsover the edgeof thebed andstood. His clothing was nolonger wet, but it was farfrom dry. It was damp,clammy, and considerably

uncomfortable, but heimagined that once he hadbeen moving around a bit itwouldnotbesobad.Orsohetoldhimself.

He forced hisway out ofthe cabin and down thealleyway. The cover was offthemain hatch and the cool,fresh air that was filling thenarrow space smelled goodand clean. A gang of men

were working at something,and at first glance Williamthought they were doingbattle with some greatmonster of legend, but thenhesawtheywerehaulingtheend of one of the massiveropesoutofthehold.

He climbed the ladder tothedeckabove,steppedfromthe scuttle, and lookedforward. The dawn was an

hour past and the worldtopside was gray and wild.Theseaswereleadenandstillimmense,wavestenfeethighrolling down on Abigail,making her lift and plunge.Theskywasnearly the samecolor, a variegated gray andwhite and near black. Thewind was whistling throughtherigging,butthepitchwaslower,thestrengthnotwhatit

hadbeen; thirtyor thirty-fiveknots,perhaps.

He lookedaft and suckedin his breath. The highmountains of Guadeloupe,gray-green in that light,werepractically looming overthem, so close Wentworthcould not take in the wholeisland in in a single glance.He stepped to the rail andleaned over and looked

astern.Hewasnogreatjudgeofdistance,but there seemedto be five or six miles fromwhere they were to wheretheywould run aground, andthatseemed likeasignificantdistance to him, enough thatthey were in no immediatedanger, but he knew he wasno judge of those things,either.

A gang of men were aft

and they seemed excitedaboutsomethingandWilliamguessed it was the proximityof the island. Then Tuckerappeared and shooed themforward, and reluctantly theyturned from the taffrail andheaded amidships, throwingglances back as they did.Wentworth passed them,heading aft to whereBiddlecombandTuckerwere

standing at the rail. He wasnot sure if the general orderto get the hell off thequarterdeckappliedtohimaswell, but he was curiousenoughthathewaswillingtorisk the embarrassment if itdid.

“Captain, what ho?” heaskedashesteppeduptotherail. “Are we in danger ofrunningashoreonthisisland,

which I take to beGuadeloupe?”

“No, we have roomenough, and enough way onifwedon’tsufferanydamagealoft. It’s this fellow thatcouldwellbedonefor.”

Wentworth followedBiddlecomb’s pointed finger.At first he saw only thesuccession of waves. ThentheseasliftedL’Armançonup

from the trough, waterstreaming through hergunports, a great tangle ofwreckage on her decks. Shewas rolling hard, and therewas nothing beyond thestump of a mainmast leftstanding. The rest of her rigwas either gone, or lyingacrossthedeckandpoundingtheshiptobits.Windandseawere driving her to thewest,

and even Wentworth couldsee that she had an hour,perhaps an hour and a half,beforeshefounderedonwhatwas undoubtedly aninhospitableshore.

***

The longest nights, Jack hadlongagodiscovered,weretheones that were spent waitingfor dawn to come. Suchwas

the case with this last night,just coming to its end. Thestormhadbeenbad,certainly,but for all the damage shesuffered in the fight withL’Armançon, Abigail was ingood shape, standing riggingrepaired, running gear set torights, andonce theyhad themainstowedshedrovealongnicely under the triple-reefedfore topsail and the fore and

aft canvas. Jack would havebeen perfectly content if hehadnothadtheislandandtheFrench corvette somewhereunderhislee.

Wentworth had been ondeck for a bit, had eventended themain sheet,whichwas a genuine help since itmeant he did not have to doit.ToJack’sgreatsurprise,heno longer seemed to mind

having Wentworth around.Command was the mostlonely of positions onshipboard, but Jack was notbynatureasolitaryperson.Aclose friendship with any ofhis subordinates would havebeen inappropriate. ButWentworth was a passenger,andwhile Jack did not thinkofhimasafriend,andinfactthoughtofhimassomeonehe

could barely tolerate, it wasoddly pleasant to have hiscompany on the quarterdeck.What’smore,unlikeFrost,hedid not have to worry aboutWentworth second-guessinghis decisions, becauseWentworth did not know adamned thing about anythingthatwasgoingon.

Jack had kept the deckthrough the dark hours,

though he allowed the offwatch to go below, no needfor all hands on deck. Thefirst inkling of light outlinedthe threatening, hulkingpresenceofGuadelouperightundertheirleeandabouttwoleagues off. Close enough tobeworrisome,butnotenoughto be frightening. Unless therigfailed.

ButwhatofL’Armançon?

He did not think she wasmuchofa threatnow,buthedid need to know where shewas.Hepulledhisbest glassfrom the binnacle and sweptthe horizon astern. She hadbeen to leeward of Abigailwhenthesunwentdownandhe seriouslydoubted that shehad worked her way toweatherduringthenight.

He sawno sign of her as

he looked along the raggedyedge of the horizon. He wasstarting towonder if perhapsshe had foundered whensome object, low and dark,caughthiseye.Heshiftedtheglass. There she was, abouttwo miles to leeward. Hermastshadgonebytheboard,no doubt rolled clean out ofher.Shewasridingbowontotheseas,whichsurprisedhim,

ashewouldhavethoughtshewould turn broadside to thewaves, and that would havebeenanendtoher.Asitwas,they were only postponingtheirdoom.

The wind and seas weredriving her right on shore,and in those conditions itwould be no more than anhour or two before she wasaground. She would strike

bottom some ways from theisland, hang up, roll hard onher side. The next wavewould lift her and drop herandprobablystoveherinlikeanegg.And if itdidnot, thenext one would, or the oneafter that. Some of hercompanymight live,clingingto wreckage, washed intoshore, but for most, theirbloated corpses would be

flung on the beach, theirpockets would be picked bythe islanders come down toscavengethewreck,andtheirbodieswouldbecomeamealfor crabs and gulls andsharks.

Tucker came up next tohim. “Any sight ofL’Armançon, sir?” he asked.Biddlecomb pointed andTucker gave a low whistle.

He handed Tucker the glassand the mate looked andwhistled again. “Done for,ain’tshe,sir?”hesaid.

“Yes,”Jacksaid.Allthosemen…Heharboredthemnoillwill,whichwassomewhatsurprising, given that theyhad tried to kill him, and hewas not a terribly forgivingsort. But, enemies thoughthey might be, they were

fellow mariners as well, andhefeltakinshipwithmenofthe sea, particularly those insuch grave peril, a kinshipthat went beyond theanimositiesofwar.

Wasn’t personal, Jackthought.Theofficerswerenodoubt following orders, andthe dumb sods on the lowerdeckhadnosay.

“Yes,” Jack said again.

“They are done for.Unless…”

30

Word that the disabledcorvette was in sight asternspread through the crew inthat indescribable, telepathic

wayofships’companies.Themen came aft to stare outover thewaterat thepatheticsight. Jack gave them twominutes to look and blathertheir sundry opinions beforehe toldTucker toset themtorousting the two-inch hawserout of the cable tier andflaking it out, ready forrunning,onthe’tweendecks.

Wentworth appeared and

Jack showed him the sourceof all the excitement. “Theircase is hopeless, is it not?”Wentworth asked, his eyesfixed on the distant hulk ofthe corvette. “It would seemwith no masts or sails theyhave no way to avoid beingdriven ashore. Can theyanchor?”

“By the time they are inwater shallow enough to

anchorin,they’llbepoundingon the beach,” Jackexplained. “Frankly, I do notthink they can savethemselves.”

