The Devil in Paradise--Captain Putnam in Hawaii

by James L. Haley

  Bliven’s blood froze. “A terrible place, sir?”

  Hull shrugged. “Unending war and mayhem, human sacrifice . . . one even hears of cannibalism. Surely you have heard of this.”

  “Only distantly, sir. My wife is connected to the church that is presently to send missionaries to those islands.”

  “Is she, now? I have been hearing of them. In fact, one could not fail to learn of it in this city, with all the drumbeating and psalm singing in recent days. According to the newspaper, their church service of fare-thee-well drew upwards of five hundred of the curious, over and above the faithful. Well, I hope they enjoyed their send-off, because I do not expect we will see any of them again.”

  Bliven raised his head. “My wife has gone as one of them.”

  “What!” Hull turned pale, his forever sleepy-looking blue eyes flung open, and then just as suddenly squinting. “Damn you, Putnam, you led me on!”

  “Not intentionally, sir, although I am glad to have your honest assessment.”

  “Well! I—” He spluttered some unintelligible syllable. “Of course, I cannot be certain about the cannibals, you understand. That is, merely what I— Why in God’s name would she do such a thing?”

  Bliven laughed softly. “In God’s name, exactly: that is just what she said. Over the years she became friends with one of the natives who led the missionary effort; you know the one whose death spurred creation of the mission school that is supported by our church in Litchfield. When I told her that I was ordered to the Pacific, she positively declined to do without me for three years, and she got it in her mind to go with the expedition to the Sandwich Islands. She does have many useful skills, and despite the church’s preference to send married couples, she changed their minds by paying up their deficit in chartering the ship. Her plan is to get to see me every few months when I put in at Honoruru, depending upon it that you will not order me to a different base of supply.”

  “No, we won’t, and let us discuss that point. Honoruru is still the best port from which you may operate. The old king has been friendly with the ships of all nations, as well he might be for they have made him rich enough. I do not know that you can victual and water your ship in Surabaya or the other ports in the Indies. We are friendly, officially, with the Dutch, but they are very jealous of their spice trade and are not overly welcoming of other countries. Now, the British have just signed a treaty with the Sultan of Johore . . . Here, wait, this will be easier.”

  Hull rose and riffled through a store of rolled charts from atop a large commode behind his desk, and selected the one he wanted. He unrolled it, weighting its edges with a book and his inkwell. “We just received this from them; it is a chart of the passages into the Strait of Malacca. It is up to date and I believe we can rely on it—we shall have to in any event, for we have no other. Now”—he waved his hand over the central part of the chart—“the whole of the Malay Peninsula is divided up among a crowd of tinpot little rajas and sultans. This southern extremity is Johore, which is one of the largest and most powerful. There is a British gadfly in that area”—he closed his eyes and tossed his head in the haughtiest manner he could manage—“Sir Thomas Stamford Bingley Raffles.”

  Bliven threw his head back and laughed.

  “He’s been there about ten years, trying to siphon off some of that spice monopoly from the Dutch. The Dutch are furious, but there isn’t much they can do about it, because the British Navy is about thirty times the size of their own.”

  “Ha! That sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. At least they are not shooting at each other anymore, or at least it takes a long time for shots fired in the Asian jungles to be heard in Europe.” Hull lowered his head. “If you take my meaning.”

  “And apply it to myself, yes, sir.”

  “Well, Raffles at last word was the governor of a fortified British enclave on Java. From there he saw that, here, on the very tip of the Malay Peninsula, there was some chaos to exploit. The legitimate sultan was ousted and exiled by his little brother—”

  “My God, just like us in Tripoli?”

  Hull paused. “Yes, a very similar circumstance. Yes, I hadn’t thought of that, except here the British are treating the rightful sultan to five thousand a year, plus another three thousand to the local raja to stay out of it, and they have backed it up with a battle line of seventy-fours. The sultan—at least, the one recognized by the British—leased them a trading concession and the right to build a port here, on the island of Singapore. That would have been over a year ago. We will be curious to hear your assessment of what they have done to create a harbor and perhaps fortify it.”

  “Fortify it? Against the Dutch, in case they get ambitious?”

  “Yes. Only take care that whatever you do, remember that the United States is strictly neutral and has no interest in that disagreement. Do not allow yourself to get caught between the British and the Dutch.”

  “Wait, sir, forgive me.” Bliven studied the chart for a moment. “The British are on Malaya, and the Dutch are on Sumatra, with the Malacca Strait between them?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And I will be ordered to engage pirates in the Malacca Strait?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not to get between the British and the Dutch?”

  Hull realized the thrust of Bliven’s questions and smirked. “The irony is not lost on me, Captain. But more than that, you must identify in whose employ those pirates are operating. If they work for the sultan of Johore, there won’t be much you can do, because we don’t want to complicate things for the British.” Hull’s finger tapped northward up the map of the peninsula. “But if the pirates belong to the sultans of Malacca, or Perak, or somebody else, then you are to let them know that American ships must be let alone. Teach them a lesson if need be.”

