6 
Festina Lente
His and Clarity’s parting had left Bliven in such a stew of emotion that all he could do was postpone considering any of it, and he instructed the carriage on to the Navy Yard. He spied Rappahannock’s grounded masts from the entrance and directed the driver to her, feeling as he approached the graving dock an almost spousal anxiety for her well-being, even for her modesty, as she appeared undressed without her elegant bowsprit and with her surprisingly large round belly exposed, supported by the forest of stilts.
He was cheered, however, to see that her bottom had been scraped until the copper shone penny-bright, a kind of gigantic repoussé hammered to match her curvature that would make her sleek through the water, proof against shipworms, and beautiful as well.
He had the driver continue right up to her and deposit his trunks at the foot of the gangplank, and paid the fare. He could look straight down into Rappahannock’s wound, through her ribs like a surgeon looking into a patient. He saw four new ribs showing bright yellow-brown against the bilge-stained umber of the original construction, and he was struck anew at her excessive engineering. She lacked the sandwiched layers of oak that made the frigates all but invulnerable, whether to enemy cannonballs or even to the rocks at Port Mahon that had been unable to sink the President. But in compensation was the extraordinary density of her ribbing, shaped timbers eight inches broad laid sixteen inches on center, and the knees above them angled like scantling, that made her class the heaviest and toughest sloops in the world.
Satisfied with his first look, Bliven boarded and found the spar deck deserted, but upon descending to the gun deck and entering his great cabin he found Alan Ross exiting one of the guest compartments in some apparent embarrassment. “Captain, good morning! I was not expecting you today.”
“Yes, I see you were not. Do I gather that you have taken up residence in my cabin during my absence?”
“I confess, sir, the guest berth is more comfortable than my own, but more to the point, it is located farther from the noise below.”
“Oh. Well, that is sensible; indeed, it occurs to me that you may be able to manage your duties more efficiently if you station yourself there whenever we are not providing passage to guests.”
Ross was plainly embarrassed. “Truly, Captain, I did not intend to presume any familiarity.”
“I did not suppose that you had, Mr. Ross. But in exchange for your improved accommodation, you will be able to answer my call at any hour without my having you come trotting up from the wardroom.”
“Sir, that is a very fair exchange. Thank you.”
“Besides, I will not be sorry for your company. Is Mr. Yeakel aboard?”
“Yes, sir, I believe he is below.”
“Very well, my trunks are on the dock, if you would bring them aboard.”
“Right away, sir.”
Bliven exited and strode forward, thinking as he did so it would be a long time before he saw the gun deck so quiet, so orderly, again—screws, sponges, and ramrods all on their hooks, lanyards perfectly coiled. He reached the ladder, the one feature of the Rappahannock that caused him worry. The frigates had ladders fore and aft, which was sensible, because there were magazines fore and aft; but there was the additional advantage that if one ladder became obstructed by fire or wreckage, the lower decks were still accessible through the other. The sloops were considered smaller enough vessels that one ladder amidships was thought sufficient. As a matter of naval architecture it was defensible, but Bliven regarded it as a point of vulnerability that would always lurk in the back of his mind.
He descended to the berth deck and then into the hold, unaccustomed to seeing it so brightly lit as it was by the hole in her side. The hold of any vessel was always a warren of nooks and crevices; to view it so illuminated was something he had never seen before, and in it he saw his bosun kneeling, his feet on an original rib and his knees on a new one, inspecting its joinery onto the keel. “Mr. Yeakel, good morning.”
Yeakel got stiffly to his feet and stepped up onto the decking, saluting as he did so. “Good morning, Captain, I did not know you were back aboard.”
Bliven returned the salute. “Have you been living aboard all this time?”
“Yes, sir, rather than have to rent a room somewhere.”
“Have you been satisfied with the work that has been done?”
“Yes, sir, but I have not been the real test of it. Commodore Hull comes regularly to inspect, and he keeps Captain Edwards and his men on their guard.”
