The Kingdom on the Waves

by M. T. Anderson

  And perhaps our hunger and our anger at our constraint conquered both of us — for he persisted in holding it from me, laughing and saying, “What is this?”— whereas I was reduced to grabbing for it, crying, “Return it to me! Return it to me now!”

  He said, “We must needs make a little sketch of the river and Norfolk and its approaches,” and I watched the book swoop around my hands and I heard my own voice, the treble of a boy in skirts, wailing, “It is mine! Bono — Private Williams! It is mine! Give it back to me!”

  “The boys and me are discussing strategy.”

  “Give it back to me!”

  Bono thrust a palm against my chest to hold me at a distance, leaned the book on an upraised knee, and with the other hand, perused the pages. “What have you here?” he said. “You writing down things about us all?” and he called out the names as he found them: Jocko, Slant, Pomp, Isaac, Charles. I may be grateful that Charles and Isaac, who were by his side, turned their heads away, ashamed at our squabble. “What have you here?” Bono repeated.

  “I’m setting down the stories of the Regiment in my Itinerarium,” I said. “That they may not be forgotten. Our heroism. Give it back.”

  “Sweet mercy,” said Bono. “Your Itinerarium.” He shook his head. “You barely got your own story to write.” His aspect was lowering, and he said to me, “Prince O., you consider these people, and then you consider your own self. You lived in a special bed, you ate beef every supper, you was taught to play the fiddle, and your biggest hardship was learning the present plural singular indicative in Latin. Do you . . . — Do you truly . . . ?” He frowned wildly and did not complete his sentence; my face burned in shame.

  He tore out a blank page so that he might sketch Norfolk and its defenses for his friends.

  He gave the book back to me, and I sit with it now.

  Bono and his companions sit only four feet away, smoking pipes and murmuring.

  I will not write more this evening.

  December 23rd, 1775

  In the last days, entreaties have been made by members of my Company that we might hold our accustomed dances, palavers, and protocols; which requests our commanders denied summarily, the hazard being too great at this time. Though the dancing was impracticable, there was nonetheless a great convocation of both sexes upon our ship and several others, a boatload of women and children from the Dunluce being added to the soldiers and the small number of wives and children aboard the Crepuscule.

  I was delighted to observe that the comely young lady of such exquisite voice I had seen previously was returned, this maiden attended like one of the Parnassian sisters by a company of other songstresses.

  It was, however, with some surprise that I encountered Dr. Trefusis among those boarding from the Dunluce, that ship being largely given over to the housing of women connected with the regiments. I begged him to explain to what we owed the honor, and he responded merrily that we owed the tearing great pleasure of his presence to the fact that he had been detected in fraud and ejected from his former berth. I inquired as to what fraud precisely, and he responded thus: When he resided in Norfolk, he circulated among families of the most exalted condition on the strength only of his wit and a forged letter of credit from a bank in London; debts mounting, inquiries had been made, and Dr. Trefusis’s purse embarrassed. “I have always said, my boy, that a lace jabot is as good as a thousand pounds in trust at the bank. But yesterday I discovered that the precise figure is fifty-three pounds, eight shillings. I found it expedient to remove myself to the Dunluce transport and to take refuge with the washerwomen and trulls. My new companions are infinitely preferable to the old. Last night, a woman gave me a crab claw without asking a farthing for it, and I knew, in truth, I was finally moving in circles of the very first ton.”

  The festivities this night were louder than in evenings before, due presumably to the confinement of the sound in the hold of the ship; but it seemed as if the very act of suppressing the dancing spurred on the singing and the drumming upon the hull, upon hogsheads, the clapping of hands.

  I have now been privy to several of these exuberant protocols; and of their music I have observed a great deal, and hope someday to learn the secrets of these consorts and write an account of the inexplicable tunings, the intricate complexities of rhythm, the simple fugato songs, as headlong catches, the rapt recitativo secco of their narration. This shall be a work for times of peace, when I have had more opportunity to study and learn.