  Bliven ran his fingers through his hair. “Operating on the principle that guns fired in the jungles, or jungle straits, will likely not be heard elsewhere.”

  “Somewhat. We don’t know the exact state of the alliances; you can learn more when you are there.”

  Bliven leaned back and sighed. “Oh, for heavenly days.”

  “Yes, I know. On your way to the Sandwich Islands you might make a friendly call at Valparaiso. The British usually have ships there, and you might learn more.”

  “Why would there be British ships at Valparaiso?”

  “Oh, did you not know? Admiral Cochrane has gone down there to take command of the Chilean Navy, at their invitation.”

  “What? Commodore, are you joking with me? I knew that Cochrane had been brought down, of course, but I’d no idea what became of him.”

  “No, it is quite true. As soon as the Chileans heard that he was cashiered from the Royal Navy, and the fact was confirmed when he was expelled from Parliament, he lost his knighthood, his banner was thrown out the front door of Westminster Abbey—total degradation—”

  “God, how could they be so stupid?”

  “That is a topic for another day. But once the Chileans knew of it, they snapped him up. By heaven, I admire them. Any new Latin country that puts an Irishman in command of their army and an Englishman in command of their navy is damned serious about their independence. I wish them well.”

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “At any rate, Valparaiso is all bustling with the commercial trade—all the whaling ships stop there now to provision—and sympathetic English captains visit to butter him up, because they calculate that he will return in glory once there is a change in government. And whoever is in power, it is still in Britain’s interest to destroy what’s left of the Spanish Empire in South America.”

  “Still annoyed about the Spanish Armada, perhaps.” They shared the laugh. “Who is the American consul? Can you give me a letter of introduction?”

  “No, in fact we do not have a legation there. Chi
le has been functionally independent for three years now, and no doubt we are headed toward recognizing them, but we have not attended to that formality as of this date.”

  “No, that would be too much to ask.”

  Hull’s sympathy was evident. “I realize this is a complex set of affairs to keep handy in your head. I will reprise it all in your orders.”

  “What can you tell me about this American captain who was raided by pirates in the Malacca Strait?”

  “His name is Saeger—Jakob Saeger, Dutch ancestry, from New York. Not connected to the Dutch in the Indies at all, but no doubt has used his bloodline to try and cultivate a good commercial relationship. He has been in the Canton trade for about ten years, shipping out tea and porcelain, most recently selling off sandalwood from Hawaii there. He seems to have made a pretty hard name for himself in those parts, but we don’t know any details.”

  “What is the pirates’ strength?”

  Hull shrugged. “Like pirates anywhere, small ships, lightly armed. I’m sure they are of some local design, no doubt very exotic looking, being the Orient. You can learn more when you get there.”

  “It seems I will have a great deal to learn after I get there.”

  Hull peered up at him evenly. “That is why we are sending you. You have a . . . a sensitivity for foreigners and their ways that other officers might not, dating back to your experience in Egypt and all.”

  At last Bliven understood why he had been selected for this mission. “I had best return to my ship. I have much reading to do. Allow me to thank you for giving her your close attention while undergoing repair.”

  Hull stood. “Certainly. And here, the charts are yours: Take them with you. You will find one for Canton and one for Singapore: Pay particular attention to it, for the waterways leading to the settlement will appear to you to be nothing but creeks coming out of the jungle. The charts of the Sandwich Islands are based on those made by Captain Cook himself, for he was such a careful cartographer that they have found no room for improvement. You will use your discretion, of course, but I expect you will want to visit all of the anchorages where trading ships call—Honoruru, mainly, but also Lahaina, and Kairua. Learn all you can of the general situation and how American affairs lie—and of course you can look in on your missionaries. Then continue on to Canton and talk to all the American and British traders there that you can, then to Singapore and meet Raffles, if you can get an audience, and make a patrol in the Malacca Strait. Of course, report back everything you learn, as we will be sharing it with the State Department. That corner of the world is a blank slate to them.”

  “You will keep me advised about the powder and shot?”

  “Of course, but as I say, you may have to put into Charleston for them.”

  * * *

  * * *

  BLIVEN WALKED LEISURELY detours about the Navy Yard in the October sun, the charts under his arm—a sad look at the Constitution, now bestridden with her ugly paddle wheels, and further around the curve of the harbor he espied the unmistakably elegant lines of a frigate under construction. He regretted that Boston had not been chosen to build one of the new American ships of the line. That would be a sight to see—American ships the equal of Nelson’s Victory. Perhaps if he put in at Gosport for ammunition he could sneak an inspection of that monstrous new North Carolina. Surely Boston would have a turn; perhaps when he returned from Asia he would see one looming over the waterfront. He smirked to think of how, when they launched the Constitution, she got stuck in the ways twice before finally taking to water at her third christening. Maybe someone felt that the two thousand tons of a ship of the line would never leave the builder’s yard in Boston at all.

  He indulged himself a few disgruntled moments at the shortsightedness of the American Navy, already made manifest in the Constitution’s side wheels and water tanks. If they had any sense, they would follow the British model of launching only smaller vessels from slipways. Their great ships of the line they built in dry docks, floating them free when they were ready. The United States had no dry docks of sufficient size, but rather than look to the future of ever-larger ships, and construct such a large facility—which would thereafter be as useful for maintenance as for construction—no doubt they would spend much less money on a large slipway. If a new vessel got stuck on one again, well, they would figure something out.

