The Devil in Paradise--Captain Putnam in Hawaii

by James L. Haley

  Since then, Jean Lafitte had transferred his allegiance to the king of Spain, who had been fighting an insurgency in Mexico since 1810, which occasionally spilled over into Mexico’s eastern province of Texas. Lafitte agreed to spy on the inhabitants of Texas and report or eliminate revolutionaries, in exchange for which Lafitte was given free rein on Galveston Island. The crown would not inquire into what kind of operation he ran there as long as he kept order, and as time had proved, Lafitte conceived a model of enterprise even more profitable than fencing plunder in New Orleans.

  Bliven heard Ross’s three raps on the door and rose from his study and entered the great cabin. “Come in.”

  Ross entered and saluted. “Dr. Berend is here to report, Captain.”

  “Send him in.”

  There entered a smallish older man—too old, really, to still be in the service—but, like Dr. Cutbush, whom Berend knew well, he had found a home and a useful life in the Navy, and no one was disposed to force a skilled surgeon to retire when the service was chronically short of them. Craighead Berend had a receding hairline behind which his tightly curled white hair tended to disorder. His skin was a Mediterranean sort of dark, marked with the keratoses of his age; his eyes were large, dark brown, and intense. He wore the coat of his surgeon’s uniform, distinguished from the captain’s by the single button and lace-fringed buttonhole at either side of the standing collar. And the fringe of lace at his cuffs was a quarter inch wide, as opposed to the captain’s three-eighths of an inch.

  They saluted quickly and shook hands. “Dr. Berend, how are you?” He stared coldly at Berend’s dress coat. “Are you quite certain you are not dressing above your station? Here, let me see.”

  He stretched his arm next to Berend’s and together they ascertained that the doctor’s cuff lace was indeed just a fraction shorter than Bliven’s. Berend erupted in laughter, revealing prominent front teeth and a missing bicuspid. “Can you imagine what kind of fop designed these damn things? I just don’t know.”

  “There is no need to ask if you want coffee: Mr. Ross is already behind you with a cup. Be seated, please. Well, what do we have?”

  Berend stirred a spoon of sugar into his coffee, omitting cream. “Captain, you gave into my care nine Africans: five males—that is, three aged men and two boys—and four females—that is, three aged women and one young girl. I got them bathed and fed and treated them for lice, and other than the malnourishment one would expect in their circumstance, they seem to be in good health. They were apprehensive, of course, but a little kind treatment has gone a long way. Since the carpenter’s men are working in the hold, I took it upon myself to have most of the sailcloth moved aft and I put the Africans in the sail room. I did not lock them in, but I put two of the marines nearby to corral them in the forward portion of the hold.”

  “Were you able to speak with the one who knows French?”

  “A little bit, yes. They are of the Wolof tribe, who are the principal inhabitants along the Gambia River. They were captured by Mauritanian Berbers, sold to slave factors in Dakar, and put on the ship there. He believes they visited a couple of ports before you took them, but he does not know where. They had not seen light of day until you came along.”

  Bliven looked away and sighed in disgust.

  “Oh, one other thing: I inquired into their religion, looking to the issue of eating pork. He said they are aware of the Mohammedans, and some of the Wolof have converted. But his village had not. His French was not very good, but I understood him to say that when the Berbers come riding through a village, chopping people down and selling others into slavery, and doing it in the name of religion, that is not a religion they want.”

  Bliven harrumphed. “Yes, we fought about that on the Mediterranean twenty years ago.”

  “The point is, they will be grateful for whatever you feed them. Forgive me, Captain, but you are going to have to make a decision what to do with them. You are aware of the new law?”

  Bliven took a sip of coffee. “You are an educated man, Doctor, what is your opinion of the new law?”

  Berend tossed his head. “It is a travesty, of course, there is no denying that. The only way to get a law through Congress was to give the South a say in draughting it. So now slaves captured on the open sea are to be turned over to the Customs Service. That sounds rather benign, but then the Customs Service is to sell them, give half the money to the finder as a reward, and the other half accrues to the Treasury to defray the expense of their so-called rescue. So the net effect has been to take a concept that was intended to protect these poor wretches and twist it into making the United States government the largest slave broker in the world. I may be a Virginian, Captain, but at least I am a west Virginian, and I don’t mind telling you I am ashamed of this law.”

  Bliven sighed in sadness. “I wish to God I had never heard of slavery. Do our . . . passengers . . . know about the new law?”

  “No. No, they believe they have been rescued.”

  Bliven hung his head. “God damn it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Bliven chewed at his thoughts for several seconds. “On your honor, may I bring you into my confidence?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “We know how perverse the new law is. Along the Gulf, it is even worse. There is a pirate named Lafitte holed up in Galveston in Spanish Texas.”

  “Yes, I have heard of him, of course.”