  My most ardent wishes were gratified with a performance by the maiden singer I had seen previous, though she sang in chorus with two others, delivering a ballad on the progress of the worm in corn. Even such mean matter, rendered by this maiden, ravished the senses.

  Dr. Trefusis squatted by my side; and I presented both Slant and Pomp to him particularly, hoping that his frolicsome air would alleviate their habitual mistrust of white men, and they find as much pleasure in his conversation as I found in theirs. Their silence, however, betrayed their discomfort. When they perceived that Bono crawled and stooped beneath the beams, advancing crabwise through the seated crush to join us, ’twas too much; Bono was an object of even greater fear to them than a white gentleman. Though he does not mock Slant’s difficulties with speech, and uses him always with perfect politeness, it is clear that he withholds some hidden commentary; and none of us wish to be by when he, angry at our confinement or some recent rebel outrage, sees fit to loose his bile.

  He coming, they fled.

  Dr. Trefusis did not note their absence, but as Bono sate himself down beside us, greeted him.

  “Your humble servant, sir,” said Dr. Trefusis. “Excellent ridotto.”

  Bono said, “Ain’t the same without the dancing.”

  “Tant pis, the ceiling is a little low. One brisk hornpipe and we’d all be bashed stupid.”

  Bono took ahold of his own head, and said, “Aye, I’ll tell you, sir: too low, too narrow, too short. One more day and — I swear I can’t abide this hunching. And the stink. Sweet mercy. What intelligence you got from Lord Dunmore?”

  “I hear nothing from Lord Dunmore,” said Dr. Trefusis. “I am become persona non grata in that quarter. I am no wise welcome in the stateroom imperial.”

  “You heard when we’re going to attack the rebels, instead of waiting on deck, admiring their fine parades?”

  “One must assume that we are waiting for word from Lord Dunmore’s agent with the Iroquois Confederation. He is supposed to sweep down with them from the northwest and provide us with most welcome assistance.”

  “Well, when’s he due? His Lordship’s agent?”

  “Connolly.”

  “When’s he due?”

  “You ask a fool and an outcast.”

  “Damn,” said Bono, rubbing his hands once more upon the sides of his skull. “My gampapa warned me, never accept no invitation to get into the hold of a white man’s ship. Said he had a devilish irksome experience once. Visit lasted some few months.”

  “I am sorry,” said Dr. Trefusis, “that I can provide you with no more information.” The song was ended; Dr. Trefusis turned to me. “Private Nothing is quiet this evening.”

  I did not disagree.

  He smiled in a curious fashion — occasioned by I knew not what — and said to me, “I must present you to someone.” He rose, ducking to avoid the beams. “Follow.”

  I attended him as we stepped among the crowd. Men sat skewed against their wives; children passed Vishnoo the tortoise between them, hands reaching, as he ducked and scrabbled to resist the hardships of their affection. It may well be imagined what emotions passed through my breast when I saw Dr. Trefusis’s goal: the comely girl who sang such exquisite arias.

  I was startled, convinced my tutor possessed the power to scry the thoughts of mind and heart. Dr. Trefusis leaned back to me and confided, “Your eyes, sweet child, hang out for all to see like the globes on a pawn shop.”

  Reaching her side, Dr. Trefusis engaged in a low bow,
saying, “Mademoiselle, may I present to you Private Octavian Nothing of Boston.” And to me he said, “Miss Nsia Randolph of Chesterfield County, Virginia. Lately cast off the name of Sarah.”

  I had wits sufficient about me to bow; and then stood and regarded the girl, who regarded me.

  I knew not what to say.

  “Real pleased, sir,” she said demurely.

  Dr. Trefusis smiled upon both of us.

  “You . . . sing,” said I, “with great skill and beauty.”

  Miss Nsia lowered her head.

  So we stood.

  I am not unschooled in the arts of gallantry, but my lessons were administered through observation rather than practice; and I found myself unpossessed of even the slightest article of sense. I cast about for topics, and found none sufficient; ransacked my wits, but seized on no jot worth speaking; and feared that at any moment, she should turn back to the entertainment and so show her disregard for my person.

