All knew what that meant. The Carron foundry in Scotland persuaded the Navy to contract for its carronades by delivering them as a complete firing system. Each gun came with twenty-five balls, fifteen double-headed shot, fifteen bar shot, ten charges of grape, and ten charges of canister. They delivered powder, too, premixed in woolen bags that eliminated the need for wadding. Carronades’ low muzzle velocity did not overheat the barrels, thus there was no need to worm the barrels before reloading, which made them the most rapidly firing large guns in the world.
“Excellent,” admired Kington, as he led the small clot of officers down the ladder to the gun deck. “How many crew?”
“Four hundred and two, m’lord.”
“How many were pressed?”
“A hundred and eighty, sir.”
“Mm.” Kington considered this for a moment. “Round up your worst dozen and send them ashore for other duty. I just took some deserters and new recruits from that American brig. Bring them over from the Hound. I think it is better to keep them at sea. But separate them into different watches.”
“I understand, m’lord,” said Freemantle. He knew that that order embraced not merely understanding what he was to do but understanding that leaving American crewmen ashore could complicate any repercussions of having taken them in the first place. Better to have them safely incommunicado.
“How are your provisions?”
“The stores are full, m’lord. We can sail at your order. We can lay in fresh perishables if there is time.”
On the gun deck, Kington paced with authority down the neatly tied-up rows of eighteen-pounders, buckets, garlands, and quoins neatly arranged, screws and swabs hung overhead, ropes coiled precisely. Kington had not felt so powerful in years; in such a ship he might take on anyone. In his mind he began calculating circumstances in which he might even gain an advantage over one of those vaunted American heavy frigates.
“There will be time. I want you to repaint the stern. I don’t feel right sailing with her old name showing through. Bad omen, you know. And go see Mr. Evans on the Hound, get those other Americans over here. Em—” He waved a hand vapidly. “The deserters, I should mean.”
Freemantle smiled. “Yes, m’lord. Right away.”
After being shackled, Sam was left to himself, observing the Hound and his captive Althea gliding to an anchorage distantly abeam a trim and apparently new frigate. Watching a boat shuttle men and officers to and from the frigate, he had felt himself unnoticed until a seaman and a Marine stood on either side of him and ordered him down into a boat with several other pressed men.
As Sam descended the ladder he noted that the chains on his feet were exactly the length needed between the steps down . . . Clever, he thought. Someone planned ahead.
1
Dangerous Trade
HARBOR OF BOSTON
OCTOBER 25TH, 1811
My Dear Putnam,
We dropped anchor in this place known so well to yourself on the day before yesterday. Being my first visit here since our salad days as midshipmen, and being a fresh autumn day, it did set me in mind of my time spent in Litchfield with you and your excellent parents, who I pray are still with you and in good health.
Rebecca bade me send you her fond regards straightaway as I made port. I tell you, Putnam, making her my wife was the best and wisest thing I shall ever do. At managing our plantation she has proved herself so capable I have considered dismissing our foreman as a redundancy. I have not done so, for with two lively boys tearing about, and I do not believe we are yet quitted of that enterprise of going forth and multiplying, she must one day be more occupied in being a mother than in running the place. I do confess, however, that to this date she shows no sign of being overwhelmed. Indeed, sometimes to amuse the boys, she repairs to her old trunk in the attic and dons some of the exotic-looking clothes that she purloined from that pirate vessel in which you rescued her.
What a queer feeling it is, to see her playing at pirates with the boys, with no sign of what terrible memories that must arouse in her. She does tell them freely that she was once captured by pirates, and spent many months held prisoner in a castle by the sea, also that she was an honored captive, awaiting ransom and eating dates off a silver platter. And Bliven! Nothing do, but the boys asked, what are dates, and they would not rest until we procured some for them! When she is out of sight, they ask me if her stories can be true, and I am bound to tell them that they are, and that you and I saw her there, veiled and peering out from a window. Ha! It only deepens the adventure for them, and they are not old enough to have inquired into its darker nature.
I am bound to say also, that I marvel at her strength in this, for I did learn just how terrible is her memory of it. I have never written you of this—when we married I discovered that she was, let us say, not unknown to man. When put to the question, she admitted with evident unease that when she was a prisoner she was outraged by one of the bastard pirates. She sank to her knees and prayed that this shame should not come between us.
O, Putnam! I have never before felt so ashamed, that my pride could cause this courageous woman to relive such an anguish. I took her in my arms and vowed that I should never broach the subject again, that her will to survive only deepened my affection and respect for her.
The very beginning of crow’s-feet wrinkled the corners of Bliven’s eyes as he broke into a smile. Good Rebecca, he had judged her rightly. Well done, once again. Their private duet during the opera in Naples would remain their secret.
“What is it, son? What has amused you? Who is the letter from?”
“From Mr. Bandy, Father. You remember him, he came to visit us when we were lieutenants on the Enterprise.”
“Ah, yes. A well-seeming boy, for a Carolinian.”
“Do you need help?”
