“Mr. Lively,” said Bliven loudly, “will you speak with me now?”
Again Sam made his respects. “Yes, sir, thank you.”
As he drew near, they were able to speak in a hush that no others could overhear. “Sam! Are you all right?”
The first inquiry into his welfare in a year caused Sam to choke, and he could not speak at first. “I am alive,” he said at last.
“Oh, Sam. Do you want to go up on deck and get some air?”
“No! No, no, no! We must not risk the captain seeing us. I know where we can go.” He led Bliven forward, past the galley and into the sick bay. “Dr. Kite?”
“Mr. Lively.”
“May I introduce you to Master Commandant Putnam, of the ship lately taken?”
“Doctor.” Bliven saluted and extended his hand.
“Commander.” Kite took his hand. “Are you hurt?”
“No, sir, I thank you. I wish to take down some information from this man, as he claims to be an American and I may be able to do something for him when I am exchanged. May we borrow a corner of your space for our conversation?”
“Commander,” said Sam, “Dr. Kite is one of the two sources of kindness that have been extended to me on this ship. The other is the bosun, whom you just met.”
“I was just going to take a turn on deck,” said Kite. “I will leave you gentlemen to your interview.”
“That was good of him,” said Bliven when he had gone.
“I suspect there is tension between him and the captain. The less he ever hears me say, the less the captain can compel from him. Bliv, that captain Lord Almighty What-Have-You is a monster, he is a murderer, he has the blackest heart I’ve ever seen. He knows very well who I am, I showed him my master’s license and he dropped it into the sea. Coldly, looking right at me, dropped it out my window.”
“Jesus!”
“He must not find out that we know each other, it might well mean my death.”
“I understand. I have seen Rebecca.”
“Oh!”
“She and the boys are well. Your mother is well.”
“Ah!” He was starting to weep, but for their safety’s sake bottled the emotion deep within him. “How did you—”
“My ship”—Bliven took up their wonted teasing attitude—“which you just sank, thank you very much—”
“Oh, I am sorry. I’m afraid it was my shot that took out your rudder, you know.” Sam’s eyes shone again when he saw he had nonplussed Bliven into an inability to reply.
“My ship was fitted out in Charleston. I wrote Rebecca, and she sent a carriage to fetch me.”
“Was Mose driving?”
“He was.”
“Oh, how is he?”
“He was well, and delightful company.” It was obvious how starved Sam was for news of home, so famished that Bliven had never realized how strong are the bonds that tie one to home, for he had never had his severed. The terrible effect of such a wound he had never suspected.
“My boys?”
“My God, engines of perpetual motion. The night I stayed at your house, nothing do but I take them up and put them to bed. You have filled them with sea stories, I don’t know how you will prevent them from sailing away the day they are old enough.”
“My wife,” he said tenderly.
“She is strong, capable, sensible, and for all that misses you terribly. I told her that you had been captured and pressed but were probably safe.”
“Wait, how could you have known that?”
“We had word of your ship’s capture before I left. Sam, how are we to manage this?”
“We must never let on that we know each other.”
“Yes,” said Bliven. “I guess we must play for time and watch for an opportunity. England and America have been fighting since early last summer. We declared war mostly over the capture and impressment of Americans just like you. However dear you are to your family and to me, I fear that to the government you are just one among thousands. Assuming we win the war, and that is doubtful as I need not explain, whatever disposition is arranged for the thousands will likely apply to you.”
“Well, we will figure something out. Now, quick, before you have to leave, write down my essentials: name, residence, history, claims. You might need to produce something to show that lieutenant.”
Bliven flipped open the inkwell and began writing.
“Is your family well?” asked Sam.
“Yes, very well. Did you tell the captain, and the others, of your service in the Navy, on the Enterprise?”
“Yes, I did,” Sam answered.
“Good, maybe we can get the Navy particularly interested in your case.” When he had covered a sheet and a half of paper, Bliven closed the inkwell and emptied the pen with a lengthy rubric and stood to leave. “Sam, do you need anything?”
“No, it is just so good to see you. Even if I do not live to get home, at least I know—”
“No, no, we will get through this somehow.”
Sam glanced about, ascertaining that the draperies of the sick bay screened them from others’ view, and he extended his hand. “Friends forever, still?”
Bliven made his own survey of their privacy, seized his hand, and held it tight to his chest. “You know we are.”
Captain’s table was held promptly, and Bliven was provided a basin of water and a washcloth in his stateroom, and a fresh shirt to wear under his own coat and insignia. The first thing that struck him about the captain’s cabin was that it bore signs of damage hurriedly repaired—a new wooden patch in the screen that separated this compartment from the length of the gun deck, a hole in the sideboard, a swatch of sailcloth tied over its mirror that was apparently broken, a table leg missing and replaced with two straight pine boards.
“You cut us up quite nasty,” said Kington. “I’ve a mind not to feed you at all, but the custom is what it is.”
“I regret the necessity of having done it, Captain,” said Bliven. “I was hoping to work some damage to your gun deck further on. Or, if your stern was up, to hit your rudder.”
