Independent Action: Kinkaid in the North Atlantic

Independent Action

Kinkaid in the North Atlantic

Michael Winston

Copyright 2012

Smashwords Edition

An adventure in the continuing saga of

Jonathan Kinkaid of the American Navy

For Dad, a real hero

Preface

This series is set against the exciting yet little-known backdrop of the war at sea during the American Revolution. While I strive for accuracy in the depiction of life at sea during those days, I have taken certain liberties with ship’s histories and have combined various actual events in the life of my fictional hero purely for the sake of storytelling.

In this first book, Lieutenant Jonathan Kinkaid is assigned to one of four frigates trapped at Philadelphia during the winter of 1776-77. The British General Howe threatens to capture the city and the newly complete USS Randolph, with her minimum crew of inexperienced landsmen and former soldiers, is chosen for a dangerous mission: to seek out an immense replenishment convoy bringing British troops and military supplies to America; she is assigned to Independent Action in the North Atlantic.

Historical background: After a series of cruelties inflicted by the British navy in its enforcement of smuggling laws and the burning of a few coastal towns, a committee of Congress voted to establish the American Navy in October of 1775. In spite of good intentions, however, our navy never became a force to be reckoned with during the Revolution; Congress lacked the funding to ever hope to build and equip enough ships to send against the might of the British navy. And few ship’s captains in our early Navy were as intrepid as John Paul Jones. Indeed, the captains of those first few ships often gained their commands more through influence than ability. It was the privateers that took the war to the British. Armed with so-called letters of marque that made it legal for them to seize and sell British merchant ships and cargos for private gain, these fast, specially converted merchant vessels could make even the lowest-ranking seaman a wealthy landowner after but a single cruise; small wonder that the dangerous, low-paying, highly punitive life of the established Navy held little attraction for able-bodied American seamen. The result was that badly needed men, money, and supplies were diverted into private hands while naval vessels went without guns and crews for months at a time. Those few American warships that did get to sea were quickly sunk, burned, or taken as prizes.

One such ship was the 32-gun frigate USS Randolph, named after the first president of Congress, Peyton Randolph. However, unlike in my story, her crew probably never referred to her as the Lucky Randy. Her first foray out of port was with rotten masts that broke off in the first stiff breeze she encountered. Her masts replaced, she left port again only to have her new mainmast split by lightning. Finally reaching sea on her third attempt, her magazine exploded after two minutes of battle with a British warship; only four men survived.

The British munitions transport Nancy was a rich and important prize, her stores of war materials adding to Washington’s defense of Philadelphia, which was eventually taken by General Howe…to his doom. When Benjamin Franklin learned that Howe had taken the city, he said, No, Howe has been taken by Philadelphia, a statement that proved prophetic, for once ensconced in the comforts of the city, Howe allowed his military momentum to slip away.

The Jersey, stuck in the mud of New York harbor, was a former 64-gun British frigate turned into a prison ship. Upwards of 11,000 American soldiers and seamen died within her rotting hulk and other ships like her during the course of the war, from sickness and disease, maltreatment and abuse.

General Arnold’s blocking action in and around Danbury and the Compo Hill area are well-documented events, as is the Sag Harbor raid by Lieutenant Colonel Meigs.

Contents

Chapter I Orders and Invitations

Chapter II No Hopes, No Promises

Chapter III To Sea and a Souvenir

Chapter IV Good Men and First Prize

Chapter V Lost and Found and Lost Again

Chapter VI Tiger on the Prowl

Chapter VII Of Victory and Defeat

Chapter VIII His Britannic Majesty’s Frigate

Chapter IX Together in Hell

Chapter X One Dead, One Alive

Chapter XI New York to New Haven

Chapter XII To War in a Whaleboat

Chapter XIII Easy Come, Easy Go

Chapter XIV The Quickly Changing Tide

Chapter I

Orders and Invitations

One would not say that his looks were striking, even when he wore his best uniform, already becoming too tight from rich food and easy living. He was, however, fortunate enough to have inherited an average chin, nose, and mouth with strong, healthy teeth; overall he was an average, pleasant-looking man, somewhat on the lean side, indistinguishable from other average, pleasant-looking men. Of course, the uniform lent some distinction while imparting the impression that he was taller than the average the way it forced an upright carriage to his tendency to slouch. If there were one thing, one feature that you might remember about Jonathan Kinkaid, it would have to be his eyes. Not their color, for they could be gray or green, or hazel or even blue, depending upon the light, but more a certain grave intensity about them as they took in the world, a look that could be pure cold reason when faced with a task, or showing an excessive ardor when even mildly challenged, a look that could be off-putting, even mistaken as evidence of a violent temperament, but which in fact came only from a natural nervous disposition.