“Is that so? Well, we can be grateful for such close attention. Tell me, Mr. Yeakel, have you laid in all the line you will need?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have been thinking it won’t hurt to store more, as much as you can find room for. I have a mind, once we reach the Sandwich Islands, to lay over and reset the rigging.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. Considering how long we will be in tropical waters, that would be a wise precaution.”
Standing rigging put up in the Boston chill could go dangerously slack in tropical heat. As a young captain, the great Preble himself had nearly lost the Essex for want of such foresight, and the Congress was nearly lost when her stays and shrouds became so lax that her masts snapped from the pull of the sails. Samuel Barron’s seamanship passed into legend when as a young lieutenant he saved the United States by resetting her rigging even while under way. As the American fleet became more international, the concern would become chronic.
“Captain Putnam, good morning. Welcome back aboard.”
Bliven turned to see the dry dock’s master approaching. “Captain Edwards, good morning.” They traded salutes and shook hands. “You have done a very great deal of work, I see. Did you find so much damage as to require such an extensive repair?”
“In point of fact, we did not, but Commodore Hull has been emphatic in pressing upon us the length and importance of your coming mission, and he has insisted that every trace or possibility of defect must be made good before you sail.”
“Well, I am off to see him now. I shall pass along how diligently you have been at your task. Mr. Yeakel?”
“Sir?”
“Where has Fleming gone to, do you know?”
“As it happens, sir, I do. He lives in Roxbury.”
“Well, take the day, dress up, get yourself a horse, and go see him. He knows the ship better than anyone, save yourself, and I don’t want to sail with a different carpenter. If he resists, overcome him.”
Yeakel smiled, for Fleming was easily twice his size. “I’ll do my best, Captain.”
Bliven made his way down the waterfront to the receiving ship, that hulk that he grieved for every time he saw her—or it, for she hardly seem fitted for the feminine pronoun anymore. He was admitted as soon as he presented himself, and Hull rose and greeted him with some surprise. “My word, Putnam, but you are prompt to respond to our call. Do sit down. How is your family?”
Bliven arranged himself in a Windsor chair on the opposite side of Hull’s desk. It always caused him to look closer, how well kept Hull was for a man approaching fifty, his handsome sloe-eyed visage settling now into a distinguished-looking affability, heavier, his hair combed upward into that Regency fashion of affected tousle. “Thank you for asking, Commodore. My wife is very well, and strong-minded as ever. My parents are growing old, I fear.”
“Damn, Putnam, when I saw you last, I hope I did not give offense when I said that your parting would be touching. If I sounded dismissive, it was my own discomfort at how terrible it is for all seamen to take leave of their families for certainly years at a time. I regretted having said it almost immediately.”
“I understand, sir. They did their best to make it easy for me. In that way they are more courageous than I. My mother is a perfect Stoic, and my father would shoot himself before he would try to make me feel sorry for him.”
“God bless them for that, but now that you have said good-bye, it would likely be too much for them if I send you home again.”
“What? How do you mean, sir?”
“The fact is, Captain Putnam, you need not be in too great a hurry to sail, for we have no powder or shot for you. It seems that while the government has made the decision to show our flag in the far corners of the world, someone forgot to tell the armories. If we can’t find you something in the coming weeks, you may have to put in at Gosport or Charleston to take on armament.”
“I see. Have you written to my other officers to return for duty?”
“Yes, we have. Lieutenants Miller and Rippel will sail with you again: the third lieutenant surrendered his commission rather than commit to such a lengthy deployment, as did your chaplain.” Hull suddenly pointed his finger at him. “And your purser. You are very hard on pursers, and I wish you would not be.”
“Only because I expect them to be honest.”
Hull sighed and rolled his sleepy eyes. “Oh, for the Lord’s sake, here we go again.”
“Commodore, when we established our navy, we had the opportunity to correct one of the worst abuses—apart from forced impressment—of the British Navy. We could have made our navy responsible for supplying the needs of its own seamen, with pursers given the duty of distributing shoes and clothing and sundries as they are wanted. But no, instead we copied the Royal Navy in making pursers of independent merchants, who use their own suppliers and charge their own prices, which run sailors into debt just to keep clothes on their backs, and their pay is remitted to the purser to discharge the debt. This would be so easy to correct!”