  She did not turn away, however; and I could not.

  After a silence had elapsed, Dr. Trefusis reported, “Private Nothing plays upon the violin.” Dr. Trefusis personated a violinist, sawing upon the air. He looked upon me with eyes of encouragement.

  She nodded and said, “You play fiddle?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  To this, Dr. Trefusis added, “He speaks Latin and Greek as he were a gentleman of antiquity.” This made, as might be expected, little impression.

  “You is a soldier, sir?” she asked.

  “Indeed,” said I.

  She hummed a note and nodded; and I, over-awed at her dignity, could not speak another word.

  At this uncomfortable juncture, I perceived with no little confusion that Bono watched us, grinning a wide, jackanapes smile; which cajolery threw me into more distress. I hardly knew whether I breathed.

  “Splendid,” said Dr. Trefusis. “I shall leave you two to twitter as you will.”

  At this, a panic struck me, and, he bowing to remove himself, I bowed too, and said it had been a pleasure to meet her, retreating after Dr. Trefusis, stumbling over the legs of the crowd.

  He at length recognized that I followed him still, and turned. I was struck by his face, which was not so much surprised as disappointed to see me. Still, he nodded and walked on, back to our perch beside Bono.

  Bono had seen the entirety of the transaction.

  “She,” he said, as I settled beside him, “is a very fair nymph indeed.”

  I did not appreciate his air of connoisseurship. “Her voice is of exquisite quality,” I said. “Not simply the coloratura, though there is a lightness to it, but some of the duskier corners of it, a softness not so much —”

  “I heard,” said Bono, “when it gets real low, you can hear all of the intimacies of the mouth.”

  To this impertinence, I did not wish to reply.

  “Her tongue,” he said. “You can feel the back of her tongue all rise up — hm? — and all those secret spaces in the cheeks. Which makes a man think about the whole mouth and lips.”

  At this grossly familiar observation, I was, I must own, not devoid of considerable anger toward my friend, agitated by a frustration at his coarseness, his knowing indelicacy; that I could treasure the sound of her and the sight, and wish to approach her so worshipfully; and he instead reduce the balladry of her ancient kingdom to the indecencies of desire — this galled — and I wished to speak against him, but could not, for fear of him.

  He asked me, “What you say to her?”

  I could not reply.

  He nodded. “I see. Ball lodged in the breech, sir?” he asked. And having thus spake, he could not forbear, but fell to laughing, laughing at me, laughing at his own idiotic jest — repeating it (“Ball lodged in the breech!”) — laughing at my disapproval, at my timidity; at the depth of my discomfort.

  I burned with shame.

  I was not sorry when I was called above for midwatch.

  The women soon filed out and were rowed back to the Dunluce, Dr. Trefusis and the girl among them.

  Pacing the length of the quarterdeck, I thought upon things I could have asked Mademoiselle Nsia: the provenance of the songs and their meanings, who had taught them her. I clasped my hands and blew upon them and watched the shore for activity.

  It was a dark night and cold. On other ships, lanterns burned; on one of them, anchored far down the river, the singing of another company continued for some time. Rough voices, thin as an insect’s whine, were cast across the black river, the dark town, the shapes of ships on the water. There seemed a great distance to it, as could never be gained by skiff or tender; and yet it filled all of that silent landscape, and so was not lost to the night.

  December 24th, 1775

  All hands to cleaning our firearms today, in readiness against an inspection by the Captain.

  The word came also that Command hath sent to the shore to demand provisions, so many going hungry in the fleet; and that the rebels hath refused to supply us at any price; and hath furthermore requested, “that if His Lordship must indulge in midnight orgies with his Negroes, that he at least forbid the wretches to sing, as it disturbs the town and frights the cattle.”

  Christmas Eve

  For this great feast, so nettlesome to the Puritans of my own town, so celebrated by the pious of this, we ate starvation rations. The quality of the pork was not excellent, but we ate with great stomach for any morsel.