“So they are…”Wentworth began andstopped. He pulled his eyesfrom the battered ship andlooked at Jack. “You aregoingtosavethem?”

“I am going to try.We’ll

seeifthereisanywaytopassa hawser to them and towthemclear.”

“Really?” Wentworthsaid, not as if he thought itwas a bad idea, but as if hewasnotsurewhathethought.

“Do you think this amistake, Mr. Wentworth?”Jack asked.He certainlywasnot looking for any advicefrom the man, but he was

curious to see whatWentworthwouldsay.

“I’m not sure,”Wentworth said. “I’m nogreat fan of Frenchmen, andeven less of Frenchmenwhoshoot at me. But I guessthere’s that brotherhood oftarpaulins,andallthat.”

“There is, indeed,” Jacksaid.“Andwhoknows, ifwesucceed in this madness we

may strike a great blow forinternational relations, undosomeof thedamage thatMr.Jay and his treaty withEnglandhasdone.”

Before Wentworth couldanswer, their conversationwas interrupted by loudfootstepsonthedeckandthecall of, “CaptainBiddlecomb!” as a red-facedCharles Frost came huffing

up. “I hear the Frenchie isdismasted, being drivenashore.”

“He is there, Mr. Frost,”Jack said, pointing, and hecouldheartheclippedtoneinhis own voice. In the darkhours of the night, alone onthe quarterdeck, he had beenthinking a great deal aboutthesubtleinfluencethatFrosthad been exerting over the

affairsofhisship,andhedidnot like the realizations thathadcometohim.

“Whyarethemengettingout that cable?” Frostdemanded.

“It is no affair of yours,Mr.Frost,butoutofcourtesyIwill tell you that Imean todrop to leeward and see if Ican pass a cable to theFrenchmen,seeifwecantow

themoffthisleeshore.”“Are you mad?” Frost

demanded.“Haveyoulostallyour senses? These are thefellows who were trying tokill you not twelve hoursago!”

“That was war, or somesuch,” Jack said. “In truth, Idon’t knowwhat it was. Butthisisamatterofthesea.”

“Damnthesea,anddamn

these Frenchmen! You willnottowthemoff,doyouhearme,youwillnot!”

Jack clenched his teethtogether and took a fewseconds before he trustedhimselftospeak.“Youforgetyourself, sir,” he said at last.“Mr.Oxnardmayhavegivenyouleavetoassistwiththesedamned guns, but you havenoauthorityaboard thisship.

You most certainly do nothaveanyauthority inmattersofseamanship.”

“I do not think Oxnardwouldagreewithyou,sir.”

“If you see Mr. Oxnardyoumayaskhim,”Jacksaid,“but until then, I am incommand.”

“Are you?” Frost asked,his voice a growl, all of thebonhomiequitegone.Hewas

furious in a way Jack hadnever seen him before, in away Jack would not haveimagined he could become.“We shall see about that,Captain.”

After having commandedAbigail through two violentstorms and the same numberofseafights,Jackwouldhavethought that having someoneaddress him as “Captain” in

an ironic tone would nolonger have made himfurious. But apparently not.In that instanthissmolderingangerflashedintoawhite-hotrage.

His hand shot out andgrabbedFrost’srightarmandjerked it toward him, whichspun Frost right around, athing that might not havebeen so easy if the big man

had not been so surprised.Then Jack wound up andkicked him hard in the rearend,kickedhimhardenoughto send him stumblingforward a few feet. Despitehis fury, Jack was awareenough to see the suppressedgrinsonthefacesof themenaround him, but that had nocalmingeffect.

“Getbelow,Mr.Frost,get

below and stay below andstaythehelloutofmyaffairs,orbyGod,sir,Iwillgiveyouworsethanthat!”

Frost turned, slowly. Hisface was red, and the angerseemed etched upon it. Hiseyebrows and lips cametogether, and he looked as ifhe might speak. No one onthequarterdeckmoved.ThenFrost turned in a flurry of

coattails, stomped offforward, and disappeareddownthescuttle.

JackturnedtoTucker.“Isthat two-inch hawser roustedoutyet?”hesnapped.

***

Biddlecomb seemed to thinkthatMr.CharlesFrostwasonhiswaybelowtoremainthereand not interfere until this

business was done, butWentworth was not so sure.From what he had observed,Frostwasnotonetobeeasilydissuaded, and his silentretreat from the quarterdeckseemed more a change ofplanthanacapitulation.

Wentworthheadedforthescuttleaswell.Nooneonthequarterdeck seemed to noticehis leaving, being engrossed

as they were in a discussionof hawsers and drogues anddriftandmessengersandanynumberoftarpaulinissueshedid not understand. Heclimbed down to the ’tweendecksandheadedaft.

Frost was in his cabin.Wentworth could hear himthumping around in there,thoughhewas not surewhatthe man was about. Then he

heard the familiar rattle of asteel rammerclickingagainstthe barrel of a pistol andWentworth knew that hisworst fear was indeed thecase. He knocked on thecabindoor.

“Be gone, damn you!”Frostshoutedfrombehindthethin,whitepaintedwood.

“Mr.Frost, aword, sir, ifyouwill,”Wentworthcalled.

“Iwillnot!Begone!”Wentworth turned the

handle and opened the door.Frost was standing at the farend of the cabin, and onceagain Wentworth consideredthe size of the place, twicethat of his own cabin, andthought, Damn your eyes,Biddlecomb, you vengefullittlebastard…

Buthewasthereonother

business, and he turned toface Mr. Frost. The butt ofone pistol was jutting out ofFrost’s coat pocket and hewas tamping down thewadding and shot in thesecond.

“Isaid‘Begone,’andstillyou let yourself in like youarethedamnedadmiralofthefleet!”

“Mr. Frost, whatever you

are planning, sir, it has nohope of success. Will youshoot Biddlecomb andTucker?Andthenwhat?”

“This is none of youraffair!” Frost thundered.“You arrogant, spoiled,cocksure little whelp! Thisbusiness is more importantthanyoucouldevenimagine!The very life of our nation,sir!”

Wentworth had not beencertain until that point whathewoulddo,butbeingcalledanarrogant,spoiled,cocksurelittle whelp had settled theissueforhim.Buthewasstillcurious.

“Oh, but I can imagine,Mr. Frost,” he said. “I knowmore of this than you mightthink.Iknowthatitwasyourintention all along to steer

Biddlecomb into fighting theFrenchman. Son of theFederalist leader IsaacBiddlecomb attacking avessel of the French navy,initiating war. The bellicosedesigns of the Adamsadministration on display forall the world to see.” Frosthad not written that last partin his letter to Oxnard, ofcourse, but Wentworth

guesseditwasthereason.Hecouldthinkofnoother.

Frost looked as if he hadbeen struck with a buggywhip.“Damnyoureyes,howdo you know that?” hedemanded, confirmingWentworth’shypothesis.

“I am kept informed, sir,wellinformed.But,pray,howdid you arrange it so youyourself would not be killed

in the fight?Andhowwouldyoubeletgofromtheprisontowhichwewereallbound?”

“If you know so damnedmuch, you should know thatas well,” Frost said. “And ifyou do not, then by Godyou’llnothearitfromme.”

Wentworth nodded. Hewas only going to get somuch, and no more, but hecontinuedtoprod.

“When the Frenchmanfailed to take this ship, youhadtheideathatBiddlecombmightactuallybeat theminasecond fight, is that correct?Ifyousawtoherbeingbetterarmed and manned? Youthoughtthatwouldbeanevengreater show of Federalistaggression.”

StillFrostremainedsilent,but the flush in his cheeks

was like a signal lantern thatWentworthwascorrect.