He wore his brown wispy hair somewhat carelessly tied off at the back, but of course tonight’s diplomatic reception demanded that he wear a wig. Cheap and ill-fitting, it made his head itch, though he dared not scratch at it, for a room full of scratching wig wearers reminded him of a gang of baboons he’d once seen depicted in a cartoon and he must never forget that the primary duty of an attaché from the Philadelphia Naval Office was to present a dignified appearance, even when all he desired tonight was to sit by himself in front of a warm fireplace and stare into the flames as he sipped his claret. Better yet to be at home in his small apartment with no claret or even a fire but at least without the obligation to attend another one of these dull receptions, and the one glass of claret was not enough to explain the numbing weariness he felt as he stood there in the center of the crowded reception hall, gazing out over the sea of bobbing heads and jabbering faces.

Normally he would have been induced by duty to join the tiresome and insincere social niceties, to add his voice to one of the careful and predictable conversations that ebbed and flowed around him like so many foghorns. Of course one had to be observant of sentiment in these troubled and uncertain times when a man’s politics may not be evident and it was better not to inquire of such things, but it was all so tiresome and tonight it seemed effort enough to simply stand there and display a polite smile when required.

He was at least glad that he had taken a moment to thank Mr. Hancock, Chairman of the Marine Committee, for helping him with that Captain Hammond of the Alfred who’d come storming into his office early that morning, raging about sixty bushels of lemons—a rich prize in a time of scarcity—that Hammond claimed the acting captain of the Randolph, a Mr. Hill, must have misappropriated. Jealousy among ship’s captains was common enough and Kinkaid had quickly learned how to tender a soothing word to assuage the prima donna, but in this instance all Kinkaid could do was tell the good Captain of the Alfred that the Marine Committee had just bestowed upon the Randolph carte blanche over all stores. Hammond had pounded his fist on the table at that, but when Kinkaid had to inform the Captain that he was to turn his entire crew over to the Randolph as well, Hammond had kicked Kinkaid’s heavy oak desk hard enough to break a toe, and the recollection forced a barely perceptible smile.

Are you practicing the art of invisibility? asked a voice under a pile of auburn hair.

She was not particularly beautiful, was his first impression. Her nose was jagged, her neck was too long, and she seemed ready to totter over at the slightest breeze. But her green eyes were attractive and her question, if unusual, seemed interesting and deserved an answer.

Not successfully, it seems, was the best he could do in his dark lethargy, but it sounded like a snub and so he blundered on, Uh, the art of…?

Of course, most such human arts remain unnamed, but there are many such arts, don’t you agree?

She could have at least explained herself instead of asking another question that only she knew the answer to. He noticed her stylish blue dress and recalled that when the ladies were called upon to give a toast, she had contributed, When passions rise, may reason be the guide. He had met her eyes then and perhaps had given a too hearty, Hear, hear! Afterwards she had haughtily ignored him. Not that he cared; he had seen too many spoiled rich girls playing social games in the courts of international diplomacy to be eager to indulge another one. Arts…such as?

Why, any of those that make one’s life a success, yet we don’t have names for such arts, now do we?

Do you punctuate every sentence with a question? he asked in defense.

There, you see? Asking questions is only one technique in the art of keeping boredom at bay.