Hull leaned forward, his eyes suddenly energetic. “I admit everything you say, except that it is surely not easy to correct, because to effect it, the Navy would have to tie up millions to fill the storerooms, and they don’t have it. They save themselves this money by engaging pursers as contractors, and regulate the prices they may charge and the profit they may take.”
“Distantly regulate the prices and profits, sir.”
“Perhaps.”
“Loosely regulate the prices and profits.”
“Putnam, that is the system we have, and no one is going to change it for you. If the pursers were not allowed to make a fair profit—yes, as they define it—no one would do it.”
Bliven waved his hand. “Well, if there is no profit in their honest operation, that rather completes my point for me, sir, but never mind.”
Hull leaned back and glared. “You are a damned fine captain, sir, but, by God, sometimes you are a trial.”
“Well, you will find somebody. If you can’t tell me that he’s honest, at least find me someone who is well connected to ready suppliers.”
“You can hunt around, too, Putnam. Perhaps you can find someone who can withstand that frightful moral squint of yours.”
Bliven recognized the admiration buried in the criticism, and laughed. “That is fair enough. Where has my surgeon gone to? I need to write to him.”
“We have written to him, so you needn’t bother. We have as yet no answer from him.”
“No, I need to contact him on another matter, anyway.”
“Well, then, you can write him through the Navy Yard at Gosport. I suppose once we get you afloat again it will be time enough to round up some sort of a crew.”
Bliven considered the disadvantages of breaking in new men on such a difficult undertaking; of advantages, there were none to consider. “Evans Yeakel is as fine a bosun as can be found, I shall just have to trust him to get the men settled and working. But I at least want men who have been to sea before. I do not want to suffer disillusioned shirkers deserting me on the other side of the world.”
“I will do what I can,” Hull agreed. “God knows, there will be men who bolt when they reach someplace that they imagine answers their definition of ‘paradise.’ But, come down to it, your situation in that event would not be altogether dire. Most vessels that put in at the Sandwich Islands have no trouble filling in the missing ranks with native fishermen. Their reputation is that they are fine sailors, they work hard, and they follow orders to the letter, for they are grateful to get out of such a terrible place. Ha! It seems it is only a paradise for our sailors.”
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. Chile 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.
As soon as the bell rang, a young man emerged from a rear room to greet him. He appeared to be about twenty-five, of a spare build, dark-complected, with dark eyes and rather bushy brows, conveying immense intensity for one so young. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “How may we be of service?”
“Good morning. I am Captain Putnam. I have come to see either Mr. Carter or Mr. Hendee.”
The young man’s manner lightened several degrees as he erupted, “Oh, my God, of course you are! I should have recognized you from the engraving in your wife’s book. I am James Carter. Please, may I take your hand?”
“You are gracious, Mr. Carter.” They shook hands. “Tell me, how on earth did a man of your youth become so established already in such a successful concern?”
“To tell the truth, I come from a bookish family. My parents are both teachers, and indeed I tried my hand at teaching in the common schools; but a classroom holds so few, I realized that publishing books would reach a larger audience.”
It was impossible not to compare Carter’s situation with that of Ross, for whom he had just had similar thoughts. Carter had education, which Ross lacked, but also ambition, which apparently Ross also lacked. Advancement in life must require both, failing family money and influence. “Wait. Are you that Carter fellow who tried to start a school for seamen at Cohasset?”
“I am, sir. I hope that does not make us adversaries. I mean, I realize that if all seamen were well educated, they would likely find other employment.”
“Ha! Perhaps in the future we will compete for them, but, for now, there are enough slothful ignoramuses in the country to keep the Navy well supplied.”
“Oh, Captain, I am sorry that I am alone in the shop today. Mr. Hendee will be deeply grieved that he missed you. Have you come for copies of Mrs. Putnam’s book?”