“I see. Well, if it makes you feel any better, you did knock one eighteen off its carriage. Killed one of the crew, wounded two others.”
“I am sorry to have caused any loss of life, even in performance of my duty.”
Kington regarded him, penetrating him. “Yes, I believe you are.”
Bliven waited for Kington to motion him to a chair to sit down, having been introduced again to the surgeon Dr. Kite, the chaplain Dr. Eskew, and three lieutenants. Lord Kington headed the table, and Bliven was seated at his right, leaving him to wonder whether this was a chair for a principal guest or, like in a Roman procession, he was the prize captive to exhibit. He also waited to see what the protocol was for the napkins, only to discover that there was none; some of the officers tucked them into the throats of their shirts, others laid them across their laps. As the steward poured wine, none of the men refused it, and Bliven allowed him to fill his own glass.
“Do you fancy Madeira, Commander Putnam?” asked Kington.
“I cannot say, my lord. In truth I was raised on a farm in Connecticut, with an apple orchard, so I know more about the respective merits of ciders than of wines.”
“Ha!” triumphed Kington. “So in the Royal Navy we have the rank of master and commander. You, apparently, are a farmer and commander.”
Bliven sensed the insult but determined on the best response. “That is more true than you know, my lord. If Britain would but leave us alone, I would resign my commission and go home to my farm in a heart’s beat.”
First Lieutenant Chads sensed a disagreeable exchange coming. “Damn convenient islands, the Madeiras,” he boomed. “Make sou’sou’west from England to swing round the bulge of Africa, and there they are. Can’t miss ’em. And considering th
e quality of the wine, it’s far better to drop anchor and get some than have to navigate around. I am often surprised that we can even purchase any, for ninety-five bottles in a hundred they say are sold to you Americans. I wonder that you can find the time to drink anything else.”
Bliven noticed that none partook of the wine, and then Kington scooted back his chair, rose, and raised his glass. “Gentlemen, the King.”
Bliven felt no choice but to join in as the scraping of chairs on the deck became general and all toasted, “The King,” before they resumed their seats. Perhaps the evening was intended to be an exercise in humiliation, he had no idea.
“Commander Putnam, you have no pause in drinking the health of our King?”
“Indeed, no, sir. I bear no ill will toward your King. All my country wants is to be left in peace and not have our ships and men seized.” Besides, he kept to himself, your King is a lunatic prisoner in his own castle. I do wish him well, and peace of mind.
“A noble sentiment,” said Eskew, “but for all the cry your people raise about impressment, nothing is ever said about your resorting to the same practice.”
“Well, we have no equal to your naval might in enforcing the practice, do we? Your six or eight thousand captives as against our one here or there, I believe does not make an equivalency.” Bliven sensed the protest coming and raised his hand. “But I will say this, that even if it is only one, it is still wrong. In fact, I myself witnessed one such incident, in recruiting men for the Constitution.”
“By God, sir, your candor does you credit,” said one of the lieutenants.
“Both our services face great difficulties in manning our ships. I was with Captain Hull when he boarded another frigate, not his own, which could not sail immediately, to take off some of her crew. One man identified himself as Irish and said he wished to be repatriated. We had just learned of your capture of several merchant vessels and impressing many of their crewmen; Captain Hull was very angry and said he did not care, be the man English or Chinese or from Fiji, he would take him. I did not approve, but he was my superior and I could not speak out.”
“Quite right,” said Kington. “Do you remember his name?”
“I do not, sir, I am sorry.”
Three stewards entered the wardroom, two bearing silver chafing dishes and a third a stack of dishes of white china.
“You set a fine table indeed, Captain,” said Bliven. “But I thought the Royal Navy was famous for its square plates.”
“It is, for them.” Kington gestured beyond the bulkhead to the gun deck. “Not for gentlemen.”
“Ah, I see.” Bliven looked down in disbelief. On his plate reposed the hindquarter of a fowl on a bed of rice with a thick reddish-brown sauce next to peas sprinkled with melted cheese and a thick slice of bread—not fine bread, but of surprising quality for the length of time they must have been at sea. “Excuse me, Captain,” he said, “is this chicken?”
“Of course. Is it so amazing?”
“Well, rather. At home in New England, chickens are wanted for their eggs. Only the most extravagant of people would ever actually serve the birds.”
Dr. Kite laid his hand on Bliven’s arm and gestured at his plate as though he were imparting a great confidence. “No one told her this is what happens if you stop laying.”
Low laughter spread along the table. “Commander Putnam,” said Kington, “I wonder if you would be so good as to gratify my curiosity on a couple of points.”
“If I can.”
“Is it not customary, when battle portends, to shorten your canvas to fighting sail, to see what you are doing, and keep them out of fire?”
“It is, yes.”
“But you did not. May we know why?”
Bliven cocked his head, considering his answer. “Sir, I had no desire to engage you. I could see in an instant that we were overmatched, two to one or more. The Tempest was a cedar-built Jamaica-man, light and fast, and very quick to handle. I knew that you would shorten sail to prepare for battle, and if I did not, I might outrun you.”
“Yet you did not set stuns’ls.”