She had resorted to talking nonsense, yet he had to admit that she was right about one thing. These endless rounds of parties and receptions were certainly becoming tiresome. This party, in particular, annoyed him. The music from the French horn and violin was atrocious, the wine was bad, even if served in fancy cut glass, and the bits of salt fish on crackers tasted like sand. He found her annoying as well, yet she was right and there was no getting around it and it was small comfort to remind himself that someone, at some time during one of these parties, had said, People who say they are bored are bored because they are boring. If that were true, then he could only blame himself and might as well admit it. I regret that my technique has failed to make me less of a bore.

I hope not as boring as that French diplomat, she allowed.

Kinkaid had to smile; he too thought Bonvouloir a pompous ass, but would never have said so, at least not here at his reception.

You have a nice smile, she said, for a boring man.

Kinkaid bowed slightly. Why, thank you, Miss…

Elizabeth Whipple, she said, tilting her head in an abbreviated curtsy that brought her face into the soft candlelight, a face not overly powdered so that he could detect the faint line of freckles that ran across the bridge of her nose.

Lieutenant Jonathan Kinkaid, Continental Navy.

They stood there a moment, neither initiating a course into further conversation. Finally she said, So, I gather you would rather be at sea somewhere than standing here, charming me?

Not much chance of that happening, he had to admit.

Being at sea or charming me? she asked bluntly.

Uh, both actually, for I seem to have lost whatever charm I may once have possessed.

But you are a naval officer.

Ah, never a guarantee of charm…or of being at sea, for that matter.

So you are of the lubberly type, as they say.

That’s it, my lady. A barrel counter—party ornament at the moment.

What a pity; a sailor without a ship.

Sad to say, he answered, thinking he’d never lamented the fact before and wondering why he was overdoing it now and concluding as well that he was sounding pitiful.

Perhaps the British will soon relieve you of your barrel counting duties, she reminded him.

You do have a refreshing attitude, what with all the hysteria these days.

Should we be worried?

Well, they’re saying that Howe is about to take the city.

Then why hasn’t he already?

Perhaps uncertainty as to General Washington’s strength and disposition, ventured Kinkaid, hoping he sounded very professional; hoping as well that he was not embarrassing himself by acting as if he possessed some mysterious knowledge. Yet one had to be careful; spies were everywhere. Privy to information of a confidential sort, Kinkaid knew that General Howe’s supplies were running low. Rumor had it that an immense replenishment convoy was even now on its way from England to New York harbor, reports that must have given the British General much comfort. Kinkaid was also aware of General Washington’s reports to Congress that told a much different story, of an army that knew very little comfort, of men that were tired, underpaid, starving, and cold, with rags on their feet, and practically out of ammunition for the relatively few worn-out muskets that were still functioning. Had Howe known for certain the sorry state of the opposing forces, he could have easily pushed Washington’s ragtag army aside and found himself cozily ensconced within the city before Christmas, awaiting his re-supply convoy in luxury, warmth and comfort. At least Washington’s blocking action along the Delaware made a show of strength and gave Howe pause.

I’ve heard that most of our brave leaders have fled for Baltimore, she said, craning her long neck as if searching for someone in the crowd.

Yes, Congress has left, as have many of our prominent citizens. If I may ask, Miss Whipple, why haven’t…?

Oh, we’re returning to Boston this evening…Cambridge, actually, though father says we might as well stay; what will the British do, throw us all into prison?

He’s probably right; who will entertain them? he said and instantly regretted the blunder.

Certainly not you, I should think, came the quick retort.

Forgive me, Miss Whipple. I had not intended any disparagement.

Of course not. Nor did I, and I too must apologize. For good measure, she added, I’m certain you wish you had something to do with those four ships down at the harbor.

Kinkaid, uncertain what he wished, kept his counsel.

What will they do if the British come?

Well, they’ll have to be burned, was the cold, honest answer.

That would be a shame.

Yes, of course, he had to agree.

Oh, there is father now. Allow me to introduce you.

Kinkaid recognized her father; Mr. John Whipple of Whipple & Sons, Boston shipping merchants, one of the men invited by the Marine Committee only yesterday to discuss the possibility of issuing letters of marque to American vessels. Mr. Whipple had assured the committee that there were certain to be more than a few Boston merchants interested in backing privateers; and why not, it was a license to steal.

My father, Mr. John Whipple.

Honored, sir, said Kinkaid with a curt bow.