“Then tell me this,”Wentworthsaid,“whydoyounot wish for Biddlecomb torescueL’Armançon?Theyaredoomed if he doesn’t towthemoff,andyouareagreatfriend to the French, are younot?”

Frost slipped the pistol’srammer back into its slot

under the barrel of the gun.He seemed to be regainingsome equilibrium. “This isbigger than a single ship, orthe livesof themenwhosailher. This pup Biddlecombwantstoplaythegrandnavalhero,andAdamswillcrowtotheworldaboutwhatafriendheistoallnations,thesonofhis man Isaac Biddlecombsaving the very ship that

attacked him.” With thatFrostsmiled,actuallysmiled.“After all of our carefulplanning,theironyofsuchanoutcomewouldbemore thanIcouldbear.”

Wentworthnodded again.“Iunderstand.Butbeforeyoudo anything rash, there issomethingI thinkyoushouldsee.”

“What?”

“Something CaptainBiddlecomb has secreted inhis cabin. I saw it only byaccident.But I think itmightchange your perception ofthisentirematter.”

Frost cocked his head,thencockedhispistol. “Verywell, Wentworth, you leadtheway.”

Wentworthsteppedoutofthe big cabin andmoved aft.

The great cabin door wasjammedandhehadtoputhisshoulder to it to swing itopen. When he did, he wasstunned atwhat he saw. Theaftwindows,thatelegantwallofglass,wereblownout,andonly a line of jagged frameandsundryshardsaroundtheperiphery were left. Thehanging cotwas shot in two,the sideboard was in several

pieces and tossed around theroom,greatholesinthewallsprovided an unobstructedview of the sea beyond.Everythingwaswet,andhalfan inch of water rolled backandforthonthedeck.

Hestepped further inandFrost came in behind him.Frost held thegun lowbut itwas unambiguously pointedat Wentworth. “What is it,

then?”Frostdemanded.Wentworth crossed the

cabin to the settee below theaftwindowsandremovedtheplank that made up the seat,revealing the storage spacebeneath.“There,”hesaid.

“What?”Frostsaid.“There. Come have a

look.”“Liftitup,”Frostsaid.“I can’t lift it, it’s nailed

in place,” Wentworth said.Frost crossed the great cabinto Wentworth’s side. Hepeered down into the settee.In the storage space sat awooden box of what wasonce a decent set of chinabeforetheFrenchmanhadputa ball through it and turnedintopotsherds.

“What is it?” Frost askedand Wentworth grabbed his

wrist,pushedthepistolaside,grabbed a handful of Frost’sbreecheswith the other handand flung him out the sternwindow.

Or at least he tried.Frost’sleghittheedgeofthesettee and he fell, comingdown on a jagged bit ofwindow frame. He screamedin agony, twisted his head,looked right at Wentworth,

swung the pistol around, andfired.

Wentworth jerked hisheadtothesideashesawtheguncominghisway.Theshotmade a huge sound in theconfined space andWentworthheard thebuzzoftheballasittorepasthisear,inches or less away. Hegrabbed Frost’s boots andhefted them up, tilting Frost

aft. Frost made a strangledsound. He seemed to becaught up on the brokenwindow frame. Then,whateverwasholdinghimletgoandhe tumbledoutof thewindow and hit the waterastern.

Hewasgone in thewhitewake, gone for some time.Wentworth wondered if hecould swim. Amoment later

hesawanarmwavingmadly,much farther off, an arm, nomore, and then that wentunder and he saw no othersignofCharlesFrost.

No, I guess he can’t,Wentworth thought. Helistened for sounds from thedeck above, some shout of,“Man overboard!” or somesuch, but he heard nothing.They were too engrossed in

their noble effort to saveFrenchlives.

***

Jackwas trying to get a feelforhowAbigailwouldhandlein the steep seas as theyworked their way downwindwhen the gun went off. Hewas standing by the helm,gauging the motion of theship as she rode the waves.

Hewaiteduntilthebowcamedown in a trough, the sailsshiveringas the seasblockedthe wind, and then rose upagain. The bow began tomount the nextwave, the tipof the jibboom spearing theoncoming roller, pulling freeand shedding a trail of saltwater like a dagger pulledfrom a victim, drippingblood.

“Now,Maguire, falloff!”Jacksaid.

Maguire spun the wheel.Abigail’s bow turnedgracefullyoff thecrestof thewave, and then, just as theship might have gonebroadside to the seas, Jacksaid, “Come up! Meet her!”MaguirespunthewheelbackandAbigail turnedback,bowintothesea,readytomeetthe

nextroller.Intheprocessshehad dropped farther toleeward, closer to thewallowingcorvetteastern.

“That went well,” Jacksaid.

“Aye, sir,” Maguire saidbut he did not sound assanguine as Jack did. Thequestion of course waswhether that evolutionwouldget them down to

L’Armançon beforeL’Armançon piled up onGuadeloupe, and if they didget down to her, could theypass her a line? Was hercompany still intact enoughto take their part in herrescue?

And then a gunwent off,right under Jack’s feet, apistol by the sound, and itmadehimjump.“Whatinall

hellwas that?” he demandedbuteveryoneonthedeckwasstaring around with dumblooks on their faces. “Mr.Burgess,” he said to theboatswain, “get below andseewhatthatwasabout!”

“Aye, sir,” Burgess saidand headed forward. Abigailwas coming up on the nextwave and Maguire fell offagainas thebowreached the

crest,hardenedupastheshipplungeddownintothetrough.They were meeting the nextwave when Burgessreappeared, Wentworthfollowingbehind,agrimlookonhisface.

“Well, what was that?”Biddlecomb demanded, butBurgess just turned toWentworthforananswer.

“Mr. Wentworth?” Jack

asked.“Mr.Frost’sdead,Ifear,”

Wentworth said, and hesoundedgenuinelytroubled.

“Dead? Dear God!” Jacksaid.“What…?”

“Killed himself. I wentbelow, looking for him. Hewasn’tinhiscabin,butIsawthe door to your cabin wasopenso,forgiveme,Ilookedin. He was there by the

window, just sitting on thesettee. He had a pistol. Ipleadedwithhimnottodoit,but…”

“Dear God!” Jack said.“Was it … was it my …discourteousness?” He washorrified to think that hemighthavebeenthecauseofthis,himandhistemper.

“No, no!” Wentworthsaid. “Never think that! He

looked me right in the eyesand he said, ‘Wentworth, Ifailed. I had a task, animportanttask,andIfailed.’Iaskedhimwhathemeant,buthe put the gun in his mouthand pulled the trigger. Theshotknockedhim rightback,outthewindow.”

Therewasstunnedsilenceon the quarterdeck. Abigailroseandfellonthenextwave

and Jack never even thoughtto turnher to leewardon thecrest. Wentworth spokeagain. “There were thingsacting, Captain Biddlecomb,things Frost was about, thatwe’lllikelyneverunderstand.He was playing at somegame,Ifear,andwewerehispawns.”

Again there was silence.The seconds ticked by. And

then Lacey came aft andreported the hawser flakedout on the ’tween decks andthemorbid spellwasbroken,because there was, at sea,onlysomuchtimethatcouldbe spent dwelling on thedead.

For the next hour Jackcontinued to turn theAbigailto leeward, just a bit, at thecrest of eachwave. The seas

were too big, the ship’s rigtoo compromised, to actuallyturn and sail downwind. Ifthey tried, there was everychance Abigail would alsolose her masts and then sheand the corvette would goashore side by side, die likelovers in a suicide pact. Jackdid not care for thatpossibility, so instead hedropped his ship down to

L’Armançon, wave by wave,yardbyyard.

