The Continental Risque by James Nelson Page A

dockworkers had stripped the
Charlemagne
of guns, stores, and top-hamper. That done, she had been hove down, rolled over on her larboard side, bringing the leaking starboard bow out of the water.
    The
Charlemagne
seemed to breathe a great sigh of relief, pleased to be free of the damaged top-hamper, grateful to be pulled from the water, like a man stripping off coat and shirt on an unbearably hot day. It made Biddlecomb happy to see his beloved brig in the graving dock, finally getting the proper attention.
    And now some interloper was giving instructions concerning the work on her bow, saying to the lead shipwright, ‘No, you cannot simply put a dutchman in there, you must rip the planking back to the first cant frame, and three strakes above that and below to see there’s no more rot. You don’t know what’s going on under there, the whole damned bow could fall clean off.’ Standing in a half circle around him and peering down from the hull above were the gang of shipwrights who had been working on the brig.
    It did not matter to Biddlecomb that the man was right, or that ten minutes later he would have issued the same instructions himself, the fact remained that someone he did not know was giving orders concerning his ship.
    â€˜Could that be Mr Wharton?’ Virginia asked, tightening her grip on his arm.
    It was part of their routine now to stroll over to the shipyard after breakfasting with William Stanton in the Stone House, where they had their lodging. The mornings were lovely, brittle and cold, but even abominable weather could not have quashed the general excitement with which Philadelphia was infused in those latter days of 1775.
    â€˜No, I met Wharton yesterday, that’s not him. Here’s Mr Humphreys now.’ Biddlecomb nodded toward the young man walking in their direction, clad in Quaker black, a bundle of draughts held awkwardly under his arm. ‘Mr Humphreys, sir, a word, if you please! Who, pray, is that gentleman giving directions to your lead shipwright? The one there pointing toward the cutwater, in the blue coat. Is he one of your people?’
    Humphreys squinted through spotted glasses toward the
Charlemagne
and shook his head. ‘No … good morning to you, Miss Stanton … that’s Mr Tottenhill, your first officer. Came by this morning, first thing. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize him.’
    â€˜Indeed,’ said Biddlecomb, quite taken aback by this information, and, after bidding Humphreys good day, added, ‘This is passing strange.’ Tottenhill was now poking at the exposed frames with a long scrap of wood. ‘Let’s see what’s acting here.’
    Biddlecomb and Virginia stepped over the frozen mud of the shipyard, making their way to the
Charlemagne
around piles of snow-covered timber. The big men-of-war, big at least by the standards of the Colonial Navy, were tied to the dock, receiving the last of their new top-hamper. Biddlecomb had known the flagship,
Alfred
, in her earlier life as the merchantman
Black Prince
. The second ship, which, like the
Andrew Doria
, had formerly been named
Sally
, was reborn as the
Columbus
and was commanded, to Biddlecomb’s delight, by his former superior officer in the Rhode Island navy, Capt. Abraham Whipple. Both ships mounted twenty-four nine-pounder guns, the biggest men-of-war the colonies could assemble.
    â€˜You, sir,’ Biddlecomb called out as he approached Tottenhill. ‘Who are you? What are you about?’
    Tottenhill turned and regarded his captain with a face full of annoyance. ‘I’m Lt Roger Tottenhill, sir, first officer of the brig-of-war
Charlemagne
, if it is any business of yours.’
    â€˜I should say it’s some business of mine. I’m Isaac Biddlecomb, Capt. Isaac Biddlecomb, commander of this brig that you fancy yourself to be first officer of.’
    Tottenhill’s face changed as if a cloud had been whisked away from