With the Boston Tea Party back on schedule and the Revolution apparently saved, Matthew thought he was free to return to his own century—until Nicky Blunt blundered through the Log and into Colonial Boston. While trying to help Nicky, Matthew was knocked out and pressed into the Royal Navy.
High on a mast above a heaving blue-black ocean perched a lone sailor of the Royal Navy, barefoot and bare-fingered despite the cold of an inordinately icy December. As his ship slowly beat north toward Nahant and Marblehead, before him stretched an impressive panoramic view of Boston and its harbor: the North Church and its spire, lofting above the houses and wharves; the docks, unnaturally quiet, a small forest of bare masts; the bright red coats of a drilling regiment along the quay; the bare hills, Bunker and Breed's, opposite the town across the Charles River; and then the islands and shoals and peninsulas and bays that created a maze of channels. These were lively with boats—small skiffs, rowboats, fishing smacks under sail, all engaged in hauling nets and lobster pots—each one of interest to the watchful eyes of the blockading Royal Navy.
Matthew was only one of many such eyes, high up in the main foretop of the Rose, but even so he kept a sharp lookout. If he wanted to keep his perch, and his prized hours of privacy on board the man o' war, Matthew could not ignore any Colonial bold enough to attempt a rendezvous with one of the smuggling fleet that lurked just out of the Rose's reach, a ragtag collection of smacks and sloops and schooners waiting for the frigate to stray north or south in pursuit, or for the wind to shift against her.
It was a game of perpetual cat-and-mouse, played openly, with both sides well known to each other—as they should be, having spent the better part of a year at it. Ever since news of the Tea Party had reached England, the fury of the British Empire had been directed at Boston. For punishment, the port had been closed to ocean-going shipping until the tea was paid for; the Massachusetts Assembly had been dissolved and the detested Royal Governor given absolute authority; British soldiers were exempted from Colonial justice; and four regiments had been sent over and quartered with Boston families, disrupting their homes and peace.
The King liked to call these the Coercive Acts, but to the Colonials they were called Intolerable. Either way, they were, in a sense, Matthew's fault. Thanks to the Tea Party, the Empire and the Colonies were on a collision course now. The smugglers were openly defying the King and Parliament, bringing in food and supplies, keeping commerce alive. And, irony of ironies, as an impressed sailor of His Majesty's Navy, Matthew was trying his best to stop them.
A cloud of blown snow momentarily obscured the frigate below him, giving birth to a sensation that he had grown great white wings of canvas and could fly away. . . .
Fat chance: Last December 17 seemed so long ago, Matthew had to struggle to remember the first days and weeks on board the Rose. Of course, having been conked on the head by the leader of a press gang did not help his memory any. He had come to in a dim forecastle, lying on cold floorboards with a splitting headache. "Where am I?" he croaked to the shadowy figures whose hands seemed to be everywhere, reaching into his pockets, pulling off his shoes and stockings. "In hell, mate," said a voice, ripping the jacket off his back. By the time Matthew realized he was being robbed, only his trousers and his undershirt remained.
When he found he was trapped aboard the frigate, his first reaction was desperation. Thinking quickly, he protested to the hovering creatures of this watery underworld: "But I'm a gentleman," almost certain that with those magic words the crowd of bemused sailors would part, allowing him to march up the ladder to the deck, thence to mount the quarterdeck and ask, no, demand, that the captain set him on shore.
"Then your goose is well and truly cooked," replied one cheerful messmate. "Our Master hates Americans putting on airs. He keeps a particular rope handy for startin' em."
Even hearing this, Matthew did not give up hope. There was Nicky Blunt to save him—the modern Nicky, that is. All he had to do was say the word, send a note to Francis Rotch. But Matthew never even got a glimpse of Nicky the first week, which he spent up to his knees in the bilges, recaulking leaky timbers. Then Nicky was always at a distance, always in a group of midshipmen, looking lost and panicky, as he truly must have been. Occasionally his eye would furtively seek out Matthew's and he would clench his jaw and slowly shake his head from side to side, as if to say, I'm trying, really I am, but what can I do?
And now it had been a year—Matthew could hardly believe it. Thanks to the Log, he had gotten used to enjoying his "freedom of the centuries," but now it was lying in a warehouse somewhere, or, more likely, had been found and thrown on a shelf by someone who had no idea of its importance. Perhaps a tavern dullard was, at this very moment, tearing out the pages of Matthew's day in order to light his pipe, perhaps erasing forever the possibility of returning—who knew?