They were just above acable lengthawaywhenJackrealized why L’Armançonwas not drifting as fasttoward Guadeloupe and herdestruction as it seemed sheshould.HeandTuckersawitat the same time, a churninginthewaterlikeasubmergedledge, one hundred yards

ahead of the corvette. Jackfelt a flashof panicwhenhesaw the white water boilingand rolling just below thesurface, and Tucker cried,“What’sthat?Areef?”

Jack put his glass to hiseye.He could see somedarkmass in the water, and as itroseonawavealineroseupfrom the sea, running justabove the surface, right back

toL’Armançon’sbow.“It’sasea anchor of some sort,”Jack reported. “No wonderthey’renotyetonthebeach.”He studied it a bit more,waiting see what the liftingseaswould reveal. Itwas themainmast, the ship’smainmast,hermainyardandsail still attached, or so itseemed. When the mast hadgone by the board they had

managedtobendaheavylinetoitandletitdriftaway,withtheotherendofthelinemadefast to the bitts in thecorvette’s bow. The drag ofthe mast and gear had keptL’Armançon’s bow pointedinto the wind and sea andslowedherrateofdrift.

“Good work, forFrenchies,” Tucker said.“Might have saved their

hides.”“Maybe,” Jack said.

“Maybenot.”Theseaanchormight have kept the Frenchship off the beach, but itwould stop Abigail fromgetting close enough to passthem a line. Jack could notrisk the possibility ofsmashinghis rudder into thatmassive trunk ofwood as hetried to get down to the

stricken ship. He could notrisk having the shatteredmainmastrearupandpunchahole clean through Abigail’sbottom.

“We’ll get a bit closer,”Jack said at last, “and see ifthere’s a way around thisdamned wreckage. But ifthere’sarisktothisship,I’mafraid Monsieur is on hisown.”

***

ThemenofL’Armançonhaddone well, Renaudin had toadmit as much. They hadworked likemad to clear thewreckage. They had madewhatrepairstheycouldtothestanding rigging, set therunning rigging to rights, sothatthesailstheysetcouldbecontrolled to some degree.They had plugged the few

shot holes and secured thegreat guns with doublelashings.But it had not beenenough.

In preparing for sea, oneneverknowswhatisorisnotlashedproperlyuntilthatfirstbigwave rolls the ship hard.Likewise, in preparing forfoul weather, one is neversure how adequate thepreparationsareuntilthefirst

punch of the storm staggersthe ship, and then she standsuporshedoesnot.InthecaseofL’Armançon,shestoodup.Butnotforlong.

The bowsprit had beenbowsed down as tight as itcould be, and a new forestayset up, but that had not beenenough. The seas struck thewounded bowsprit again andagain, glancing blows that

shifted it and loosened thelashings. They were makinglittle if any headway, andRenaudin was painfullyaware ofGuadeloupe, just toleewardofthem.

The corvette was on astarboard tack, trying toclawher way out to sea, to getawayfromtheloomingthreatof the island. It occurred toRenaudin that if he could

tack,get the seas striking thebowspritonthelarboardside,itmightknockthatsparbackinto place before it was tornlooseandtooktherestof therigwithit.

It was an enormouslyriskymove. Tackingwith anundamaged rig in thoseconditionswasnomean feat,and L’Armançon was farfromundamaged.Theycould

wear ship, but Renaudinknew he could not afford tolose all that distance toleeward.Theyput their helmalee as the ship came up onthe crest of a wave, and formost of the evolution itseemed as if all would bewell, their improvised forestaysail bringing the bowaround.

But then as Renaudin

called,“Letgoandhaul!”themain topsail yard snappedlike a twig. Rot, perhaps, oran unseen injury, it didn’tmatter. The result was thesame. The spar folded like ajackknife, the bow spun offthe wind, out of control.L’Armançon ended upbroadside to the seas, in thetrough to the waves, androlling so violently that the

main shrouds tore from thechannels and what remainedof the rigcamedownaroundtheirheads.

Andwhen that happened,Renaudinwasdone.Thebadluck, the misery of theRevolution,thedestructionofhis beloved navy, thedestruction of his belovedL’Armançon, it was all toomuch.Hisshipwasdead,and

he saw no reason that heshould outlive it. He walkedaft to the stern rail, leanedagainst it, folded his arms,andwaitedforhis life toendon the reefs beyondGuadeloupe’ssandyshores.

René Dauville, however,did not share Renaudin’swish to let it all come to anend.Onceagainhedrovethecrew beyond what any

rational man would thinkpossible. They hacked thestandingriggingaway,tossedtopmast and topgallantoverboard.Theyroustedoutacablefromthecabletier,bentit to the mainmast and yard,and with blocks, tackles,handspikes,and thepowerofdesperateandfrightenedmentheysentthewholethingoverthe side, let it stream to

windward. They could feelthe tension come on the lineasL’Armançon’s bow swungupintothewindandtheseas,andhermotionwentfromthegut-churning, deathlywallowofashipbroadsidetotheseato the more reasonablemotion of a ship riding bowto.

Dauville came aft toreport their success, but

Renaudin showed littleinterest, and said even less.Noman aboard thought theireffortswoulddoanythingbutdelay what was going tohappen,butunliketheothers,Renaudin did not wish foreventhosefewextraminutes.Letusbedonewiththis…hethought.

Dawncameandtheislandwas still three or four miles

under their lee, the seas stillsteep, the wind still strong,but lessening.TheAmerican,the damned, damnedAmerican, was to windward,her rig still as it had been atnightfall, the main topmastshot away, fore topgallantsent down. She was makingwayunderaclosereefedforetopsail, staysails, andspanker. Renaudin glared at

her. The only thing thatwould make his death anyeasierwasthethoughtthathemight takeherwithhim.Buthesawnochanceofthat.Shewasunderwayandwouldsailclear of the island, and theAmericans would watch asL’ArmançonwasshatteredonGuadeloupe’sshore.

Then Dauville was aftagain and Renaudin

wonderedwhythemandidn’tjustleavehimalone.“Sir,theAmericans, they’re comingdown to us,” he said, “theyseemtobeworkingtheirwaytoleeward.”

Renaudin looked past thebow, heaving, rolling, anddipping. He could see theAmerican ship rise on thecrest of a wave, dip toleeward, and thenasherhull

waslostfromsightbehindtherise of the sea he could seeher straighten in her courseagain. Dauville was right.They were droppingdownwind,yardbyyard.

“What do you think theyintend?” Renaudin asked.“Do they wish to rejoin thefight?”

“I can’t imagine that, sir.Safer for them to simply let

us go up on the lee shore,”Dauville said. “My thoughtwas…”Hehesitated,soundedunsure. “… that theywish totowusfree.”

Renaudin’s eyebrowscame together as he tried tounderstand this. “Tow …us?”

“Yes, sir. They aremakingtolerablydecentway.The seas andwind are going

down.Myguessis theywishtopassusahawser.”

“How could they? Inthese seas, how could theygetalinetous?”

“Theydon’thave to,sir,”Dauville said, and Renaudinwas shocked to see that hisfirst officer actually seemedpleased with this prospect.“We’re streaming thatwreckage as a sea anchor,

recall? If they can get thebitterendofthatropeaboard,there’sthetowline,set!”