“No, in fact. Now, Mr. Carter, you may be aware that my wife has departed for the Sandwich Islands with that company of missionaries from the Congregationalist Church?”
“Yes, sir. We corresponded very recently about what she might write about for her next book, for truly we must follow up such a success with some adventurous topic that will capture the public’s imagination. She wrote us that this was what she had determined upon. There was no time to gainsay her intention, for I myself could not have encouraged her to such a lengthy and . . . well . . .” It was apparent that he was searching for a discreet word.
“Dangerous,” said Bliven.
“Well, yes, dangerous enterprise. When I suggested an exotic locale for her next story, I fear that I may have planted the germ of the Sandwich Islands in her mind.”
“Well, then, set your mind at rest: you did not originate her plan of action. She did not undertake it until after I was compelled to tell her that I and my ship were ordered to the Pacific, possibly for a term of three years. Her decision had more to do with staying nearer to me than wanting to supply you with an exciting adventure tale.”
Carter’s head fell back slowly as he took a deep breath. “Oh, I see. Oh, my dear captain, what a mix of emotions, not to say contradictory emotions, that must arouse in you.”
Bliven nodded. “Yes, you have pretty well grasped it. You must yourself be married, Mr. Carter?”
“No, but I am almost engaged, as I fondly hope.”
“Is she a strong-minded woman?”
“She is, very much so.”
“Ah, then God help you. But I will tell you, what I need of you is a modern geography. My father-in-law left us a large library, but his geography is going on twenty years old. I am sailing into waters and ports that are barely known in this country, and I desire to have some source that can prepare me at least to some little degree for what I am to encounter.”
Carter nested an elbow in one hand and pulled at his chin with the other, resuming that penetrating demeanor that Bliven first saw. “Yes, I understand.” In a few seconds Carter pointed emphatically into the air. “I believe we can help you. Will you pardon me one moment?” Before Bliven could respond, Carter turned on his heel and withdrew into the second room of books, returning with a leather volume remarkable not for its height or breadth, but for its thickness. “This one is only a few years old, by the celebrated Dr. Jedidiah Morse.”
Bliven took it, and cracked it open to the title page, which read A Compendious and Complete System of Modern Geography, with subtitles that went on for line after line.
“If you will permit me to show you”—Carter left the book in Bliven’s hand but peeled a few pages further on—“you will see that it opens with an alphabetical index of all the place names discussed, so you don’t have to waste time searching and searching for a location of particular interest.”
“Well, then, I shall test it.” They huddled together while Bliven searched through this index and found entries, with their corresponding page numbers, for Canton and Malacca and Malaya and the Sandwich Islands. There was no entry for Singapore, which was no demerit, because it had only existed for a year or so. “Oh, yes, I believe this will just do.”
“You will see it is not an atlas per se, but there are maps of the various regions on the pages that fold out.”
“Yes. I’ll take it.”
Carter backed away a step. “There is one other thing. If I remember correctly from your wife’s book, although I do not know if it is factual or if she invented it for purposes of the story—one can never be certain when reading historical fiction—I believe you were a midshipman on the schooner Enterprise.”
“Indeed I was. It was my first time at sea.”
“And you served under a lieutenant named Porter?”
“Oh, he was and is a very real officer, and a very fine one.”
“Yes, one moment.” He went to a nearby shelf and returned with two matching volumes. “Do you own a copy of his book?”
“His book?” He took them, opening the one whose spine was stamped Volume I, and Bliven’s mouth fell open by degrees as he read: Journal of a Cruise Made to the Pacific Ocean, by Captain David Porter, in the United States Frigate Essex. “Why, Mr. Carter, I am amazed. I knew of course that Porter had taken the Essex to the Pacific during the war, but of this book I had no cognizance whatever. I have never seen nor heard of it. How is that even possible?”
“Well, sir, you are yourself at sea for long months at a time, and then so soon as you return you are on the first coach for your home in Connecticut. Perhaps it is not so surprising. Also, as I think on it, it was published in New York, and so was not seen so prevalently hereabouts.”
