TO KNOW THAT A MAN MARKED PASSAGES IN A BOOK MEANT LITTLE—THE Enchiridion was a sprawling bit of philosophy, and like any great haystack of words there was much to pick and choose. Besides humility and forbearance, Epictetus urged complete self-confidence; the great Stoic said paradoxically that a man should live like a lion in the mountains and at the same time never contend with others. Taken as a whole, the Discourses were nearly as baffling and inconsistent as the Bible or the Koran. Yet a trace of ribbon and a forgotten scrap of newspaper had put down a track through this heaving sea of words, marking a general current of thought. Taken together, the marked passages revealed more about Philip Nolan than he could have ever imagined—much more than his quiet dignity would have wanted known.
During the mid-watch Curran returned to the locked box in the chartroom and opened the leather envelope that held Nolan’s dossier and papers. The detail assembled in the prosecutor’s files was staggering; some of the facts had been taken from Nolan’s military records, but there were other particulars that could only have come from someone who knew Nolan well—very well indeed. Curran was surprised to read biographical summaries dated well after Nolan had been sentenced; a dozen pages more, written in a close, dense copperplate with their paragraphs numbered. Someone among Nolan’s friends must have spoken with the government; Curran was left to wonder who and why.
Philip Clinton Nolan was born at Newport during the British occupation of Rhode Island, in the second year of the American Revolutionary War. Nolan’s widowed mother, Hester Bryne Nolan, was the mistress of Sir Henry Clinton, the British general in command of Royalist forces in New England. That liaison produced two children, Philip and a sister who died in infancy. When the British withdrew from Newport, Mrs. Nolan took the infant Philip and his older half brother, Stephen, to New Orleans and eventually to Texas and Mexico, where the Bryne family had commercial interests.
Philip spent his boyhood in San Jacinto, where his mother’s acquaintance with the Conde de Castella Deidra Vigo yielded the family a tract of land on the Arroyo Nogal in east Texas. Fourteen years older than Philip, Stephen Nolan set about building a pueblo on the land and eventually trading in cattle and working as a guía del terreno. His labors prospered.
As a child Philip had been amused by a number of tutors at his mother’s villa and her apartments in New Orleans. He was precocious and glib, but when it was discovered that beneath his fluent babbling the boy was illiterate in both English and Spanish, and ignorant of sums, remainders, products, and quotients, it was decided to put a finer point on his studies. At the age of thirteen Philip was put aboard a ship bound for England, it being thought that he should begin the serious part of his education with his father’s people.
This brought Philip Nolan to the Harrow School. His father arranged for Nolan to be boarded with old Mrs. Leith in her ramshackle house near the village chapel. Neither Harrow nor Philip Nolan was to make much of an impression on the other. Mrs. Leith’s was a disorderly, decrepit place filled with grasping, unctuous, uncouth, and ignorant boys, from whose example Philip did not profit. These boys soon found Philip to be the very epitome of misconduct, and he led them to new depths of anarchy. For his sundry acts of rebellion, Philip was repeatedly caned. He responded to discipline by running away three times, and his last escape took him as far as Portsmouth. At the docks he attempted to stow away on an Indiaman and sail to Madras. The captain knew Nolan’s father and detained the would-be sailor aboard.
Had Philip succeeded in this attempt to run away to sea, the story of his life would have been vastly shorter—for the Indiaman he had tried to join, Halsewell, was wrecked a week later, foundering in a blizzard off St. Alban’s Head.
Fortunately for Philip, Sir Henry had been nearby at Bath. Unfortunately, his father arrived promptly and with his fury intact. Sir Henry had little time to coddle a wayward child and had Philip sent back to Harrow riding on the outside of the London mail coach; eighteen hours in the wind and cold were intended to remind him of his manners. Half-frozen, Philip returned to school just as word of the Halsewell disaster spread through the city.
At Harrow it somehow came to be understood that Philip had survived rather than merely avoided the shipwreck. This macabre celebrity put Nolan beyond the ken of his peers and outside the wrath of the older boys and many of the masters. His newfound reputation (and Sir Henry’s great authority) eventually reconciled Philip to his studies. Nolan had a certain amount of classical history and even Latin whipped into him. His learning—if not his manners at table—was eventually considered sufficient for him to go up to Oxford.