Renaudin saw it all playout in hismind. Theywoulddrift a boat aft, bend amessenger to the hawserDauville had run out, haul itaboard. They would make itfast, perhaps to the base ofthe mainmast. They’d setmore sail, claw off the lee

shorewiththewallowingandhelpless L’Armançon towingastern.They’dtowhisshiptoEnglish Harbour, Americanflag flying over the Tricolor.He’dbeaprisoneragain,butworse, he would be utterlyhumiliated.His pridewas allbut ground into dust now,whatwould be leftwhen theAmericandraggedhimlikeahelplessbabyintothearmsof

the British, at the end of hisownhawser,noless?

Hepushedhimselfofftherail and stepped aroundDauvilleandheadedforward.The boatswain was there toask a question but Renaudinpushed him out of the way.He could hear Dauvillefollowing behind, but theywere amidships before hisfirst officer asked, “Sir? Is

there something I can do,sir?”

“You’ve done enough,Lieutenant,” Renaudin said,his eyes fixed forward, hispace increasing. By theforemast he found an ax,discarded after the longnight’s struggle.He snatchedit up and stepped up to thebitts where the heavy linerunningout totheseaanchor

was made off. He raised theaxoverhishead.

“Sir!” Dauville shouted,with an urgency that couldnot be ignored. Renaudinpaused, looked over at thelieutenant. He was sorry towastetheman’slife,buttherewas nothing for it now, andDauvillewouldhardlybe thefirst promising officer to dieyoung.

“I’m sorry, Dauville,”Renaudinsaid.

“As am I,”Dauville said,andRenaudinsawthathehadabelayingpininhishand.Hesaw the oiled wood comearound in a wide arc, andbefore he could react in anyway, he saw a burst of lightandthenhewasenvelopedbyblackness.

Epilogue

LieutenantRenéDauvillewasa knowledgeable andcompetent mariner, as wasJack Biddlecomb, so it waslittle surprise that Jack’s

rescueofL’Armançonplayedout pretty much as Dauvillehadenvisionedit.

Jack worked Abigail toleeward,ascloseashedaredget to the drifting wreckage.The launch Frost hadprocured in English Harbourwas still towing astern, theyhad not bothered to get it ondeck as it was the least oftheir worries. It was hauled

upon the leeward sideandacrew of the most skilled ofthe Abigails, led by OliverTucker,went aboard,makingthe tricky leap from therolling, heaving ship into thewildly bucking boatalongside.

NoneoftheBritishsailorsjoined them.Theywouldnottakepartintherescueofmenitwastheirlife’sworktokill,

which Biddlecomb couldunderstand.Butthatwasfine,as the Abigails’ seamanshipwas at least a match fortheirs, and in many casesmorethanamatch.

The boat was drifteddownwithamessengermadefast to a thwart, a stout one-inch line that would be usedto get the Frenchman’shawser aboard. They bent it

to the heavy line and cut thewreckage free. The shatteredmast and yard swirled awaydownwind and the launchwas hauled back alongsideand a strain taken on themessenger, lifting theFrenchman’shawserfromthesea.

With the windlass beinghors de combat they used aseries of heavy blocks and

tackle to get the messengerand then the hawser aboard.Theysecuredthebitterendtothebaseof themainmastandthen trimmed the sails to getthe most drive they mightfromthem.

For a long time, nothingseemed to happen. Abigail’ssails were set and drawing,the tow rope lifted drippingfrom the sea, the tremendous

tension squeezing the wateroutofit.Buttheyappearedtomake no headway. Theyseemed fixed to that spot ofocean, certainly not goingforward, possibly beingknocked back with eachsuccessive sea. Jackwonderedhowlonghewouldhang on before giving theorder tocut the towaway, toleave the Frenchmen to their

fate.“Let us get the foresail

set, with a single reef,” hesaidatlast.Thewindwasstillstrong, he was pushing hisluck, but the only otherchoice was to cutL’Armançon free. The menmoved quickly and soon thebig sail dropped from theyard. Hands tailed into theweather tack and the lee

sheet, hauled them out, andwith a snap the sail was setanddrawing.

And that made thedifference. The tow line roseagainfromtheseaandstayedsuspended this time, andeveryhandaboardcould feelthemotion, like the shipwaswaking up, like Lazaruscomingout of the tomb.Thewakebegan to flowastern in

a broader and more definedway, streaming white, like aroad leading fromGuadeloupe, and they werewalking down that road,leaving the island and itsdeadlyleeshorebehind.

They towed all throughthe day, and by sundown thestormthatJackhadpredictedwould be of short durationhadblownitselfout.Theseas

settleddown, the tradewindsdropped to their usual,sensible strength, andL’Armançon towed easilyastern. Once the seas weresuch that a boat might passbetween the ships with littleperil, Jack knew there werenegotiations tobecarriedoutand he knew, as master, itwashisjobtodoit.

The only man aboard

Abigail who spoke fluentFrench was WilliamWentworth, which came asno surprise to Jack. As thesun began its descent in thewest, Jack donned his bestsuit, or those parts of it thatwere not destroyed by wateror cannon fire, andWentworth did the same.Theylookedoddindeed,withfinebreechesabovetornwool

socks, once-elegant coatswith tears left in thewakeofpassing roundshot, hatscrumpled and pushed backintoplace.Butitwasthebestthey could muster, and theyclimbed down into the boatandtheboatcrewrowedthemacross the long swells to thebattered corvette in theirwake.

A French officer stood at

the gangway as Jack andWilliam came up the side.“Bonjour, Monsieur,” hesaid, bowing. He said more,but Bonjour had exhaustedJack’s store of French, so hestood back as Williamlistenedtothemanspeak,andthen made some reply thatJack hoped was onlycourtesy, and not a promiseofanysort.

“He says his captain washit on the head by a fallingblock and is indisposed,”Wentworth explained. “He isthe first officer, LieutenantRenéDauville,andhesaysheismostgratefulfortherescueand will consider himselfyourprisoner.Hesayshewillhappily relinquish his swordifyoufeelitappropriate.”

“His sword?” Jack asked.

He had not really thought ofthat, had never consideredL’Armançon to be a prize ofany sort. “Tell him I do notbelieve a state of war existsbetween the Republic ofFrance and the UnitedStates,” Jack said. “Ask himifhehashearddifferently.”

Wentworth translated.Dauville made reply andWentworth turned to Jack.

“He says, though there hasbeen violence done by theprivateers to Americanshipping,hedoesnotbelievea state of war exists. Heseems to have anticipatedyour next question and sayshedoesnotknowwhatordershis captain was following inattackingus.”

“I see,” Jack said, thoughhereallydidn’t.“Verywell,I

can hardly call this ship aprize if there’s no war. Noram I much inclined to starttakingprizes.ThisisaFrenchnaval vessel. By God, wecouldstartawarbyclaimingit as a prize! No, tell himwe’ll tow them to someplacewemightagreeon,and ifhepleases, I would be mostgrateful to be able to sail toBarbadosunmolested.”

In the end itwas decidedthey would tow L’Armançonto Saint-Louis on Marie-Galante, which had atolerably good anchorage.Guadeloupe was in Frenchhands but had suffered arevolt by former slaves, andDauville was not sure howthings stood there. Besides,Jackcouldnotstandtheironyof making for Guadeloupe

afterhavingsufferedsomuchanxiety trying to keep awayfromtheplace.

With the clear weatherand flattening seas it was nogreattasktoreachtheharbor,L’Armançon towing easilyastern. Abigail came toanchor in the clear,aquamarine water, within acablelengthofthelongwhitesand beach, shaded by palm

trees that waved in the tradewinds.Ifanylocalsthoughtitodd an American coming toanchorthere,theydidnotsayanything, and Dauville madeit clear she was there undertheprotectionofL’ArmançonandthenavyofFrance.