“Well, I must have it. Its value to me could be inestimable.”
“Then it is yours, sir, along with Jedidiah Morse.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Not so much as a half dime, Captain Putnam. You must have them with our compliments.”
“Oh, you need not—”
“Yes, sir, we do need. Listen to me now: your wife’s effort is thrusting us into the front rank of Boston publishers. This is the least we can do to express our gratitude and warm regard.”
“Then, sir, I thank you.” Bliven extended his hand and Carter took it.
“I am sorry you will be away for so long. You would be welcome here often.”
“And I am sorry I cannot take you with me.” He looked once more around the chamber. “You and your books.”
Carter laughed. “It is probably a bit premature to think of opening a bookshop in the Sandwich Islands. Besides”—he grew more thoughtful—“I have not so adventurous a nature. I fear that some of us are fated to be but mental travelers. But God speed you, Captain Putnam, and bring you and your lady safe home.”
Bliven departed the bookshop light of foot, and marveling how a man of only five-and-twenty could have come to such a facility with books or such elegant manners. It was impossible not to compare him to the rootless or uprooted vagabonds who so often volunteered for service in the Navy—over a veritable parade of whom he would soon have to pass judgment on whether to allow them to serve on his Rappahannock. Young Carter gave him hope for the coming generation.
Back aboard the Rappahannock, he leafed through Morse’s nearly seven hundred pages of geography, but he was consumed by curiosity for Porter’s journal, especially on the point of Porter’s governing his crew when they were among the Pacific Islands, with their legendary enticements of native women. He remembered Porter as a strict disciplinarian but fair, insofar as the Navy understood “fair,” and one who tried to obviate trouble with his crew by anticipating their desires and, to the extent compatible with good order, accommodating them.
Bliven quickly discovered that Porter’s journal was fronted with a summary of contents by chapter, and upon seeing that the first volume ended with his visit to the Galápagos Islands, realized that the information salient to him must open the second volume. But first he allowed himself to smile that Porter, like grizzled seamen before him who had taken pen in hand, felt compelled to deprecate the quality of his literary effort, and aver that he had written his book—his massive book of five hundred pages in two volumes—only at the insistence of friends, and for the education of his son, who he hoped would grow up to become himself a creditable naval officer.
After the Galápagos Islands, Porter made straight as an arrow for the Marquesas Islands and hove to at Nuku Hiva, the largest of that group. A quick reference to the Morse geography made Bliven believe that he was on the right trail for what he wanted to learn, for that was an island of some one hundred thirty square miles—it would take six or seven of them to equal his own Litchfield County—but crowded with as many as one hundred thousand natives, and thus might stand in as a substitute for one of the Sandwich Islands, thickly populated with islanders of a similar race and customs.
After establishing a shore base from which to repair the Essex’s accumulated damage from her passage around the Horn and extensive action, Porter indulged his crew by allowing a quarter of them to spend the night ashore, each quarter in turn. “All was helter skelter,” Porter wrote, “and promiscuous intercourse. Every girl the wife of every man in the mess, and frequently of every man in the ship.” This open-ended idyll, however, did not come without cost. No larger an island than Nuku Hiva was, it was divided between two chiefs who were bitter and deadly rivals, with lesser chiefs being forced to choose between them. By luck, the women who Porter’s seamen enjoyed came from the dominant tribe, and after a few weeks of serial abandon, their chief made it clear that he expected these powerful new white men to assist him in subjugating his enemy. To this Porter acquiesced, but then, when it was time for the Essex to be on her way, Porter found his men reluctant to leave. This was an experience well known to British ships, whose captains did not hesitate to resort to brute discipline to extract obedience. This tactic had provoked a famous mutiny in the spring of 1789 on HMS Bounty, formerly a small merchant vessel that the Royal Navy purchased to attempt the transplanting of breadfruit trees to the West Indies.