At Magdalen College, Nolan blossomed, taking refuge in history and mathematics. A very modest stipend was enough for Nolan to continue his studies, and he carried on for three semesters, though sometimes with a rumbling stomach. This was a fond, golden time for him, and until his last days Nolan would warmly remember the place of his intellectual awakening.
When Sir Henry died at Portland Place in London, Philip was not invited to the funeral. As he expected, at the end of term a letter came, written by Sir Henry’s solicitor. It said that as his lordship had not formally acknowledged Philip’s birth, the estate regretted that no further provision could be made for his education. All of the whereases and therefores educed the fact that there were to be no further remittances for tuition or board, and Nolan was to withdraw from university.
Without prospects and without his degree, Nolan took ship for Savannah and rode overland through Alabama and the Mississippi Territory. Nolan arrived to find the country of his birth vastly expanded. The Spanish, fearing the unrestrained migration of American settlers from Louisiana into Texas, had broken diplomatic relations with the United States. The quibbles of nations are frequently the ruin of families, and Nolan arrived at last in New Orleans to find his mother bereft and their family’s Texas ranchlands confiscated by the Spanish. Worse, much worse, was the news that Nolan had lost his much-loved stepbrother. After leading a party across the Brazos, Stephen had been ambushed by a squadron of Spanish cavalry. The skirmish would remain obscure to history, but it was cruel enough. Stephen Nolan was shot through the heart and the settlers in his charge were put to the bayonet. Their possessions were sacked, their livestock driven off, and their wagons burned. By way of warning, Stephen Nolan’s corpse was lassoed and hung from a white oak.
It was Philip’s painful duty to return to Texas, gather his brother’s bleached and broken bones, and bury them on the sandy banks of the Arroyo Nogal. Back in New Orleans, Nolan’s mother surrendered to grief and laudanum. It was these heart wounds that turned Philip Nolan from a carefree if somewhat studious young man into a soldier.
An appointment to the Military Academy at West Point was arranged. Mrs. Nolan’s acquaintances and connexions were of the highest quality; one of the letters written in support of Nolan’s appointment was written by the Marquis de Lafayette, and another by Albert Gallatin; both had been friends of Madame Nolan before the war in Paris. No one was surprised when Philip Nolan graduated, two years later, at the top of his class.
A brief posting to Washington City followed, where Nolan endured a sort of ornamental clerkship filing maps at the War Department. General Dearborn happily discovered that Nolan was one of the few officers who had intimate knowledge of the lands between the Brazos and the Rio Grande. What the young officer knew of that country was rapidly wrung out of him in a series of map corrections, synopses, and reports. The quality of this work gained him some attention, and one afternoon Nolan was summoned to the executive mansion to speak to Captain Meriwether Lewis, who was then putting together a reconnoitering expedition grandly called the Corps of Discovery. Lewis had been directed by the president to lead a picked band of men to find the headwaters of the Missouri River, cross the continental divide, and descend via the waters of either the Colorado or Columbia River to the Pacific Ocean. Arrangements were being made in strictest secrecy as portions of the territory to be crossed were claimed by Spain and Britain. Nolan listened to the captain’s plans eagerly and volunteered on the spot.
Nolan threw himself into preparations for the expedition, scouring the capital for maps and navigational instruments for Captain Lewis and attending to an unending train of commissary and equipment requirements. Captain Lewis found Nolan’s efforts gratifying, but he had need of only a single assistant, and eventually the position of second in command of the expedition was granted to his friend William Clark.
Nolan’s disappointment was allayed by a fresh set of orders confirming his commission as a second lieutenant of artillery and engineers and returning him to West Point with assignment to a course of surveying and military fortification under the supervision of Major Jonathan Williams. On completing his course, Nolan was dispatched west, first to Fort Green Ville, and then to Fort Massac on the Ohio River. Then came the fateful, wicked day that he shook the hand of Aaron Burr.
Facts about Nolan loomed, points in a curve, portraying a history but failing to fully illuminate his character. Nolan had traveled much as a child, and though his mother’s relations with men were somewhat unorthodox, Madame Nolan could hardly be called outré; Dolley Payne Todd, later the wife of James Madison, was a girlhood friend. Both the Bryne and Nolan families had been well to do, and several prominent and even famous persons were happy to render for Mrs. Nolan and her sons what services they could, Nolan’s admission to Oxford and West Point being but two examples.