  “He has learned how to play this law. Lafitte has formed a partnership with a slave smuggler in Louisiana, some man named Bowie. They capture slaves at sea, or perhaps kidnap them from plantations and take them to sea to be ‘captured.’ They deliver them to the Customs Service and pocket half the money as a reward, then buy them in numbers for a discount before selling them on the block for full price. The ones that Lafitte takes to Galveston are given forged papers and marched through the swamps to sell on U.S. soil, thus even cutting the U.S. government out of the deal. We can’t find Bowie and we can’t touch Lafitte as long as he is a Spanish citizen. The new law is as you call it a travesty as far as the Gulf Coast is concerned.”

  “I did not know any of this,” Berend conceded. “What are your intentions?”

  Bliven looked at him until he was certain he had Berend’s attention, and a smile of mischief spread over his countenance. “Read the law! It concerns slaves taken at sea.” He pointed below to the hold. “Who owns those people? I don’t own them. Do you own them? Who is to say if they are slaves?”

  A matching smile spread across Berend’s face. “I confess, I like your thinking.”

  “I know a man in Boston, a highly educated Negro, a teacher, a leader in his community. My intention is to take these people to Boston and entrust them to his care.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  “He owes me his life, he won’t refuse.”

  * * *

  * * *

  DURING THE COURSE of the evening the warm, humid east wind swung to the north, robust, drier, even with a chill. From where they drove the slaver into the Bay of Pigs, it was less than fifty miles south to the Cayo Largo, at the eastern end of that string of reefs and cays that extended east for a hundred miles from the Isle of Pines. Safely around the east side of Cayo Largo and into deep water, Bliven ordered west-sou’west for a day before due west—all of it a hard four-day pull to reach the center of the Yucatán Channel. There they loitered until a southerly wind blew up that shot them through into the Gulf of Mexico on the morning of the fifth day.

  And after they spread more canvas to get into the Gulf before the wind could change again, Bliven heard Ross’s triple rap at his door. “Yes, what is it?”

  Ross entered. “The carpenter wishes to—”

  Tall, gangling Fleming was through the door before Ross finished announcing him.

  “Fleming! What do you know?”

  “I believe we
have found the source of our problem, sir. Will you please to come down?”

  They walked quickly to the ladder amidships, down past the berth deck and into the hold, where Fleming led them forward to where a team of men were gathered around the light of five battle lamps. The stoutness of the Rappahannock’s construction was apparent from the extraordinarily narrow spacing of her ribs. These huge oaken timbers, eight inches broad and twelves inches deep to the hull planks, were spaced only sixteen inches on center, so that the spaces between the ribs were only eight inches wide. Thirty feet short of the stern compartments Fleming hopped down onto the ribs and, holding a battle lantern up with one hand, pulled up a large bolt of cotton cloth that he had used as a kind of blotter, and they saw in the space between the ribs a spread of water slowly cover the hull planks. Fleming pressed the dry side of the cotton blotter between the ribs and extracted it again, and the fast seep of water again covered the bottom of the cavity. “There she is, Captain.”

  “Does this leak extend to the neighboring ribs?”

  “A little, sir, but very little.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “As you see, Captain, it is not intruding under high pressure or it would be shooting over our heads. Yet there must be damage to the copper or it would not be coming in at all. I would caulk these seams with pitch, insert blocks of wood on either side of the leak, tight to the ribs on either side, to make a kind of coffer dam, except to keep the water in instead of out. Then I would plank tightly over the ribs and seal those planks with pitch, and see if that holds.”

  “Yes,” said Bliven, “I see. Do as you suggest, only continue that operation to one more rib on either side for good measure. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Clearly, sir. We will get right to it.”

  “Good work, Fleming, very good work. Let us hope this fixes the problem for now.”

  Miller had this watch, and Bliven could not wait to get on deck to relay the good—or at least the hopeful—news.

  “So we are in the Gulf at last,” said Miller. “Now you must make up your mind what to do.”

  “Yes, I must.” The salt air was fresh and bracing after the must of the hold, and Bliven sucked it in deeply. “If we go straight home, we turn east-northeast through the Straits of Florida, and should do so quite soon. Fleming, however, believes that he can repair our difficulty, and I am disposed, having seen the leak, to believe him. Now, our orders for this cruise are to trouble the pirates and slavers. If we steer north, in a couple of days we will cross that line that runs from Havana to Galveston. If, as I suspect, Lafitte is picking up some of his slaves in Cuba, we may be able to interrupt his commerce somewhat. But if, as may be possible, Fleming is not able to safely manage our leak, two days’ sail will place us within reach of the facilities at Mobile. I think that—”

  “Deck! Ahoy the deck!”

  Forward of the mizzenmast Bliven and Miller craned their necks upward. A new vessel, Rappahannock had been equipped with what they called a crow’s nest, a lookout’s platform encircled by a metal guardrail, newly devised by the Arctic whalers and such an improvement that Bliven had made certain to have one built as she was fitting out. It allowed lookouts to ride higher, above the topgallant yard, and in greater safety than they had been able up to that time.

  It seemed impossible to even shout up to such a height. “What do you see?”

  “Two sail, four miles, dead ahead!”

  Miller cupped his hands at his mouth. “What is their bearing?”

  “Northwest!”