TheBritishsailorsdidnotjoin them. Dauville’sassurancethattheywouldnotbe molested was not enough

toconvincethemtowillinglysail into a French port. SoJack gave them Abigail’slaunch and Dauville gavethemL’Armançon’slongboat,and enough food and waterfor the short sail back toEnglish Harbour and theywereoff,andapparentlyquiteenthusiasticfortheiryachtingholiday.

Abigail lay in the

roadstead at Saint-Louis forseveral days, during whichDauville saw they wereprovided with what theyneeded: cordage, ironwork,blocks,deadeyes,anewmaintopmast and yard. TheAbigailssentitallup,crossedyards, bent sail, rove offrunning gear, andmissed theabundance of experiencedhands they had enjoyed

before the British jacks hadleftthem.

TheysetsailforBarbadosafewdayslater,thehoveringFrench privateers still athreat,but theysawonlyonesail on the passage, and itturnedandfledwhilestillhulldown,soifitwasaprivateer,itwasnot aparticularlyboldone.Theywereonlytwodaysunder way, a quick passage,

butquicker stillwaswordoftheir bold rescue ofL’Armançon. From Marie-Galante and from the Britishsailors at Antigua wordspread of the master whoignored the fact that he hadbeen attacked withoutprovocation,with no state ofwarexisting,andhadpluckedthe disabled ship from theclutchesofcertaindeath.

The first inkling of theirnewfound fame arrived withthe pilot, who met them asthey stood into Carlisle BayatBridgetown.He scrambledup the ladder and pumpedJack’s hand, exclaiming thatall of Barbados, all of theWest Indies, was talkingabout his bold and selflessact. Abigail was broughtdirectly to one of the most

convenient berths along thebusy waterfront, with mensent aboard by Oxnard’sagent to handle lines, so thatthecrewoftheAbigailcouldstand back and enjoy theirwell-earnedleisure.

Business was conductedamid a series of dinners andvarious celebrations. No oneonBarbadoswas particularlyinterested in saving the lives

of Frenchmen, but as anisland colony they were allintimately bound to the sea,and so were quick torecognize theheroismofonemariner saving another. Andwhenamarinersavedanotherwho,thedaybefore,hadtriedtokillhim,itmadetheactallthatmoreselfless.

Captain Biddlecomb’shealth was drunk all over

town, and CaptainBiddlecombwas often calledto join in, so it was nosurprise that he woke onemorning in his bunk feelingnot so very healthy at all,head pounding, eyesdeclining to open. Hemanaged to get one lid up,slowly, and found himselfstaring at the same reddish-brown homespun stockings,

the same set of beefy calves,the same cuffs of brownbreeches he had seen on hisfirstmorninginthatcabin.

“Ah, CaptainBiddlecomb,” the familiarvoicesaid.“Youareawake.”

Jacksatupandswunghislegs over the edge of thebunk. The great cabin wasnearly set to rights, and onlythose places where the

patchedwoodworkhadyettobe painted and the furniturethat was not so perfectlyrepaired indicated that anyviolencehadbeendonetotheplace.

“Good morning,” Jacksaid, scratching and lookingaround through the one eyehe’d managed to open. “Idon’t believe I ever caughtyourname.”

“Tillinghast,” the mansaid.“JeremiahTillinghast.”

“Isitanoddquirkoffatethatyoushouldhappen tobehere?”

“No,” Tillinghast said.“CaptainRumsticksentme.Icome out in that lovelyBermuda sloop of his, theTownofBristol,doyouknowit?”

Jack nodded. Tillinghast

continued. “We finallysmoked what was going on,why that Bolingbroke covetriedtokillyou.”

“Because he hates me,”Jackoffered.

“There’sthat,”Tillinghastagreed. “But more. He waswell paid, you know.”Tillinghast went on, tellingJack a story that he had inpart guessed at himself, and

in part been told to him byWentworth, and in part didnot knowandwished he hadnotfoundout.

Ithad,intheend,beenallabout his father. ThecommandofAbigail,thewayhehadbeenmanipulatedintofighting L’Armançon, it hadall happened because hewasthe son of the great IsaacBiddlecomb. Jack could

hardlystandtheirony.“Howdid youmanage to

findme?”Jackasked.“This is where you were

supposed to be,” Tillinghastsaid. “But in truth,everywhere we called theyknew the story. You’re afamous man, in the WestIndies,atleast.”

“Uncle Ezra sent you outtoprotectme?”

“To warn you. But I’mtoo late for that, it seems.SonowIhaveanothertask.”

“Toprotectme?”“No,” Tillinghast said.

“Don’t seem you needmuchprotecting,butifyoucanstayout of any tavern brawls, itwould be best all around.Tide turns in an hour and Imeantobeunderwaythen.”

“Sosoon?Whereareyou

bound to in such a greatrush?”

Tillinghastdidnotanswerat first. “Do you knowCaptain John Derby, ofSalem?”

“Certainly,” Jack said.Derby was a venerable oldseaman, part of the Derbyclan of merchants andmariners.

“Well, right after the

fighting at Lexington andConcord, just days after, Dr.Joseph Warren sent him toEngland in a fast schooner.Derby carried eyewitnessreports, and a letter from thegood doctor to the people ofEngland. You see, Warrenunderstood that the mostimportantpartofgettingyourstorytoldthewayyouwishittobetoldisgettingyourstory

to market first. So what Ineedfromyou,youngMasterBiddlecomb, is your story.Tell itall tome, thefighting,towing the Frenchman off,everydetail.”

Jack sighed. He had toldthisstorymanytimesalreadyin theweekorsosince thoseincidentshadtakenplace.Buthe told it again, andTillinghastaskedquestionsas

he did, questions that spoketo his intimate understandingof the affair. He probed in away that the others towhomJacktoldthetalewouldhaveconsidered impolite. Andwhen Jack had finished toTillinghast’s satisfaction,Tillinghast stood andextendedahand.

“Thank you, CaptainBiddlecomb,” he said,

shaking Jack’s hand. “Youdid an admirable job, andeveryonewhohearsthestorywill agree. At least thoseparts of the story we wantthemtohear.So,nowIknowI can report to CaptainRumstick that any hurt doneyou was done by your ownhand,andwiththatIwillbidyougoodday,Captain.”

Tillinghastclappedhishat

onhishead,and thenhewasgone.

Jack was another weeksecuringacargoforAbigail’sreturnvoyage,settingtheshipto rights, and playing thehonored guest in varioushouseholds, it becoming amark of one’s place inBridgetown society toentertain Captain JackBiddlecomb. It was a great

reliefwhenhefinallyorderedAbigail warped away fromthe dock and set the foretopsailtothesteadybreeze.

Theywerethreeweeksinreturning to Philadelphia,greeted by light and bafflingwinds as theymade northingpast theTurks andCaicos. Itwas midsummer when theymade that familiar landfall atCape Henlopen. The shores

of theDelawareBay and theDelaware River were a richgreen, the forest filled outwith leaves, and fieldsshowingsubstantialgrowthatlast. They anchored in thestream andwere assured thata berth would be ready forthem on the turn of the tide.No waiting for Captain JackBiddlecomb,whosefamehadpreceded him by weeks, and

whose return was so greatlyanticipated.

Mail was sent out, and aflurry of invitations, andcopies of the latest papers.Jack begged off theinvitations, claiming toomuch work to do inpreparation for comingalongside the dock, but intruth he was giving himselfthe gift of one last night of

peace before the maelstromthatheknewwascominghisway.

The headlines said it all:TrueAccountoftheRescueofaFrenchMan-of-WarbySonof Naval Hero IsaacBiddlecomb.