“No, I thank you.” Benjamin Putnam had entered from the hall with evident pain. “I give you I walk on sticks,” then his eyes suddenly flew open. “But walk I still can, and as long as the good Lord vouchsafe me any use of my legs, I shall do so.”
“Did you rest well?” It was close on two o’clock, a nap rather longer than usual.
“Yes.”
When his father had become partly infirm, the result of a serious and warning apoplexy, Bliven had pulled a great heavy parson’s bench into the keeping room and positioned it near the fireplace, lining it well with cushions. It was large enough that the elder Putnam could recline against one arm and stretch out his legs to the other arm, well tucked under a blanket. Thus he could pass time amid family activity and not feel himself an invalid. It was necessary to elevate his feet during the day, for with too much walking his feet and ankles swelled like bladders by evening. “Where is your mother?”
“Gone hunting.”
“What? Ha!”
“Well, she bade me tell you she has gone hunting.”
Benjamin Putnam beheld the family’s two rifled muskets and fowling piece resting in their brackets above the mantel. “For what has she gone a-hunting?”
“Cloves and cinnamon, and ginger. I told her I had a mind to take a wagon out to the back field and cut pumpkins today. The first thing she thought of was spices, and that she is almost run out.”
“Hmph! I hope she is able to find some. One hears that such nice commodities have become very dear for trying to race them past the British cruisers.”
“How timely that you mention it. Mr. Bandy was just writing of this. Shall I read you what he sends?”
The elder Putnam touched a brand to his Dutch pipe and nodded “aye” between puffs.
“Bandy is no longer in the Navy but commands a merchant ship, and he has just dropped anchor in Boston—here it is.”
My good ship Althea is a tight handsome brig, as smart as any you have seen, and passing large for her species, near three hundred tons and of great burthen, which makes her operation the mo
re profitable for her owners, among whom I am happy to number myself, although claiming but a minor share.
Old Putnam settled himself on the parson’s bench and stretched out. “Mercy! He writes a majestic great sentence, does he not?”
“He does, yes.” Bliven continued.
We loaded off a full cargo and received very good prices, for being part owner of the vessel I partly pay myself. Is it not so, that in the hearts and spades of commerce, one must take care not to miss a trick?
You may find it of interest that in taking on a return cargo of Fisk furniture, I heard it emphatically expressed that any progress in local manufacturing that spoils the business for British goods occasions great satisfaction here.
“Hmph!” puffed Benjamin Putnam again. “I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Indeed,” said Bliven, “he goes on in the same vein.”
Among these men of business, all the talk is of the endless war betwixt the British and the French, and of their never-ending wars with each other, and of the utter, utter disregard of our own American rights by both sides. Our own veering and yawing policy over the years has cost us hundreds—and I say, hundreds!—of our trading vessels being seized by both England and France, and converted by them into warships, and of millions of dollars of cargo confiscated and never paid for. And worst of all has been—
Bliven noticed that Bandy’s hand changed as he had written this, more angular and almost slashing.
—the impressment of American sailors, seized even upon American ships on the high seas, put in irons and forced to crew foreign men-o’-war. So prevalent has this become, that I marvel we have not felled every tree from Boston to Savannah, and built such a Navy, and taught them such a lesson, that they must leave off such damnable molestations. Mr. Madison, now he is President, seems to know not what policy to pursue—yet all here can see a terrible storm gathering.
For my own part I have little at hazard, for my partners and I limit our trade to our own coastal waters. You may likely judge the adventure I have had in procuring you the little gift that accompanies this letter, a sack of the most excellent Martinique coffee.
The elder Putnam puffed on his pipe. “That would be what I smelled when I awakened.”
“Yes, Mother roasted some while you slept, and I just ground and brewed it. Shall I pour you a cup?” He asked this even as he got to his feet, for his father’s look of expectation gave a full answer. “Milk?”
“Just a little. Where is that strong-minded wife of yours?”
Bliven smiled as he stirred the coffee. “She is gone into town to have tea with her mother. She will be back before supper.”
“Did you take her?”
“No, she hitched Cassius to the carriage and drove herself.”
“Where was Frederick?”
“Hauling furniture for a customer.”
“So she drove herself alone?” Bliven’s father sucked some air audibly between his teeth in disapproval. “Well, that will give our village busybodies something new to talk about.”
Bliven handed him the cup of coffee. “I needn’t tell you how she declines to be fussed over and waited upon.” He lowered his gaze and his voice. “Traits not unknown to yourself.”
“Ha! Says he who stirs my coffee for me. Thank you.” The elder Putnam relished a first sip. “Tell me truly, does it not . . . discomfit you at all that she spends so much time about her old life instead of here with you?”
“My word, no. I have to cut pumpkins the rest of the afternoon.”
“No, son, I mean it generally. Her former life sported so much luxury, she cannot but find our circumstances too humble altogether.”
Bliven shrugged. “Can you complain that she has neglected any of her duties here?”
“I cannot.”
“Her mother is alone now, and not well. I do not begrudge them what time they have together.”
“You will inherit better from her mother than you will from us, that is certain. You married well from that aspect.”