It had been the hardest year of his life. He had been lonely, and afraid, and every night wrestled with despair at the thought of what he was missing: his family, his sister, news of his father—not to mention a warm bath, warm food, a warm bed. He had not set foot on land once. He had starved on the sailor's diet of salt pork and biscuit; there were calluses on his knees, feet, and elbows, from holystoning the ship's decks, from tarring and caulking and running up and down the ratlines; his ribs and back and upper arms were striped by bruises and welts, courtesy of the Master's knotted rope, the "starter." He had seen three sailors die falling from spars. A dozen times, high in the rigging, he slipped and came within an instant—a reflex grab of a rope—of dying. He had not had one full night's sleep, had forgotten what a bed felt like, turned in nightly within a rope hammock asway in the darkness with a hundred snoring, grunting, stinking sailors all around him. His body was lean, his hair long and lank, tied back in a pigtail. His teeth were loose and wobbly.
Nothing was so hard as the company he had to keep. Most of the sailors were rough, dulled by overwork and the crude life, their great joy the daily tot of rum, slow of wit and accepting of brutality. Some were so physically broken-down it was difficult for Matthew to even look at them, skin and bones and toothless mouths and vacant stares. If this is what he was going to look like . . .
He had tried to fit in, cultivating allies, making friends of the surgeon's mate. Matthew moved in a crowd of younger sailors who were still full of high spirits and dreams—sad and impossible though these may be. Most of their dreams revolved around war against France and Spain, because war meant the possibility of prize money, their only hope of going home at last. When a smuggler was sighted trying to slip in or out of the 10-mile stretch of the Outer Harbor, they fought to get into the boats to give chase because they would share in any takings. That was why, because Matthew's loyalties were suspect, he was never allowed into the boats.
What ho, lookout! You'd best not be sleeping or I'll have thee flogged!" hailed a voice from below the foretop. A moment later, Nicky Blunt pulled himself over. Trim and rakish in his midshipman's uniform, hair glossy and well-combed, pulled back and tied with a piece of black silk, Nicky had some time ago completed his transformation into a gentleman midshipman.
Tucking his sword in its scabbard to one side in the cramped foretop, Nicky bellowed: "Roving, keep your eyes for'ard!" Then he unbuttoned his jacket front and brought out a wedge of cheese, a hunk of real bread, a withered dried apple, and plum duff wrapped in a handkerchief.
"Happy anniversary," he said. "You didn't think I'd forget, did you?" He gestured at the food. "Eat up—I've had plenty. It's all for you."
Matthew flexed his fingers; yellow-red, callused and thickened, they needed to be limbered up from exposure to the nipping air. Nicky watched until, realizing Matthew had noticed, he turned his head aside slightly, staring out to sea. "I'll keep your lookout. Dig in."
This was showing a sensitivity he could not show in public. After barely surviving his first week, Nicky had proved quick to pick up social cues, bluff past early embarrassments, and learn how to use his social superiority and powers of command to cover up for his ignorance. As Matthew watched, admiringly, and a little enviously, Nicky grew into his role. He swaggered, of course, but on the whole had greatly improved on the old Nicholas.
But, inevitably, he had discovered the duel. His fellow officers wouldn't leave the subject alone, particularly with Matthew brought low, beneath him, on the frigate. Long after his own situation was hopeless, Matthew had managed to meet Nicky in private, at the foretops, where he'd sketched in the origins of the quarrel, and hinted at the manner and character of the other Nicholas Tarleton Blunt. Nicky had taken it well. But Matthew could tell it bothered him, too—like hearing something bad about a brother or cousin or even yourself when you were a kid.
In any event, their past history prevented him from making Matthew's life any easier—not that a midshipman could do much, anyway. And sometimes Nicky had to be hard on Matthew, harder than he would be on other sailors. It was expected of him, and Matthew accepted these moments—though he occasionally wondered if Nicky didn't take pleasure in their predicament.
"To quarters! Two sail, port beam! Boat crews for'ard!"
Stuffing the food in his pants pockets or in his mouth, Matthew started for the ratlines, but Nicky grabbed his arm: "Listen to me carefully. If the order is to put out boats, I want you to stand right by me at the railing. Got it?" Matthew nodded, then leaped over the side. Grabbing a line, he locked his feet together around it and slid down to join the anonymous mass of sailors on deck. There Matthew pressed up to the rail, even though he had no assigned place on a boat.