Captain JeremiahTillinghast Reports News ofJack Biddlecomb, Son ofCaptain Isaac Biddlecomb,

LateoftheContinentalNavy.Apple Does Not Fall Far

fromtheTree.Jack sighed, tossed the

papersonthescarredtableinthe great cabin, and drainedhisglass.

“Oh, come now, whathonestly did you expect?”William Wentworth asked,refilling the glass. “You’renot theonlyonelivingin the

shadowsof theoldman,youknow.”

“I know. But I suspect itwill be hard to rememberthat,thesecomingdays.”

“Honored, toasted, givenlavish meals. The youngladies of Philadelphiaswooning over you, theirfatherslaudingyouasagreathero.Itwillbeahellishtime,Jack,hellishindeed.”

Jacksmiledandpickeduphis new-filled glass anddrained it again. Thebarometer was falling fast,the storm would be on himsoon,thenextday,assoonashisfoothitthedock.Itwouldblow hard but itwould blowitself out and then therewouldbecalm.

Andthensoonenoughthebarometer would fall again.

At sea, there was no suchthingasnormal.

Glossary

ABLE-BODIED a ratingapplied to a sailor thatindicates he is entirelyproficientinallthesailor’sarts, in particular working

onaship’srigging.AFTtowardthebackendof

a ship, the opposite offore.

ATHWARTSHIPS from onesideofashiptotheother.

BACKSTAY a heavy roperunning from the top ofone of the masts aft to aplacenear thedeckwhereitissecured.Thebackstayprevents the mast from

fallingforward.BEFORETHEMAST refersto

amemberofaship’screw,as opposed to an officer.The term in an allusion tosailors living in theforecastle, forward of theforemast.

BELAYINGPINawoodenpinresembling a long billyclubandmounted througha hole in a pin rail. The

lines of the rigging arehitched to the belayingpinstosecurethem.

BENDtoattachonethingtoanother. A sailor bends asailtoayard.

BINNACLE BOX cabinetmounted to the deck justforward of the helm thathouses the compass andother navigationalequipment.

BLOCKpulley.BOATSWAINsailorincharge

of maintaining a ship’srigging and othermaintenance duties,overseeingtheworkofthecrew, and often enforcingdiscipline.

BOOMaheavysparrunningfore and aft that securesthebottomedgeofasail.

BOWthefrontendofaship.

BOW CHASER cannonmounted in the bow of ashipatsuchanangleastoallow it to fire as directlyforwardaspossible.

BOWLINE alineattachedtothe edge of a square sailand used to prevent thesail from curling overwhen the ship is sailingclosehauled.Thuswhenaship is sailing on a taut

bowline, she is sailingclosehauled.

BOWSPRIT a type of mastextending at an angle upfrom a ship’s bow towhich the stays for theforemastareattached.

BREECHING a heavy roperunning between the sidesofashipandthebackendof a cannon to limit thedistance a cannon can

recoilwhenfired.BULWARK the low wall

aroundtheouteredgeofaship’sdeck.

BUNTLINE line attached totheloweredgeofasquaresail and used to haul thesailuppriortofurling.

CABLE a nautical unit ofdistance, about twohundredyards.

CAPSTAN averticalmanual

winchturnedbytheuseofhorizontal bars insertedlike spokes into thecapstan’supperpart.Usedforveryheavylifting.

CASTtoturnavessel’sheadaway from thewindwhengettingunderway.

CEILING planking on theinsideofaship.

CLEWGARNET line used topull the lower corner, or

clew, of a course sail, thelowest square sail on amast,uptotheyardabove.

CLEWLINE lineusedtopullthe lower corner, of clew,of any sail above thecourse up to the yardabove.

CLOSEHAULEDpointofsailin which a ship is sailingasdirectlyintothewindasshe is able. A square-

rigged ship could sail atbest about forty-fivedegreestowardthewind,afore-and-aft-rigged shipsomewhatbetter.

COURSE the lowest squaresailonamast.

CROSSJACKYARDthelowestyard on a ship’smizzenmast. Pronouncedcro’jik.

CROSSTREES short,

horizontal timbers runningside to side at the base ofan upper mast whichspread the base of theshrouds supporting thatmast and used as a placeforamanalofttostand.

ENDFORENDtorunapieceof rope in the directionopposite of how it hasbeen run to more equallydistributethewear.

FIFE RAIL a three-sided,freestandingpinrailat thebase of a mast whererunning rigging from thatmastisbelayed.

FORE in or toward theforwardpartoftheship.

FORE AND AFT runningalong the centerline of aship, the opposite ofathwartships.Alsoused todenote the entire expanse

oftheship.FORECASTLE the

compartmentinthebowofthe ship. In merchantvessels itwas traditionallywhere the sailors lived.Pronouncedfo’c’sle.

FOREMASTJACK colloquialtermforacommonsailor.

FREEBOARD the part of aship or boat’s hull fromthe waterline to the edge

ofthedeck.FURL the act of pulling a

sailuptoayardandtyingitinplace.

FUTTOCK SHROUDS shortropes extending from theedgeofthetoptothemastbelow. These secure theuppershroudsandareusedbysailors toclimbaroundtheedgeofthetop.

GAFF a spar that supports

the upper edge of atrapezoidal sail such as aspanker.

GIRTLINE a line extendingfromthedecktothetopofa mast and back to thedeck, used for hoistingaloft whatever needshoisting. Also called agantline.

GREATCABIN the captain’scabinat theveryafterend

of the ship. It generallyruns the full width of theshipandfeatureswindowsin the after wall lookingastern.

GRIPE special line used tosecureaship’sboat to thedeck.Also, the process ofsettingupgripes.

GUNNEL corruption ofgunwale. The upper edgeofaship’sside,wherethe

bulwarkanddeckmeet.HALYARD lineusedtoraise

a sail. The halyard isattached to a yard in thecaseofasquaresail,ortothesailitselfinthecaseofa jib or staysail. The lineon which flags are raisedisalsocalledahalyard.

HANDING stowingasailbymeans of pulling the sailupinbunchesbyhandand

securing it. The same asfurling.

HANDSPIKE a wooden barused as a lever to turn awindlass or to lever acannonfromsidetoside.

HANGING KNEE a heavy,right-angle bracket thatreinforcesthejunctionofaship’s frame and the deckbeamabove.

HAWSE the situation of a

ship’s anchor cableswhenshe is moored by twoanchors.Thusashipridingcorrectly at anchor mightbe said to have a clearhawse. Also denotes thedistance from the ship’sbow towhere the anchorsareset.

HAWSER a large rope usedfor various purposes suchaswarping.

HEADSAIL any of the foreand aft sails set on staysforwardoftheforemast.

HEADSTAYaheavyrope,orstay, running from somepointoftheforemastdownto the deck, bowsprit, orjibboom to support theforemast.

HEAVETOtoadjustthehelmandsailsofaship insuchawaythatshewillremain

stopped in the water,making no headway orsternway.

HELM the machinery bywhich a ship is steered,including thewheel, tiller,andrudder.

IN IRONS when a ship iscaught pointing directlyintothewindandisunabletomakeway.

JACK colloquial term for a

sailor.JIBBOOManextensiontothe

bowsprit.KEELSONatimbersittingon

top of the keel on theinside of a ship andrunning the full length ofthe ship, a sort of innerkeel.

KEVEL a large cleat,generally in a V shape,used for tying off large

ropes.LARBOARDarchaictermfor

the port or left side of aship when lookingforward.

LEAGUE adistanceofthreemiles.

LEECHtheverticaledgesofasquaresail.