Father, this is Lieutenant Kinkaid of our very own navy.

Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant, came the obligatory reply. Mr. Whipple was not impressed, and if he remembered Kinkaid from the Marine Committee meeting he chose not to acknowledge the fact. He seemed distracted, looking out over the crowd.

Lieutenant Kinkaid says they will have to burn those ships if the British come, said Miss Whipple, seemingly bent on engaging the two.

It worked, for Mr. Whipple turned his way and bluntly asked, Now, why doesn’t the navy get them out of there?

It being none of his concern, Kinkaid could only answer, I haven’t the faintest idea, sir.

Mr. Whipple made little effort to hide his annoyance. Well, you are in the navy, aren’t you?

Lieutenant Kinkaid’s duties are upon the shore, father, said Elizabeth, coming to his rescue. A fact he sincerely regrets.

Then perhaps there is something we might do about that, Lieutenant.

Kinkaid’s instincts told him to be wary. Well aware of Mr. Whipple’s power of influence, he had seen for himself the slaves made of the practice of gaining advantage through favoritism. Besides, wrangling duty aboard a trapped frigate was not his idea of advantage. I appreciate the sentiment, good sir. However…

I’m not offering you my sentiment, lad, grumbled Mr. Whipple, but the chance to get on a ship and fight. You’re not afraid to fight, are you?

Kinkaid stiffened at the insult, but Elizabeth stepped between them and with a sly smile said, Father, the Lieutenant was just telling me that he might able to favor us with a visit over the holidays.

The invitation came as a complete shock and Kinkaid stood there dumbfounded.

Mr. Whipple gave both of them a sour look before saying gruffly, Lieutenant, I would be honored to have you at the house for Christmas…if you’ve nothing better to do. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a business card. Here. Dinner is at seven. Now then, Elizabeth, we really must find your mother. A coerced and insincere invitation if ever there was one, but what could he expect, a poor naval officer, of unknown family, with no connections, with not even a ship?

The following morning fell on the Sabbath and Kinkaid began it as he did every Sunday by taking a leisurely breakfast at the Meridian Hotel before attending services. David and Goliath was the subject of the sermon. He had listened attentively enough at first but as the political message became all too clear he found himself daydreaming of a stylish blue dress, a long neck and crooked nose under a pile of auburn hair, the hint of freckles under those honest green eyes, the refreshing conversation, then the surprising invitation; coerced and reluctant, but an invitation nonetheless. Of course, by the time the sermon ended, he had come to his senses; Christmas was still two weeks off and he doubted whether either father or daughter would remember even inviting him by then.

When he arrived at the office Monday morning there was the staff clerk, Anderson, outside, too busy loading a heavy box onto a lorry to notice him. Midshipman Nicholson was busy inside, packing more crates with documents and charts and Captain Ramsey was upstairs in their office, pulling papers and personal items out of his desk.

What’s going on, sir?

What’s it look like, Kinkaid? We’re moving the office up to Providence.

Why, that’s grand, sir! Kinkaid blurted out and instantly regretted it. Captain Ramsey was a good man, but had made the mistake of marrying a stubborn and angry woman from Providence. Like most navy captain’s, Ramsey had requested sea duty, but with so many captains and so few ships, he was happy enough to be assigned to the Naval Office in Philadelphia, especially when his wife had refused to come with him. In no time at all Ramsey found himself a pretty girlfriend named Jennifer and was even beginning to lose his grumpiness. But now it would be back to the wife and Kinkaid did not want to rub in the fact.

Except that you’re not going, Kinkaid. Didn’t Anderson give you your orders? He and I are being transferred to the Providence office; you and Nicholson are going to the Randolph.

Kinkaid leaned against the desk as the realization hit him.

Not enough sailors to fill out even one crew, so they’re sending all the men from the others to her, explained Ramsey. There’s certain to be plenty of officers; even so, they’ll probably give you a choice assignment. Somebody is looking out for you, Kinkaid…though I can’t say as I envy you; I don’t know what they hope to accomplish, but by God it’s a chance at glory, for what it’s worth.