Yet nothing could have been easy for Nolan; the illegitimacy of his birth opened him to calumny and even disrespect. Ironically, President Jefferson, a great begetter of bastards himself, had a lifelong animus against men of illegitimate birth. That may have been the reason he was left behind by Captain Lewis—the Corps of Discovery was, after all, Jefferson’s project. Curran read that Nolan had fought a number of duels, beginning at Oxford and continuing at West Point. He always prevailed, sometimes by the expedient of obtaining apologies, but more often by taking the field, though his last outing had been very nearly fatal. Even now, Nolan’s manners were cordial but quite unbendable; he was not a person to be trifled with. Though he was open and pleasant to the people he liked, his sense of personal honor was keen, perhaps even bristling. In these traits he was very much like Captain Pelles. They were much of a type, Pelles and Nolan, both of them from the age when a gentleman’s honor was more important than his life.
Curran tied up Nolan’s dossier with its black ribbon and opened the naval files; they were nearly as thick. On the back of Nolan’s sentence were the endorsements of a dozen American warships: Revenge and Wasp in the Atlantic, Holyoke and Essex in the Pacific, Peacock in the Indian Ocean, Independence and Intrepid in the Mediterranean, bomb ketches like Aetna and Vesuvius, ignominious little gunboats (numbered instead of named), sloops, packets, humble store ships, and illustrious frigates that had sailed in seas of glory: Essex, Constitution, Constellation.
Nolan’s previous friendship with Captain Pelles was surprising, but it might have been deduced. Only the captain had authority to permit Nolan to walk Enterprise’s quarterdeck. There was also the incident when Pelles had pulled Varney up short for a hint of gossip mongering. It was not surprising that neither Nolan nor Pelles chose to have their friendship advertised. In Nolan’s case it would have been both indecorous and presumptuous to claim familiarity with the commanding officer. For Pelles to acknowledge a particular friend among the ship’s company would have been equally untoward.
The dedication in the book had been written during the two-year cruise of USS Holyoke in the Pacific. When exactly Nolan was put aboard was not recorded but was likely during a rendezvous between the supply ship Tom Bowline and Holyoke off Valparaiso, Chile, in the middle of March 1813. It was not possible that Nolan and Pelles ignored each other for long in a 140-foot gun brig, and the gift of Epictetus, and its compassionate dedication, spoke of a respectful and solid friendship.
All those years ago, when he was aboard Essex and Holyoke, even the most fervent of Nolan’s detractors must have thought that one day an official letter would come and he would be set free. But that never happened. Perhaps they had already decided in Washington that Nolan’s sentence was to be open ended; maybe it had become simply a matter of non mi ricordo, but no orders came changing his status. As Nolan was passed from sea to sea, no officer took it upon himself (or his career) to bring him back.
Orders did eventually come for Pelles, and he was transferred from Holyoke to the North Atlantic Squadron, an executive officer’s billet aboard USS President and a brush with both death and glory. When Arthur Pelles and Philip Nolan parted on a bright morning off the coast of Brazil, neither knew when, or if, they would ever meet again. Nolan was transferred to USS Peacock, bound for the African cape; from that ship he went into Hornet, and then on to a dozen more.
For all its grandeur, a warship at sea is a fragile, temporary conveyance, an imperfect machine made by mortal men. No ship swims forever, and no sailor takes to the sea in perfect peace or safety. For nearly two decades Nolan had ploughed the world’s most variable element with indifferent companions close, and the nation’s enemies always over the next horizon; a prisoner suspended between a six-inch plank and briny eternity. Exile to the Bastille, a Tower dungeon, or even Siberian banishment would have been more humane.
Curran retied the prosecutor’s papers and folded them back into the leather envelope. He replaced the tattered sheet of newsprint into Nolan’s book and lined it up carefully with the marks on the page. Curran said nothing to his messmates about what he had read, of the marked passages, or of Pelles’ dedication, or the scraps of newspaper. He placed Nolan’s copy of the Enchiridion on the shelf in the wardroom; the book remained in the mess for several days, there for any officer to read, but no one touched it. As far as Curran knew, no one ever even opened the cover.
A week after it had been loaned, a polite and decent interval, Curran returned the Enchiridion to Nolan and awkwardly thanked him for the chance to work on his Latin. Nolan, pleasant and sincere as ever, thanked Curran for the loan of the Edgeworth novel.