LEEWARDdownwind.LIGHTERING to take cargo

or supplies on or off a

vesselbymeansofplacingit inanothervessel, calleda lighter, which movesbetween the ship andshore.

LINSTOCKawoodenstaffonwhich is carried asmolderingmatchusedforigniting a cannon’sprimingpowdertofirethegun.

LOWERSshorthandtermfor

lower masts, the lowestpart of a ship’s mastextending from thekeelson up to the junctionwiththetopmast.

MAINMAST thelargestmaston any ship. On a three-masted, square-riggedvessel it is themast in thecenter.

MAINSAIL the lowest andlargest sail on a ship’s

mainmast.MAINTOP a platformon the

mainmast located at thejunctionofthemainlowerand main topmast. Thesame platform on theforemastistheforetopandon the mizzen themizzentop.

MAIN-WALE plank on aship’s side that is thickerthantherestandservesas

a sort of fender. A shipmighthavemore thanonewale, themain-walebeingthemostprominent.

MIZZENMAST the smallest,aftermostmastona three-mastedship.

ORDINARY the intermediaterating a sailor mightachieve, between boy andable-bodied.

PIN RAIL a shelflike

structure mounted on theinsideofaship’sbulwarksandpiercedwithholesintowhich belaying pins areset.

QUARTER theaftcornersoftheship.

RAMMER a wooden polewith a wooden head usedto push the gunpowdercartridge, ball, andwadding down a cannon’s

barrel.RATLINE thin lines tied

horizontallytotheshroudstoformaropeladderusedbysailorstoclimbaloft.

RELIEVING TACKLE blockand tackle hooked to thetiller in heavy weather totakepressureoffthewheeland to steer the ship incase the wheel suffersdamage.

ROLLINGTACKLEblockandtackle used to steady theyards when the ship isrollinginheavyseas.

SCANTLINGS the thicknessofagivenpieceoftimber,in particular those thatmakeupaship’ssides.

SCUD to run before a galewithlittleornosailset.

SCUTTLE anyhole cut in aship’s deck, such as a

hatchway.SCUTTLEBUTTacaskwitha

holecutinit,keptondeckand filled with water forgeneral use. Theequivalent of a modernwatercooler, hence“scuttlebutt” meaningcasualtalk.

SHEERthecurveforeandaftof the upper edge of aship’s side as seen from a

broadsideview.SHROUDheavy,tarredropes

runningfromtheheadofamast at an angleathwartships to keep themast from falling over.Lower masts, topmasts,and topgallant masts eachhave their own sets ofshrouds.

SLUSH fat skimmedoff thesurfaceofwateraftermeat

is boiled. It was used forvarious purposes such aslubricating the masts sothe yards would travel upand down more easily.Cooks would often sellslush to the crew as abuttersubstitute,hencetheterm“slushfund.”

SLUSHING DOWN to rubslushonthemaststoallowthe yards to slide more

easily.Notapleasantjob.SNOWatypeoftwo-masted,

square-riggedvessel.SOUNDINGS water shallow

enough that the depthmightbemeasured.

SPANKER a fore and afttrapezoidal sail, attachedtoagaffontheupperedgeandoftentoaboomonthelower, that is set behindthemizzenmast.

SPAR general term for allmasts, booms, yards, anyofthepolesinaship’srig.

SPRITSAIL a small squaresail carried under a ship’sbowsprit.

STAY1.Alinerunningfromamast forward to preventthemastfromfallingback.The foremast is supportedby a forestay, themainmast by a mainstay,

etc. 2. To turn a ship’sbow through the wind inorder to change direction.Thesameastacking.

STAYTACKLEaheavyblockand tackle hanging underthe mainstay used forliftingobjectsinandoutofthehold.

STEPtoputamastinplace.Also, the slot into whichthebaseofamastfits.

STRETCHERapolelashedtothe lower end of a set ofshrouds.

STROP a piece of ropespliced around a block tohold it together and toattachittosomething.

STUDDINGSAIL pronouncedstuns’l. Light sails set onthe edges of a ship’ssquare sails ton increasesailareainlightwind.

SWAB awooden polewithsheepskin or the likewrappedaroundtheend.Itwas dipped in water andrun down a cannon’sbarrel to extinguish anysparks left over fromfiring.

SWORDMATS atypeofmatwoven from old rope andsecuredincertainplacestopreventchafing.

TAFFRAIL a rail around aship’sstern.

T’GAN’SLS standardpronunciation oftopgallantsails.

TILLER a horizontallymounted bar, attached totheheadof the rudder, bywhicha ship is steered.Atiller is either turneddirectly by the helmsmanorisattachedtotheship’s

wheelbymeansofropes.TOMPION aplug tostopper

the mouth of a cannon,chieflytokeepwaterout.

TOP a platform at thejunction of a lower mastandatopmast.

TOPGALLANTSAIL the sailsabove the topsail.Used inlight to moderate wind.Pronouncedt’gan’sls.

TOP-HAMPER general term

for all the masts, spars,sails, rigging, and othergearthatcompriseaship’srig.

TOPMASTthesecondhighestmast,mountedontopofalower mast, in a mastmadeupofmultipleparts.

TOPSAIL thesecondsailupfromthedeckofasquare-riggedship, justabovethecourse. By the eighteenth

century the topsails werethe primary sails used topropelaship.

’TWEENDECKScorruptionof“between decks”: thespace between any twodecksofaship.

WARP tomoveavesselbymeansofrunningahawserto a fixed point andhauling the ship up to it.Also the line used in

warping.WARPING POST a piling

somewaysfromadocktowhichavesseliswarped.

WEAR to alter a ship’scoursebyturninghersternthroughthewind.

WEATHER 1.Towindwardofsomething.2.Topasstowindwardofsomething.

WORM a corkscrew-typedevice set on a long pole

and used to pull waddingor cartridges from acannon’sbarrel.

YARDhorizontalsparsfromwhich square sails aresuspended.

YARDARMtheouterendsofayard.

AbouttheAuthor

JAMES L. NELSON has

published sixteen works ofhistorical fiction andnonfiction, and has won theprestigious ALA’s W. Y.Boyd Literary Award forExcellence in MilitaryFiction, aswell as theNavalOrder’s Samuel EliotMorison Award. He haslectured around the countryand has appeared on theDiscovery Channel, the

History channel, and C-SPAN’s Book TV. He livesinHarpswell,Maine,withhiswife and four children. Youcansignupforemailupdateshere.

ALSOBYJAMESL.NELSON

FICTION

TheOnlyLifeThatMattered

ByForceofArms

TheMaddestIdea

TheContinentalRisque

LordsoftheOcean

AlltheBraveFellows

TheGuardship

TheBlackbirder

ThePirateRound

GloryintheName

ThievesofMercy

FinGall

Dubh-linn

TheLordofVík-ló

NONFICTION

GeorgeWashington’sGreatGamble

GeorgeWashington’sSecretNavy

BenedictArnold’sNavy

ReignofIron

WithFireandSword

ThankyouforbuyingthisSt.Martin’sPressebook.

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content,andinfoonnewreleasesandother

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Orvisitusonlineat

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Foremailupdatesontheauthor,clickhere.

Contents

TitlePageCopyrightNotice

DedicationAcknowledgments

DiagramoftheArmed

MerchantShipAbigailMapoftheCaribbean

Chapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9

Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21

Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30Epilogue

Glossary

AbouttheAuthorAlsobyJamesL.Nelson

Copyright

Thisisaworkoffiction.Allofthecharacters,

organizations,andeventsportrayedinthisnovelare

eitherproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareused

fictitiously.

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book)

e-ISBN9781466847026

FirstEdition:July2015