Porter’s account was consonant with everything Bliven had read about the Sandwich Islands. So far as anyone knew, venereal diseases had once been unknown among the Hawaiians, and Captain Cook’s determination to keep his chancred seamen away from the native women was founded not in cruelty to his men but in his desire not to infect these healthy if lusty people with the burden of English licentiousness. After his initial discovery of the islands, and just before continuing north to the polar regions, Cook had sent a watering party ashore on the tiny island of Niihau, at the northern end of the chain, to return immediately upon filling their casks. Opposing winds and rearing, booming surf forced them to stay on land for two days, and Cook knew what the result would be. When he returned after a year, the Endeavour’s surgeon inspected the eager women as they boarded her, and discovered that genital sores had become as sure a mark of imperial claim as planting their flag. Cook was dismayed, but on this second visit, with both his men and the local women equally afflicted, threw up his hands and allowed all to have their pleasure.
With the Sandwich Islands’ active trade with the West, Bliven’s hands would be tied in the local quarrels between chiefs, but medicine, at least, had advanced to a point where the diseases of love could be treated—albeit painfully and over a long period.
BOSTON
30TH OCTOBER, 1819
My Dear Dr. Berend,
I have conferred with Commodore Hull, on the subject of the Rappahannock’s coming dispatch to the Pacific, to establish an American naval presence in the Sandwich Islands, and Canton, and to make contact with the new British establishment and enclave which is to be called Singapore. Part of our assignment is to face down and if needs be fight the pirates who have long infested the Strait of Malacca, and who have recently committed depredation upon our country’s shipping.
You have perhaps received Mr. Hull’s letter to you requesting your return to duty, with the advisory also that the voyage might be of as much as three years’ duration. I hope you will not object to my adding, I do not wish to undertake such an arduous duty with anyone other than yourself as the surgeon on board my ship. We must operate in a portion of the globe largely unknown to our country, with, we may expect, local diseases and afflictions equally unknown to us.
Certainly, there are many who would decline such a duty, and all would admit that a man of your years has earned the right to some leisurely posting. But frankly, sir, it is precisely to your years—that is to say, your broad experience—to which I appeal. Into such a far corner of the world I am loath to lead my men without feeling certain that they shall have the best medical care that can be given. And after the retirement from sea duty of our esteemed Cutbush, I consider that to be yourself. Therefore if you are in good health, and you have still no family connection to keep you land-bound, I do most keenly hope that you will come. Miller sails with me, and we shall have many fine dinners in the tropical climes!
And touching upon the point of medical care, Doctor, I need not tell you that the Pacific Islands are a very popular port of call for all sailors from the Western world, in no small part owing to the extreme amorous nature of the native women. This has been well known since the earliest discoveries. In the Sandwich Islands, particularly, from all accounts, the sexual aggressiveness of the women has in the past extended so far as to actually chase down white sailors and verily pull them into their huts to have carnal relations with them. To such a course, naturally, most seamen have not the least objection, but as a consequence the various species of the Diseases of Venus are rampant, and we must prepare accordingly. I doubt that such a moral place as Boston has enough of the proper medicines in the whole city, as may answer our need. Without implying that Virginia is any less moral a place, may I advise you? Round up all you can of the mercurous chloride, or any new formulations of mercury as have been found effective, before you come, and then see what you can find here.
Finally, allow me to forward a message from the bosun, Mr. Yeakel, that the efficacy of your treatment of the sail room must have been devastating to the pests therein, for when he opened the compartment some days later to inspect it, and restock the canvas, he says that the remainder of the fumes nearly put his eyes out. He begs me to say further, that if any vermin survived this onslaught, it is not because your effort was at all deficient, but that they must be immortal beings.
In closing, let me urge you to haste, if you can come, for like the great Dr. Cutbush, I know that you would prefer to inspect and examine those who volunteer and aspire to our crew, and winnow out those who are weak of limb or constitution.