Kinkaid felt not so certain about anything at the moment, much less the price of glory, except that he felt bewildered. It puzzled him even more to hear that Captain Ramsey thought he had someone looking out for his career. But Kinkaid had acquired something akin to affection for the grumpy old Captain Ramsey over the last few months and thought to say with some sincerity, Well, I shall miss you, sir.

No you won’t, returned Ramsey, ever the realist. You won’t have time to be pining about me. But I appreciate the sentiment, nonetheless. The best of luck to you, Kinkaid.

His orders were signed by Commander Nathanson of the Northern Naval Department and said he was to report as soon as is convenient, which was navy talk for do it now, and so the cold night fog had not yet burned off the next morning when Kinkaid, with all his earthly possessions in a canvas bag over his shoulder, took himself down to the Philadelphia Navy Yard, where he found the USS Randolph resting alongside the pier, a three-masted, ship-rigged frigate of almost six hundred tons, newly complete, her tall masts and jumble of rigging lost high above in the cold misty air, her black hull yet to leave her moorings.

Who goes there? called out a ghostly figure huddled on her quarterdeck.

A ship’s officer!

Well, come forward then; don’t be skulkin’ about like some common sneakthief, complained the voice with steaming breath.

Kinkaid stepped carefully across the wide plank with only a rope railing to steady him, his hat ridiculously pushed to the side by the heavy sea bag. Across, he placed his bag on the deck, saluted the ensign aft and then the quarterdeck. Lieutenant Kinkaid, requesting permission to come aboard, sir.

A shivering, redheaded, freckle-faced officer returned the salute as if it was too much trouble before curtly introducing himself as, Lieutenant Smith.

Kinkaid peered about the gloomy deck. He’d briefly served aboard two armed merchants but was not prepared for the size of the Randolph. Her deck seemed to stretch forever into the gloom and all her gear and fittings were giant-sized. It seemed stranger yet that here it was almost eight in the morning and other than the watch there was not a single soul about the deck. He was about to inquire why when from behind the binnacle stepped a fair-haired young midshipman who Smith introduced as Midshipman Weatherby.

Good morning, Mr. Weatherby.

Glad to have you aboard, sir, returned Weatherby, his smile genuine.

You from the Naval Office? Smith asked.

That’s right.

Your records came yesterday…with Nicholson. Smith seemed to consider Kinkaid for a moment. You’re probably wondering why the crew is still sleeping in. Dock routine, is what Mr. Whyte calls it. A crock of shame is what I call it, and against all regulations; God help us, none of these peasants and farmers know how to do anything but eat, drink, and yammer their foul mouths. Well, let’s have Billy sign you aboard, and then we’ll get you squared away.

Rank and full name, sir? asked Weatherby.

Lieutenant Jonathan Edward Kinkaid; two k’s.

Kinkaid had to admire Weatherby’s deft quillwork and flowing script as he dutifully entered his name and rank, the fact that Kinkaid had reported from the naval office, and the time, into the ship’s log.

Ah, here’s your relief now, Weatherby.

Mr. Cutler was a slight boy. At seventeen, only a year younger than Weatherby but he looked much younger as he approached the quarterdeck with a lively quickness. He took an actor’s stance when he saw Weatherby, and quoted the first line of Macbeth, When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?

When the hurly-burly’s done, returned Weatherby in dramatic fashion, when the battle’s lost and won.

Now stow that literary tripe, ordered Smith with an amused grin, you’ll give Mr. Kinkaid here a bad impression. Weatherby, why don’t you show the Lieutenant to his quarters; right behind Mr. Glass should do for now. Breakfast will commence in thirty minutes in the wardroom, Kinkaid. You should find Mr. Hill there; he’ll tell you all you need to know.

Weatherby picked up the cabin lantern. If you’ll follow me, sir.

As they turned toward the main hatch, Smith called out, And be sure and wake O’Toole, Weatherby! Oh, and make certain Vaughn is rousted; that rat never relieves me on time!

I’ll do that, sir, answered Weatherby as Smith rang the ship’s bell, signaling the commencement of the morning watch.