  They scanned the horizon ahead with their glasses but descried nothing. “Marvelous thing that the world is round,” said Miller, “to see from up there over that tiny curve of the arc what we cannot see down here.”

  “Well, let’s go have a look. The day is new; we may have some fun before dinner. Come to all sail, Mr. Miller.”

  “Set the stuns’ls?”

  “Of course!”

  “I think you are just in love with the speed.”

  “Indeed I am. Get to it!”

  From the lookout’s first hail the bosun had come close enough to be given his orders. “All sail, Mr. Yeakel. Set your stuns’ls if you please.”

  “Helm,” said Bliven, seeing it was tall young Rippel who was at the wheel. “Come west-nor’west, aim to intercept them, but by all means keep the weather gage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bliven cupped his hand at his mouth. “Lookout! Ahoy!”

  “Sir!”

  “Sing out when you see what kinds of ships they are!”

  Again Yeakel’s men were in the rigging, lashing fast the yards that held the studding sails, hoisting royal yards that forced the lookout to sit down in his crow’s nest to see under the main royal.

  As the full spread of canvas filled they raced ahead at what must have been twelve knots, such a speed as to get any young man’s blood pumping. Clearly they were gaining on the two ships as fast as a strong man could walk.

  “Deck! Ahoy!” It had been less than an hour.

  “What do you see?”

  “A large brig leading a barkentine! I see open gunports!”

  “What do you think?” asked Miller. “A slave ship and an escort?”

  “Very possible. But what are they doing down here? We must be a hundred and fifty miles from the sea-lane to Galveston.” He shook his head blankly. “I have no idea. Well, beat to quarters, Mr. Miller.” Miller turned to go, but Bliven caught him by the arm. “Except for actually loading the guns. Tell your gun captains they will load the guns only on your command. Have the boys bring up bar shot as well as balls, and grape for the carronades. Go ahead and load the carronades. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Go, and come right back to me!”

  Miller got the attention of the marine corporal standing duty at the head of the ladder. “Beat to quarters!” He disappeared below to arrange matters with the gun captains.

  Bliven signed for the attention of one of the midshipmen. “No need for mystery: Hoist our colors from the spanker boom.”

  The ship flew into life as guns were loosened and limbered, and the dozen ship’s boys shuttled powder and balls and bar shot from the magazine. The gunnery drill had simplified since Bliven’s boyhood on the Enterprise, for the modern lanyards eliminated the linstock fuses and their attendant fuss. Gun crews rammed home the powder charges, but held off loading until they knew what shot to use. Within four minutes Rappahannock’s whole aspect changed from an elegant sailing vessel to a lethal, modern weapon of war.

  Miller rejoined Bliven on the quarterdeck just as Ross appeared at the head of the ladder and came aft. Bliven asked him, “Is my cabin broken down?”

  “Yes, sir, but I thought you would want this.”

  He handed him the sheathed jambia, which Bliven thrust beneath his sword belt. “Indeed, yes, good thinking, Mr. Ross. I do thank you.”

  Miller looked on, incredulous. “What the devil is that? Sir.”

  “For good luck,” said Bliven quietly. He grasped the polished handle of rhinoceros horn and extracted it, to reveal its wicked, wide, curving ribbed blade, and handed it over. “When I was a midshipman on the Enterprise, we fought and captured a Berber brig, the Tripoli. I removed this from an Arab brigand who had no more need of it.”

  Miller turned it over, inspecting it. “Never have I seen such a thing.”

  Bliven accepted it back and sheathed it. “Well, not many Arabs in Pennsylvania, I imagine.”

  “Deck! Ahoy!”

  “What do you see?”

  “The two ships are separating! The barkentine goes north, the brig goes west!”

  Even as his voice died away they felt the small concussion of a gun from the brig, and they saw a ball splash five hundred yards ahead of them. “What a fool,” said Miller.

&n
bsp; “No, it is interesting. He is challenging us, to cover the barkentine as she runs away, which means the barkentine is carrying valuable cargo—I am guessing human cargo. As with our friend Captain Hippomenes in Cuba, he thinks we will dash to save the poor slaves—if it is slaves. But if we come to starboard and chase down the barkentine, we surrender the weather gage to him, and he can come at us however he chooses. Now, listen carefully.” He pulled Miller over near Rippel at the wheel. “Listen carefully, both of you. We are going to come up on his weather beam, classically, elegantly. Starboard gunports snap open smartly together. Broadsides across deep water, all that. Well, elegant naval battles are for novels. I want to take him down as quick as a fencing master. Mr. Miller, you will load your port twenty-fours with bar shot: Elevate to hit the rigging. Load your starboard guns with solid shot. Aim to hit between wind and water. Train your guns as far forward as they will go. If it looks like he is waiting to receive our fire, Rippel here will make a starboard turn at my command; Miller will fire at his rigging as his guns bear. Aim for masts, but ripping shrouds and canvas is also good. Then we will turn to port, and as we come abeam we will hole him with the starboard shot.”

  Miller gave him a lost-looking smile. “None of this was in any gunnery manual that I ever studied.”