Two midshipmen and a dozen men were climbing into a longboat, and Matthew made himself useful, helping to hand down muskets and a swivel cannon. When the ship's cutter was lowered, a loud oath split the air. Two sailors fell back, red-faced and confused. "Drunk! Both of you!" bellowed Nicky. "By God I'll see you flogged—you there, take their place. You, too, Roving," he shouted, shoving Matthew roughly. "You're not too good to pull an oar, are you?"
In one breathless movement the cutter's crew took their places and pulled away, rowing hard while the sail was set. Matthew hadn't yet seen their quarry, but now they appeared atop a heaving swell: a pair of sloops in the lee of Lovells and Georges Islands while a clutch of longboats approached from the shallows of Hingham Bay.
Seagull feathers tinged with red blood fell into the boat, followed by a ripping sound, followed at last by the bang of the Rose's bow chaser. Matthew kept one eye on the frigate after that, and at the next puff of smoke at her bows was able to watch a dark flattened oval of iron shot whoosh overhead.
Slipping between some nasty rocks and expertly timing the swirling ebb tide and cross-crashing waves, the cutter raced past Brewster Island, overtaking the longboat. "You take their boats, we'll try for the sloops," shouted Nicky to the other midshipman, who acknowledged the plan with a tip of his cockaded hat. The smugglers could now be picked out as individual figures scrambling to offload their cargo. "Gun's ready, sir," growled the gunner's mate, ducking the bow's cold spray. Nicky took the lanyard from the mate, placed his face against the wet iron of the four-pounder, then crouched beside it as a wave rose. He yanked the lanyard.
Gritty smoke stung Matthew's eyes. The gun-carriage shot back, halting the boat's forward progress; the oarsmen actually staggered backwards on their benches. "Ahhh!" they cried a moment later as the shot, going high, struck and tore away a section of rigging. Meanwhile, shots from the Rose were falling all about the smuggler craft, throwing up waterspouts. Yet the work continued, swiftly, without panic. "Another minute, men," shouted Nicky. "Row! Row for your purses, your sweethearts, your silver tankards of rum!"
Now that they were about to be cut off, the two sloops shifted slightly, into the wind, and their sails filled. Their partners in crime, the dozen swift longboats and catboats, turned tail and scattered for the Hingham creeks and marshes. Taking the tiller, Nicky turned to intercept the battered sloop. "Ship oars!" he cried, suddenly heaving the tiller in the other direction—too late—Matthew fell back, saw planks splinter at his feet, a black rock thrusting with a mad gush of icy water. Within seconds he was swimming for his life in the freezing sea, surrounded by screaming and shouting sailors.
It was a peculiarity of the Navy that most mariners never learned to swim, despite spending their life on the waters. Avoiding desperate grasping hands and thrashing arms, Matthew grabbed for shirt collars, pushing their owners toward chunks of timber from the wreckage. When he felt a hand on his own shoulder, gripping hard, he turned prepared to fight off a drowning man.
But it was Nicky. "This is it, Matt," he hissed. "Your chance—swim for it—head for that sloop—get away—if you can." He gasped and shivered violently, before grinning. "Just don't let me catch you." He gave Matthew a shove. The watery gap between them grew, and Matthew turned to locate the sloop. "Hey!" called Nicky. "Matt! If you do find the Log, don't forget to come back for me. Okay?"
"Okay." Sluggishly, his arms growing heavier by the minute, Matthew began swimming for the smuggler sloop, which was wallowing as its crew frantically attempted to clear away the fallen rigging. The current was strong, the chill numbed his fingers and toes; when his hand brushed his hair, it was stiff, already frozen into a cap of ice.
A sailor on the sloop swung an axe, and with a jerk the rigging and torn jib were loose, streaming behind the suddenly alive vessel. Matthew tried to drive his arms faster, but instead felt them sink, muscles spent, heavy as anchors.
The sailor with the axe swayed backwards, grinning. His eyes lighted on Matthew, and for a long moment the two stared at each other, hunter and prey, their roles suddenly reversed. The sailor looked away. The sloop scooted ahead. Matthew let his arms drop, just let go, to float and rest for a little while longer . . .
A splash by his face. He opened his eyes to see a knotted rope slipping past. He snagged it, braced himself for the shock and used the speed of it to take a couple of turns around his clasped forearms and legs, until he was so twisted up there was no chance of slipping off. Then it was just a matter of hanging on, until the smugglers saw fit to haul him aboard.