Mr. Weatherby led him down the ladder to a dark passageway that smelled of stale sweat and tobacco, explaining, Mr. Cutler is our resident author, or soon hopes to be. He’s obsessed with Shakespeare of late and wants to act out some scenes…if he can get the others to cooperate; that’s the trick around here, getting cooperation. At least that’s what Mr. Smith always says…though he doesn’t exactly say it like that.

Kinkaid could well imagine how Mr. Smith might have said it as he stooped low to keep from bumping his head on the heavy overhead beams.

Weatherby stopped at a cubicle and drew the curtain aside, revealing a space no larger than a closet, containing a bunk with a straw-filled mattress, a shelf with a candle on it, and a basin. Weatherby picked up the stubby candle and lit it from the flame of the cabin lantern. You can stow your things down there, sir, he said, indicating the long drawer under the cot.

Someone yawned from behind a curtain. Is that you, Weatherby? asked a sleepy voice.

Aye, Mr. Hill.

What time is it?

Just eight, sir.

See that O’Toole is up and turns his crew to. And you might remind him that we expect a full deck crew out there every morning, and before breakfast.

I’ll do that, Mr. Hill, said Weatherby.

And we may be getting some more officers today. Let me know the minute they come aboard.

Actually, one is here now, sir, said Weatherby, exchanging a smile with Kinkaid.

Well, get him squared away. I’ll meet him in the wardroom after I’ve shaved.

Aye, sir.

Kinkaid placed his bag on the cot and then Weatherby took him to the wardroom at the end of the corridor. A sleepy man sat slouched with his head on his arms over the table already scarred with initials and rings of wet-bottomed rum mugs. Loud sounds of cooking and the unmistakable smell of frying bacon came from the tiny galley adjacent.

Who are you? asked the sleepy man, looking up with red and squinty eyes.

Lieutenant Kinkaid.

Well, have a seat, good sir, and welcome aboard. From the Naval Office?

That’s right.

Well, we won’t hold that against you. At least I won’t. I’m Vaughn, the quartermaster. Mr. Hill will find good use for you, to be sure. Dammit Price, where’s my wake-up?

Coming, Mr. Vaughn, answered the cook.

Two cups!

Aye, sir.

There came a loud clatter before Price brought in two mugs of coffee.

Vaughan reached for his, took a sip, and said, Now Price is no chef, Kinkaid, but there’s not a ship’s cook that makes a better cup of coffee, I’ll give him that.

Nice and dark, just how you like it, sir, said Price before wiping his hands on his dirty apron and returning to the galley where he began loudly rattling a heavy frying pan on the stove.

Kinkaid took a sip of the scalding black brew and could not keep from wincing from the bitterness.

Vaughn seemed to take great pleasure in this and called out, Nothing for me this morning, Price! Too early to eat! But Mr. Kinkaid might do with some cream and sugar! And biscuit and bacon, too!

Right away, sir!

After more resounding clattering, Price came back in to set a bowl of brown sugar and a battered pewter creamer on the table, assuring him, Biscuits and bacon, coming right up, sir.

With Vaughn rudely watching his every move, Kinkaid added a half-teaspoon of sugar to his coffee and then enough cream to turn the ebony brew to a rich mahogany. Tasting it, he made a show of pleasure at the improvement. Ah, that is excellent coffee, Price, exclaimed Kinkaid, meaning only that the bitterness had been cut enough to make it palatable.

Why thank you, sir, came Price’s acknowledgement over the kitchen noise.

Someone stepped in behind Kinkaid and Vaughn greeted him with more false enthusiasm, Good morning, old man. I trust you slept well?

Don’t you have the morning watch, Vaughn? mumbled the old man, Hill.

Just grabbing a cup of Price’s precious wake-up.

Smith tells me you never relieve him on time, said Hill in annoyance as he sat down, bags under his eyes. He had cut himself shaving and a drop of dried blood clung to his chin.

Vaughan ignored the reminder, but rose with his coffee. Well, my pleasure would be to keep you good gentlemen company while you enjoy your repast, but I’m afraid I must be off to watch the quarterdeck.

Mr. Vaughn, I’ll trouble you to ensure that Mr. Whyte is up, said Hill.

