All the Brave Fellows by James L. Nelson

Author:James L. Nelson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: McBooks Press
Published: 2021-09-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

17

Fort Mifflin October 7, 1777

I wrote you a few Days ago informing of the Loss of Billingsport … [As a result] a prodigious Desertion has prevailed among the Galleys. A few Nights ago Capt. Montgomery lost Eleven Men, last Night, after the Action, Capt. Mitchel lost Twelve: Three other Galleys are so reduced that all their Men will not Man One Galley …

—COL. WILLIAM BRADFORD TO THOMAS WHARTON JR., PRESIDENT OF THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA

THE MEN OF THE LADY BIDDLECOMB, AND HER NAMESAKE, AND HER namesake’s child, waited while the British longboat pulled away and another, bigger vessel pulled down on them. No one said a thing. They were too stunned by the events of the past hour, the schooner impaling herself on the chevaux-de-frise, their captain suddenly locked in a mutually agreed-upon duel with their would-be captor, the heavy gunfire overhead.

Isaac Biddlecomb did not say a thing either. He just stood there, the point of his sword resting on the sloping, half-submerged deck, staring at the dark place into which Smeaton’s longboat had disappeared. He knew he should be giving orders, saying something, doing something, even if it was wrong. The first thing he had ever learned about leadership was never to stand there, dumb and unsure, as he was doing now.

But he could not seem to make his mind or his mouth work. I was all too unreal. And now he was a prisoner of war. Again. And with Smeaton there to tell his British captors about his and Rumstick’s history, it would be a speedy trial and a halter around their necks.

In any event, it was pointless to try to defend themselves against the British gunboat. They might fire one volley of small arms, and then the enemy would learn their lesson, would stand off and blast away with their big gun.

He might even have chosen that option were it not for Virginia and little Jack.

So stupid, so stupid, shipping them aboard a man-of-war. How greatly one’s options were reduced with supernumer-aries so precious aboard, a whole new area of concern that should not burden a fighting sailor. He finally understood his mistake when it was too late.

He turned just as the gunboat came looming up out of the dark. It was an odd-looking craft, really an oversize launch, perhaps forty feet in length mounting one big gun in the bow. A single mast was stepped just forward of amidships, but the two square sails were furled in favor of the sweeps and the greater maneuverability they provided.

“Put up your arms!” a voice called out from the galley.

“Yes, do as he says,” said Biddlecomb, weary.

“You are prisoners of the Continental Congress of these United States of America!” the voice said grandly.

It took a moment for the words to register, but when they did, it was like the sun breaking through thick clouds. Of course. Why else would Smeaton have run like a rabbit? He would not have missed Biddlecomb’s capture for a peerage. Smeaton knew all along.

He tricked me, Biddlecomb thought, and he had to smile at that.

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