Curran had seen grief touch Nolan when he learned he had lost a friend at Fort McHenry. Philip Nolan was flesh and blood, after all. Had his shipmates seen Nolan watching the lights of the departing whale ship, had they seen how his eyes were fixed on the torch and the golden word beneath it, if anyone had seen the look of quiet misery on his face, they would have thought Philip Nolan very much more human still.
AT SEA, TIME IS NEVER SERVED OUT IN JUST PROPORTION. THERE IS ALWAYS TOO little or too much. Weeks may pass in tame, pleasant sameness, and then, without warning, a doldrums of routine can be replaced by shocking panic. In moments of danger, time seems to elongate. A hurricane, a sea battle, or the fall from a topmast—all stretch out in time and resonate in the witness’ soul; every life-threatening moment at sea has about it this curious trait. Aboard a ship, pleasure and safety leave almost no mark at all; a routine sunny day is almost instantly forgotten. And it was routine that Enterprise settled into. In pleasant days the crew gradually became used to Nolan’s presence and his habits. The older hands told the younger ones what his confinement was all about—that he could not be spoken to about the United States and that he could never return. But no one seemed to know exactly why Nolan had been exiled. This added, of course, to the mystery surrounding him, and while it could not be helped that some hands disliked him, others instantly held Nolan in a sort of awe.
Even those who shunned him had to admit that Nolan was a decent and courteous shipmate. After so many years at sea, he knew that his company could be an imposition. Sailors talk very often of family and their homes; it might be their favorite subject next to the wind and the state of the sea. Nolan was always careful not to stand too long with any group of men lest his presence put a check on their conversation. A second problem was that of his rank. Even though he was no longer an officer, he was not one of the hands. Aboard a man o’war, what might be said on the mess decks could not be said on the quarterdeck. It was the crew’s right to gripe, but it was not their place to do so in front of their officers. Their talk was always constrained when Nolan was about, and he knew it. For this reason he was mostly alone on deck, and it was in these moments that he was likely to be approached by a midshipman flummoxed by a word in Falcon’s Marine Dictionary or stumped by a page of trigonometry. The mids were a group that economized in everything (including the labor of thought), and they soon came to depend on Nolan’s explanations of arithmetic, mathematics, and algebraic processes. These functions were vital to their mastery of celestial navigation and pilotage. The mids were ever mindful of the captain’s wrath, and so it was not uncommon to see two or three of them gathered around Nolan before the noon reckoning, hunkered at the main hatchway with books upon their knees. Nolan could always be counted on to supply a trigonometric proof with a gracious smile. He was never patronizing, and even the mysteries of running fixes and axial progression did not discourage him.
Gradually, Nolan became part of a reading circle of midshipmen and officers. Aboard ship it was a common enough way to get rid of time. People took turns reading aloud and others came and went, listening, more or less, while they chewed tobacco. When Nolan was included or nearby, the books did not involve the forbidden topic. That left a wealth of material not published in America—or alluding to it. Nolan had a fine, strong voice, and he read very well. He was especially good at plays and poetry, and his voice was capable of expressing fine emotion. When he read Macbeth, his audiences became so rapt that they would hush the fiddler, and even dancers from the forecastle would come aft to the mainmast to sit and listen. One afternoon, while Curran was below, it happened that Nolan joined a circle of mids and several officers. Lieutenant Varney was nearby, chewing, and Mister Piggen joined them, submitting a volume of Walter Scott to the books going round the circle.
The Lay of the Last Minstrel was then in its fifth edition, and though many had heard its praises, few aboard the frigate could say honestly they had read it. Thought to be about Highlanders and Scottish gallantry, the book was considered a safe enough topic. On top of that, the poem was set a full century before America had been discovered. Perhaps the words were not so famous then as they are now. It was certain that neither Nolan nor the listening sailors knew what was coming next—but Varney and Piggen did. They had made sure the book went into Nolan’s hand when it was his turn to read. Nolan went peacefully enough through the fifth canto, then turned the page and read aloud:
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself has said,
This is my own, my native land.
The listeners, to man, were embarrassed for Nolan. Discomfited, some wished they could turn the pages forward or magically change the book in his hands to something else—anything else. Nolan began to blush even as he continued; the letters swam before his eyes, and he felt himself losing his presence of mind. His voice hitched, and he skipped ahead, hoping to find a stanza that would not sear him so—but what waited in that poem was worse still:
Despite these titles, power and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self
Living, shall forfeit fair renown
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored and unsung.