“We married in no wise from that aspect, Father.” It was telling that Benjamin phrased his observation in the manner that he did, for by their marriage, all of Clarity’s property, including what she would inherit from her mother, would belong to him. Not without reason, however, had the Marsh family befriended Tapping Reeve, the proprietor of their famous law school, and obtained his advice on what he called Clarity’s pending disability of coverture. As long as she remained single, she was heir to the Marsh fortune, but the instant she married, that was lost. They had been to see old Mr. Reeve in his comfortable manse that abutted his school, and to emphasize the point, Reeve had pulled the appropriate volume of Blackstone off the shelf and traced his finger along the lines for them: By marriage, a husband and wife are one person in the law; that is, the very being or legal existence of the woman is suspended during the marriage, or at least is incorporated or consolidated into that of the husband, under whose wing, protection, and cover, she performs every thing.
“I love you dearly,” Clarity had said, and even as she smiled added, “but I think I shall not be looking to you as my master when it comes to my family’s property.” Nor did he wish her to. He might be lost at sea and his fate unknown for months, or years, and her life must continue and be paid for. Theirs was a case in which the law failed in its social purpose, and readily he signed deeds of trust to preserve her interest. The act made old Marsh and his wife trust him all the more, and intensified Clarity’s devotion to him. There were still things she could not do—she could not incur debt nor make a contract, but with her unfettered access to money, she should not need to.
Together Bliven and Clarity agreed that there was no need to make his parents aware of their arrangement. Like all parents, they must regard a son’s marriage into wealth as additional security for themselves should he die. Even in the Navy he was more likely to survive them than not, so the trust deeds, and Clarity’s agreement to provide for his parents should he die, reposed with Mr. Reeve against that unlikely event.
“Besides, Father,” Bliven added, “I must go back to sea one day, and we decided together that she should maintain lively interests of her own, and not just sit here and pine for me to come home.”
“And that would include interests such as Reverend Beecher and that too-loud church of his?”
Bliven rolled his eyes. “Well, you have me there, I cannot disagree with that.” Until the previous year, Lyman Beecher’s visits to Litchfield had been confined to six a year as he crossed the Sound from his home church on Long Island. But now he had relocated to Litchfield itself, with its celebrated intellectual life and prosperous means. Especially, Bliven thought, for its prosperous means. At least Beecher had married and begun fathering children left, right, and center, so his former concern that Beecher’s energy might be directed toward Clarity was allayed. He returned to happier thoughts and the last page of Sam’s letter.
We will stay here and make our presence known, until our hold is full of goods for which we will realize a good return back in Charleston. Providence alone knows when you might be recalled to active service, or when we shall meet again, but until we do, this missive travels with the esteem and affection of—as you remember we were once compelled to swear to each other—
Yr. friend,
Samuel Bandy
Cmdg. Brig Althea
Bliven Putnam, Lieut.
Comdt., USN
So. Road, Litchfield,
Connecticut
A chill gust curled through the keeping room as the door opened and Dorothea Putnam swept in, well shawled against the cold, clutching a small basket, a scattering of orange and brown leaves blowing in at her feet.
“Welcome and hail!” exclaimed Benjamin. “Diana home from the hunt.”
Quickly she removed small packets from her basket and set them on the great pine table. Bliven held each to his nose and inhal
ed deeply, enjoying the treat of ginger and cinnamon not yet shaved, and cloves not yet ground. “Oh, I sense a pumpkin pie coming tonight.”
“Bliven,” she said, “may I ask you something?”
His face slackened with surprise. “Yes, certainly.”
She seated herself but not comfortably. “Forgive my bluntness, but it is on my mind. I chanced across Mrs. Overton at the mercantile.”
Bliven’s heart fell as he guessed her meaning.
“You are acquainted with her son, I believe, who was lately second lieutenant in the John Adams. She said he has received a letter ordering him back to active service. Were you aware of this?”
“I was, yes.”
Dorothea folded her hands in her lap, failing to disguise her anxiety. “And have you also received such a letter?”
“I have, yes.”
Her voice rose despite herself. “And was there some point in time at which you were going to inform us of this?”
“Yes, but not yet. Soon, not yet.”
“But how can you—”
“Mother.” Bliven raised his hands in defense. “I am not ordered to report to the fleet. I am only to go to Washington City.”
“Why ever?”
“I have no idea.”
“When?”
“End of next week. Come, warm yourself by the fire.” He handed her a cup of the fresh coffee.
She seated herself, both cold hands wrapped around the crockery cup for its warmth, her eyes sad and distant. “You are only nine months back from the West Indies and that awful business with those French pirates, those—”
“Buccaneers, Mother.”
“Those buccaneers, as you so lightly call them. We nearly lost you there. I should think the Navy could give you more time to rest from that.”
From his parson’s bench Putnam guided his feet from their pillow down to the floor. “My dear, our son is a grown man, and a naval officer with a sworn duty to perform. And the times grow more perilous by the day. If we do not begin putting more ships to sea, a new war will find us defenseless.”
The Tempest--Commander Putnam and Mr. Madison's War Page 4