“We were not rigged for them, nor had room to stow the spars.”
“I see.”
“And, being a fast ship, she was more maneuverable at speed. Had I clewed up the courses I would have been no more nimble than you. So my design was to hold my course until right before I thought you would open fire, then shear off and luff the sails before you could react. Then if that worked, as you passed us by, I had some of the twelve-pounders elevated and loaded with grape to cut your sails and rigging, with the hope to slow your speed, and some loaded with solid shot and leveled to rake your stern into the gun deck, or, as I said, to hit your rudder. If I had managed in a few shots to render you unmaneuverable, the odds would have swung considerably to my side.”
“Very creative. Indeed, I never heard the like. Why do you think it did not succeed?”
Bliven drained his Madeira at the memory. It was a fortified wine and very strong. “Unfortunately, my plan depended upon my success at the first exchange. Your first broadside killed my bosun and four sail handlers. And then you matched my turn quicker than I thought you would, and I had to fire the twelves before enough range opened up to hole your tops’ls. After that, all you need do was maintain your fire and the conclusion was inevitable.”
“Young man,” said Dr. Kite, “seeing yourself overmatched, you could have struck your colors at the outset and saved your crew a terrible cutting up. I and my surgeon’s mate have spent a frantic afternoon trying to patch them up.”
Bliven laid his flatware upon the table. “Young as I am, Dr. Kite, I hope you will understand that I would die before I would dishonor my flag in such a way. My cause was not hopeless, only doubtful.”
“Extremely doubtful.”
“Yes, but not hopeless. No commander, certainly no American commander, would have struck without even firing a shot. With great sincerity, however, I thank you for your attentions to my crew. When I am set at liberty, I will credit your kindness in my report.”
“And you will understand, Commander,” said Kington, “that will be some time. We are newly provisioned, and have no thought of making port unless it is leading a string of prizes.”
Bliven’s mind raced. Kington had introduced the element of their long months at sea. If ever there was a time to broach the topic of Sam Bandy, this was it. The whole company of officers were present as witnesses; Kite and Eskew, Sam was inclined to believe, favored his cause. But would English officers dare contradict their captain? If he spoke up on Sam’s behalf, and avowed that he knew him and had served with him, he might be cut off from any further contact with him. Indeed, Sam might have been correct that Kington would have him killed to cover the whole affair. But if he held his peace now, to preserve some means to continue communicating with Sam, and then in future he claimed to know him, his silence now might be taken as evidence that indeed he did not know him. There was no good course of action, and far safer to play their respective roles until circumstances presented them some chance to act. Adding this evening’s dinner with what he remembered of Kington from Naples, Bliven resolved to make no further mention of Sam and to answer generally and noncommittally if he were asked about him. They would both be confined to this ship for perhaps months; to say too much now would probably end badly.
9
Obookiah
It was the week before Christmas, that occasion which the Congregationalists eschewed as a popish frippery, that Lyman and Roxana Beecher hosted a glittering convocation of the high and mighty of their denomination. As Boston, and even Harvard College, fell increasingly into such fashionable heresies as Unitarianism and even Deism, the pious, traditional Congregationalists had come to view more rural Connecticut as their refuge, and Litchfield as its high redoubt.
The snow lay solid but not deep, the nig
ht cold as iced crystal, the moon robust to illuminate the white landscape, as the carriages began arriving at their high solemn house off the green. Clarity and her mother were invited, and Mrs. Marsh had Fred Meriden hitch the Putnams’ horses to her sleigh, though it was not more than six blocks between their houses.
It was Lyman Beecher who met them in the hall, who said after inquiring into their health, “Your driver brought you, I presume?”
“Freddy, yes,” answered Clarity.
“Let us have him drive on around to the kitchen, where he can warm himself until you are ready to go home?”
“Yes. Yes, that would be very kind.” They already knew that Freddy would drape blankets over their horses—uncommon care, but that was Freddy’s way.
Beecher spoke quietly to a young man, who went out and relayed the message. Clarity was unsure whether to call him an usher or a butler or a footman, for they had never employed a man in such a capacity. “And now, Mrs. Putnam, there is someone whom you have not seen in a very long time.” They exited the hall and entered the parlor, where a loose huddle of cordial people was gathered around an older couple by the fire. Beecher excused their way through them.
“Dr. Dwight, I wonder if you remember Miss Clarity Marsh, now Mrs. Putnam?” It did not escape Clarity’s notice that she was presented to Dwight before he was introduced to her. In mere social protocol, he would be introduced to her because she was a lady; rather, she was introduced to him because, she presumed, he was ecclesiastical nobility.
She judged Dwight to be perhaps sixty and he looked all of it, although well kept. He was tall, and pasty as a scholar might be, certainly one who had been president of Yale College for sixteen years, and he bulged suitably in all those elderly places. He regarded the world through thick round spectacles heavily rimmed, and from the few and chosen steps that he took, Clarity judged that his feet must hurt. Even for such a brilliant man, the author of many books, he, like Saint Paul, must have a thorn in his flesh—or at least pain in his feet.
The Tempest--Commander Putnam and Mr. Madison's War Page 25