I’ll send the messenger, said Vaughn. No officer relished asking the Sailing Master, Mr. Whyte to do anything, much less wake him.

Then tell the messenger that he is to give Mr. Whyte my compliments and that he will be expected to assure the captain that our charts are in good order and that they are up-to-date.

Vaughn rolled his eyes to the overhead, huffed and asked, You want me to tell the messenger all that?

Yes, I do, Mr. Vaughn, insisted Hill, clearly irritated.

Hill waited until Vaughn left before nervously running his hand through his gray and thinning hair and admitting, God, am I glad to see you, Kinkaid.

Uncertain what Hill was implying, Kinkaid’s response was a qualified, Well, thank you, sir.

Mr. Hill will do, said Hill as the cook placed a mug of coffee before him.

Hill too grimaced when he tasted the bitter brew. Damn that Vaughn; has Price trained to make everything his way. He filled his mug to the brim with cream before saying, I understand you’ve been in procurements.

And diplomatic liaison, Kinkaid wanted him to know.

Well, you might find things a bit different around here.

I expect so, Mr. Hill, said Kinkaid, his patience wearing thin, having to explain, I have previously served aboard two armed vessels; the sloop Vesper, under Captain Davenport, and the brig Aries, Captain Bullard.

So I understand, said Hill, nodding slightly. I heard Davenport killed one of his own officers. Got away with it too.

I expect most seamen have heard of him, allowed Kinkaid, not wishing to dwell on the subject.

Must have been a trial.

Kinkaid had been terrorized by the bullying Captain Davenport during his first foray at sea as a young boy and had been only too glad to take his leave of the unhappy Vesper some six months later. Even now, after all these years, Kinkaid hated to be reminded of the big seaman with the full beard and the cruel streak, and so he mentioned, I also served with Arnold on Lake Champlain.

Did you, now? said Hill, as if he didn’t think much of a naval officer serving on an inland lake, not to mention that Arnold’s ragtag boat armada had been ingloriously defeated at that action at Valcour Island.

Price brought in two plates piled high with biscuit and bacon.

Hill ate ravenously, smacking his lips and noisily slurping his coffee. Better eat up, Kinkaid. You’ve a lot to do today, he said, his mouth full.

Of course I’ll try to make myself useful in any capacity, said Kinkaid sincerely enough while stabbing at a slice of bacon.

Well, seeing as your seniority dates me by two months, you’re now acting captain.

Me?

We lost Captain Stuyvesant a week ago. Pity, but unfit for duty; terribly sick, explained Hill. I suppose Congress is still fighting over who our new captain will be, but until then, you’re it.

But…

Nothing you can say or do about it, Kinkaid, said Hill. I’ll help you as much as I can, but what we’ve been about is right up your alley—taking on stores—have been for the last week. We’re to take on as much of anything and everything that we can beg, borrow or steal, so it don’t take much imagination to guess that somebody wants to get us out of here. We’ve been bottled up and the first duty of a new captain is going to be to unbottle us. Course, whoever it is he’d expect us to round out the crew and organize them, make up the roster, assign every man according to his trade and vigor. I can take on some of that, but you’re going to have to deal with the Marine Committee and get the officers straightened out.

Straightened out?

Desertions are rampant, discipline is terrible, and… Hill lowered his voice to a whisper, well, our master’s mate is a drunkard, a shiftless sot. Had me called to the deck twice last night over his stupidity. Nothing you can do or say to change his nature, either. Why, he ignores every regulation there is concerning proper shipboard routine and undermines every schedule and duty roster I’ve come up with. Even Captain Stuyvesant gave up on Mr. Whyte. You met Vaughn. Does nothing but what pleases him, and pouts if you give him an order. Smith can be a good man, knows his duty and does it, but his temper defeats him; fighting all the time. Thrown out of every respectful place in town; working on the disrespectful ones now. At least the men do what he tells them, even if they don’t like it. Hill sat there shaking his head and chewing his bacon.

Can you tell me something good, Mr. Hill? asked Kinkaid, feeling both perplexed and anxious at suddenly finding himself in charge of a ship full of undisciplined men