This letter, Doctor, comes with the great respect and friendship of Bliven Putnam, Capt. USN
DR. CRAIGHEAD BEREND, USN
NAVY YARD, GOSPORT
There were other letters to write, and in the absence of a purser, Ross procured a stack of stationery from the ship’s stores, noting the withdrawal meticulously in the records so that the new purser, when they acquired one, could account for the discrepancy. Bliven wrote to Commodore Hull—he could easier have just told him, but he desired the record in writing—directing his share of the Mobile prize money, when it came, to his wife’s business manager; and he wrote to that manager, instructing him to convert the Navy’s draught to gold and silver. He was not to deposit it in any bank, nor entail it in any investment. He was to keep it secure, keeping himself informed of his parents’ needs as well as those of Mrs. Marsh, whose longtime advisor he was, and use the money to supply their wants. He wrote to Sam Bandy that he expected to be in Charleston within a couple of months and hoped that they could stage a reunion. And he wrote to young James Carter, thanking him again for the gift of the books, and instructing that the royalties from Clarity’s novel should also be kept paid current to her manager.
Every day that passed of the next two weeks seemed to crawl by, and made Bliven the more anxious for the open sea. Closing up the Rappahannock’s hull slowed as he won Hull’s approval to have Edwards’s crew wall off a safe powder handling room lined with copper and lit by lanterns through thick glass, after it became likely that the powder he took on in Charleston would be bulk, in casks, and not premeasured in silk bags, as was now standard. And he wanted a bigger gun room for small arms, because he requested and was granted an amplified contingent of marines, given that pirates Eastern or Western relied on boarding ships for hand-to-hand combat, since they stood no chance in a duel of heavy cannon. James Carter took it upon himself to acquire a few further books with information on Malaya, mostly in memoirs of the minor English nobility recounting their adventures in foreign service. Bliven was reading one so dutifully in the late morning that he started when he heard Ross’s three raps on the cabin door.
“Enter.”
“Excuse me for intruding, Captain, but there has been some news I thought I should tell you. It is probably nothing, but I feel certain that you will want to hear it.”
“What is it?”
“As I say, it is probably of no moment to you, but, well, I was ashore to purchase some supplies, and I heard tell that a merchantman, a Boston brig, has foundered off Cape Hatteras.”
To Bliven it felt odd that such instant terror could manifest itself in such outward calm. He was aware that his breath was shallower and his senses heightened, but his voice was measured. “There is no word what vessel?” Surely Clarity’s ship had had time to clear those shoals before this could have happened, but still—
“No, sir. I heard it in the market. Two men who I learned are clerks on the receiving ship were speculating about it, but when I questioned them they knew no particulars. Sir, I do not see how it could be your wife’s ship.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ross, I quite agree. Nevertheless, if you will fetch my hat and coat, I shall endeavor to learn what I can.”
He paced off the distance to the receiving ship with purpose. So this was what Clarity must have felt like when he was months at a time at sea, every time she heard of some unidentified calamity—the emptiness in the pit of her stomach, her hands sweating beyond control, the blotting out of any other thought, the hopelessness of incomplete information, and the desperation for certain news. When he saw her again, he assured himself, he would acknowledge what he had put her through and how much she must love him to have endured it. And now in addition he must raise additional topics, plausible topics, to raise with Hull so as not to appear hysterical.
“I wonder if I might see the commodore for a moment?” Bliven asked Hull’s aide when he reached the office.
“I shall let him know that you are here.”
As he rose Bliven asked, “By the way, what is this I hear of a ship wrecked off Hatteras? Do you know what one?”
“Yes, sir, a merchantman, the Berenice, carrying fish and iron works. Apparently she struck bottom close inshore, and there were survivors.”
“Ah. I am glad to hear it.” He dared not betray the tidal wave of relief that was breaking over him.
The aide ducked in and out of the inner chamber. “The commodore will see you.”
“Putnam!” boomed Hull as he rose. “By God, sir, your timing is impeccable. I am hungry, and I want good food, and to be waited upon. I have in mind some of that roast duck they serve at the Exchange. Everyone here must work. Will you come with me?”
“Most happily, Commodore, thank you.”