  Then, too, they allowed their disdain for the British to cloud their judgment on matters of the greatest practical moment. North Carolina in their hubris was to be mounted with forty-two-pounders, in haughty disregard of costly British experience. The English had already tried those gigantic guns and discarded them. They were simply too big to handle, and the muzzle blast was so powerful that they damaged the ships’ upper works. But, nothing would do but the American Navy must have the biggest guns, and never mind whether the recoil should sink the ship that fired them.

  It was past noon as Bliven walked up Rappahannock’s gangplank, and he spied smoke issuing from the ten-foot stack forward on the spar deck, and caught the aroma of fish, and baked beans, and then fresh bread. With no crew and no cook, he suspected Ross, who he knew was a capable hand in the galley. When he returned to his sea cabin he found the silver service steaming with coffee on the table, with the large lunch fully set, and shot a quizzical look at Ross.

  “Saw you coming, sir. I thought you would be hungry.”

  “You thought rightly.” As he ate, Bliven looked around the great cabin and saw that Ross had him unpacked, books in place on the double shelf with its spindled rails to keep them from tumbling off with the ship’s roll. When he was alone he looked into his berth and found his clothes organized in the bureau drawers, his coats hung up, his hat and looking glass on their shelf.

  He had resumed his meal when Ross returned. “Can I get you anything else, Captain?”

  “Mr. Ross, tarry a moment. Do I remember correctly that you are twenty-six years of age?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes. You know, you have served me well, and I am glad to have you with me, but have you taken any thought for your future? Are you ambitious to do anything?”

  “Sir?”

  “The world is not a comfortable place for old men who are poor. I am just curious what you mean to do for yourself.”

  Ross laughed in a nervous way. “Like what, sir?”

  “Well, for instance, you might make a success as a ship’s purser. You would be the men’s storekeeper and you would make something off everything you sell to them.”

  “Oh, bless you, sir, but that takes capital. I could never post that kind of bond. And from what I understand of the factors who do post those bonds, I would not care to be connected to them, if I may speak so freely.”

  “Quite right, Mr. Ross. Your honesty does you credit.” He should have considered that more carefully, how often pursers were so hard on the men because the lenders who supply their capital were so hard on them.

  “You will allow me to thank you, Captain, for taking an interest in my affairs. The fact is, I am not well educated, and after the Navy, if I enter service in the house of some well-off family, that would not be a bad life for the likes of me.”

  “Such a family would be lucky to have you.”

  “Well, only if you cast me off, sir.”

  “Ha!” Seldom had Bliven heard a bid for permanent employment so artfully put forward.

  After Ross had cleared away the lunch, Bliven unrolled Hull’s charts on the large table, weighting their edges with books so the curled paper would begin to relax. He placed the Malacca Straits on top and stared at it almost dumbly, the jumble of names he would never be able to pronounce. He read and studied through the afternoon and through supper, at last spreading open the chart of the Sandwich Islands. They were anchored in the southeast by the great island of Hawaii, a hatchet-shaped triangle, perhaps a hundred miles north to south up its western
side, the northeastern and southeastern angles of sixty or seventy miles each. Halfway up its western face was the bay of Kearakekua, which he knew from reading Ledyard was where Captain Cook landed, and a year later landed again, and met his death. They called it a bay, but on the chart it was hardly enough of an indentation in the coast to give any shelter from the ocean. Twenty miles north of there was Kairua, also with almost no harbor, although it was the royal capital.

  North and west from Hawaii island lay a scattering of half a dozen other islands, each of four or five hundred square miles. First was Maui, whose roads at Lahaina were a gathering place for ships of all nations, then Molokai, and then the most promising, Oahu, which had the only real harbor and safe anchorage for ships at Honoruru. Ready for bed at last, Bliven stood and surveyed the whole. “Clarity, my love,” he whispered, “where have they taken you?” He must learn much, much more.

  * * *

  * * *

  IN THE MORNING after breakfast he strolled through that part of the city near the waterfront, which he had come to know well, until he stood before a tall red-brick building with a Dutch gambrel roof at the corner of Washington and School Streets. It was of two full stories, with a third story contained within the vast roof and an attic yet above that in its upper angle, the entire appearance showing it to be that sort of business whose first floor was for the commercial enterprise, and whose proprietor and family lived above it. The sign hung over the door read CARTER AND HENDEE, BOOK SELLERS AND PUBLISHERS. A bell dingled from a spring as he opened it, and he found himself in a shop whose shelves were as lined with leather-bound volumes as old Marsh’s library, books whose leather and ink and fine cotton paper permeated the air with that unmistakable scent of the book room. Bliven had long since concluded that if knowledge had this aroma, he could spend his life breathing deeply of it. The building had formerly been an apothecary shop; he had not been here since this change of tenancy, and he felt satisfied that Clarity had chosen her publisher well.