  Pomp hath informed us that at midnight on Christmas Eve, the animals are reputed to speak, as they did around the manger.

  “Tonight I going lay awake,” he said. “And listen.”

  “I wonder,” said I, “what Vishnoo would say, could he speak.”

  Pomp said, “I reckon it’d be ‘I wish them roaches would stop their whining. My old guts sound like a Baptist prayer-meeting.’”

  Slant did not at first understand the jest; Pomp explained, “The roaches, they talk too, then. In Vishnoo’s stomach.”

  Slant’s expression was intermixed with discomfort; he protested, “Vishnoo, he don’t eat a thing that talks to him. No one eats a thing that . . . begs.”

  Pomp, sensible of our friend’s more delicate sentiments, rushed to soothe: “No, not on Christmas Eve, Slant. No wise.”

  “Peace on earth, goodwill among men,” said I.

  Said Pomp, “Christmas Eve, those roaches all hold their little stick-hands in around with Vishnoo, and he ask after their auntie and they ask after his brother, and then it’s toddies and then everybody together sing ‘Wassail.’”

  December 25th, 1775 — Christmas Day

  OH LORD, Thou who wert born amidst the wretched of this earth, Thou who didst not disdain the lowly shed, and who madest those of common degree Thy dearest servants, have mercy upon us in our troubles. Grant us Thy blessings in our endeavors of the coming year. If from Thy Throne in Heaven Thou canst peer down into this sublunary world, pity our distresses; and we shall serve Thee with gladness and singleness of heart; we shall rejoice all the days of our lives. Thou wert first a human child on this day; I beg Thee, now look upon us with childish compassion.

  Prosper Thou the work of our hands, we beg Thee: Prosper Thou it.

  AMEN.

  [Letter from General George Washington to Richard Henry Lee of Virginia]

  Cambridge

  December 26, 1775

  Dear Sir:

  Your favour of the 6th instant did not reach this place till Saturday afternoon. The money which accompanied it came seasonably, but not, as it was so long delayed, quantum sufficit, our demands at this time being peculiarly great for pay and advance to the troops; pay for their arms and blanketing, independent of the demands of the Commissary and Quartermaster-General.

  Lord Dunmore’s letters to General Howe, which very fortunately fell into my hands, and were enclosed by me to Congress, will let you pretty fully into his diabolical schemes. If, my dear sir, that man is not crushed before Spring, he will become the most formidable enemy America has. His
strength will increase as a snow-ball, by rolling, and faster, if some expedient cannot be hit upon to convince the slaves and servants of the impotency of his designs. You will see by his letters what pains he is taking to invite a reinforcement, at all events, there, and to transplant the war to the Southern Colonies. I do not think that forcing his Lordship on ship-board is sufficient. Nothing less than depriving him of life or liberty will secure peace to Virginia, as motives of resentment actuate his conduct to a degree equal to the total destruction of the Colony. . . .

  My best respects to the good family you are in, and to your brothers of the delegation; and be assured that I am, dear sir, your most obedient and affectionate servant,

  George Washington

  December 30th, 1775

  Starvation rations. There is word that a great fever is broken out on other ships.

  Last night, shots and bombardment. A sailor informed us that the enemy fired upon the Otter sloop-of-war and that fire was returned from the six- and nine-pounders.

  This day, the rebels again changed guard full in sight of our fleet, as if to mock us for our inactivity; they paraded with their hats hung on their bayonets. There is word that our Command hath sent an ensign ashore under flag of truce and issued an ultimatum: that the enemy must cease mustering their illicit guard within sight of the King’s forces or suffer destruction.

  We have heard of no answer.

  I look upon the shore, which is but some four hundred yards distant, and it seems an infinite distance, as if we shall never cross that little space of water; as if we shall never change our state, but shall remain here in this clamorous, reeking hold for eternity, reduced to maddening idleness when all the country is roused for us or against us, waiting for alteration.