Outside, Bliven was struck afresh with the perquisites of command, as Hull had only to raise a finger for a barouche to appear with a young sailor at the reins, and they were rolling easily across the bridge that became Washington Street, toward the central district. “Well, Putnam, what was it you wished to discuss with me?”
“Sir, my ship will soon be ready for fitting out, and to take on a crew. We cannot readily do that until we have a purser aboard, so I was wondering if you had found someone suitable.”
Even in the mid-November chill, Isaac Hull faultlessly lifted his bicorne to acknowledge the salutations of strangers who had so noted his passage. “You are not going to assault me with more of your reform ideas?”
“No, sir, on that front I am beaten, for the present.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Besides, I am counting my blessings that you did not take it into your head to saddle my ship with any of those damned metal water tanks.”
“Ha!” Hull cleared this throat. “I thought about it.”
“Considering the nature of the defect in my hull, it might never have been found beneath one of those things. I am certain that occurred to you.”
“Putnam, don’t abuse me or I will give you paddle wheels.”
They arrived and entered the Boston Exchange, busy in commerce at the height of the day. Turning toward the restaurant, Bliven noticed that the watercolors of the missionary couples painted by the celebrated Mr. Morse had been taken down.
They were shown to a table in a quiet corner. “What shall we do for a chaplain for your crew?” asked Hull. “Do you know anyone?”
“No, sir, I was rather hoping you would.”
“I see.” Hull looked up when the waiter appeared. “Roast duck, if you please, and some good ale until it comes. Now, these missionaries that your wife accompanied to the Sandwich Islands—they are of the Congregationalist bent, as I remember.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, given that they will be the first American presence in those islands, do you think perhaps it would be helpful to choose you a chaplain of the same strain?”
“Oh, God, no! In truth, sir, the leaders of my wife’s church are so strict and strident, I fear that they will make more enemies than converts, whether among the natives or among residents from other nations with a more conventional religious background.”
“Yes, I see your point.”
“Moreover, Commodore, I have been reading in Captain Porter’s journal of the Essex’s cruise in the Pacific—”
“Oh, damn! I forgot to ask if you had that book or if you would find it useful. Glad you’ve got it.”
“Yes, sir, a very helpful clerk in the bookstore put it in my hands. Porter wrote quite frankly—no, very frankly—of the seductive powers of the native women and the needs of a crew half a year or more at sea. I fear that a chaplain of the Congregationalist faith would find scant following as he preaches on the heavenly virtues of purity.”
“Ha! Yes, I see what you mean. Well, perhaps we could find you a nice Unitarian. Some of them can be rather open-minded.”
Bliven exploded in laughter as tankards of ale were set before them. “Oh, good God, would that not cause the mighty Reverend Beecher to drop dead as a stone? Oh, well, how about an Episcopalian: they don’t insist on very much.”
Hull nodded. “Yes, but I don’t know of any who are available. And these new Methodists are a bit extreme as well. Come, now, let us think on it. The regulations are so lax about chaplains, put the right coat on any man and give him a big dark book that looks somewhat like a Bible, he would pass muster as far as the Navy is concerned. Wait—how about just a simple Deist?”
Bliven was struck quiet. “Well, yes.” He considered their tenets. “They believe in God, and in Christian principles, but accept the different avenues that people find to Him. A Deist would serve very well. Do you know of any?”
“I know of two, actually. They have rather fallen from public favor among the more competitive creeds.” Hull raised his pewter tankard. “Leave it to me. Here’s to Deists!”
“And to God, however you find Him.”
“I am glad that is settled,” said Hull. “Now, Putnam, one thing more.”
“Sir?”
“Did you truly suppose that I might learn of some mishap that could even conceivably involve the safety of your wife and not send for you?”
Bliven blushed to learn that Hull had guessed his true business straightaway. “No, sir,” he answered meekly. “My steward had just this morning heard of it in the market but could discover no detailed information. Naturally, I—”
“Never mind, Captain. But be assured that I am as watchful for my officers’ well-being here as ever I was on a quarterdeck.”
“I am glad of it, sir. Thank you.”