With a pained, astonished look, Nolan dropped the book onto the hatch cover. Looking past the silent ring of faces, he turned away and staggered aft, reeling over the deck like a man punched in the gut.
Varney stepped in front of him and said, “Pick that up.”
Nolan lifted his eyes. “What?”
“I said pick that up. Are you deaf?”
Behind Varney, Piggen’s sallow, pocked face took on a look of base delight.
“That book is my property,” Varney barked, “and I’ll have you treat it so.”
Nolan made a move to walk away, saying, “Please pardon me, sir.”
As he tried to pass, Varney put out an arm, jolting him bodily. Nolan’s expression changed from sorrow to perplexity, and then to fury.
“Take away your hand,” Nolan hissed.
Varney took a quick step back, lifting his fist. Nolan stood still and said softly, “Touch me, and I will beat your brains out.”
Piggen glowered, but had enough sense to take a step backward.
“I will not tolerate being handled,” Nolan said to Varney. “You will apologize at once.”
The deck was as silent as a grave. Varney kept his fist cocked but dared not throw the punch.
“Who are you to tell a gentleman what to do?” minced Piggen.
“Have you trained a puppy to speak for you?” Nolan turned his gaze back on Varney. “Apologize.”
“I will not,” said the Marine.
“Then I expect to hear from you. Perhaps your greasy friend owns a pencil?”
Piggen made a noise in his throat. Nolan took a step toward Varney. “Now stand aside, you braying jackass, or I’ll put you over the hammock netting.”
Varney did step aside, but only because he was too furious to form a thought in his head. Nolan turned to the others in the reading circle and bowed slightly, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
BELOW THE WATERLINE, SILENCE THRUMMED WITH THE VIBRATION OF THE passing sea. Curran went down the passageway, past the sentry and toward the open door of Nolan’s cabin. A light burned within.
“If you would give us five minutes, Gerrity?” Curran said to the Marine on duty.
“Aye, sir,” the sentry said and went forward.
From inside the cabin, Nolan’s hand reached across the keeps and opened the door the rest of the way. “Thank you for coming, Mister Curran. I would not have asked to meet you here, but I did not think it would be appropriate to speak on deck.” Nolan gestured to the cabin’s single chair. “Please,” he said, “come in and sit.”
Curran ducked into the small compartment. Nolan adjusted the lantern overhead and pulled a three-legged stool from under the folding desk. It was the first time Curran had been in the cabin since Nolan had come on board. He was struck again at how small it was, small but immaculately clean and orderly. Nolan’s clothing was hung on a set of triangular wooden dowels, his linen folded and stacked, and his several books put into the fiddled shelves above his bed. He had put a dustcover over the dozen Bibles from the seaman’s society—his hat, gloves and belt were placed on top of them.
Nolan cleared his throat. “I regret there has been an incident that may affect my confinement.”
“What sort of incident?”
“I have been challenged to a duel.” Nolan took up a paper from his desk and handed it over. Curran at once recognized Piggen’s spidery scrawl. It took him a few moments longer to comprehend what had been written. The purser, assuming the role of second, was communicating a demand for satisfaction from Lieutenant Varney. For all its quibbling form and strained politeness, the letter was in deadly earnest.
Nolan spoke calmly. “I’ll not bore you with my version of who said what, but I will admit that I used some crude expressions.”
“Why?”
“I was accosted.”
“Were you struck?”
“It was more of a shove. I was inclined to ignore it, but Varney persisted. And when I asked him to apologize, he refused.”
Curran looked at the paper and shook his head. Nolan’s expression was hard to see in the lantern light, but he did not seem overly concerned.
“Of course, I will need a second,” Nolan said, “and I would be honored if you would oblige.”
Curran leaned back in disbelief. “I can’t allow you to fight a duel, Mister Nolan.”
“Am I not still considered a gentleman?”
“You are.”
“Then you know this cannot be ignored. Not a shove. I was in my own rights to beat Varney where he stood—but I did not. Out of respect for you and Captain Pelles, I was willing to let the matter drop. I would have.” Nolan shrugged at the paper. “It is Varney who has seen fit to call me out. In any case, he is a bully, and if I do not stand up to him his conduct will only become more offensive.”
“A few incautious words are a small enough matter.”
“They were underlined by a shove, which no gentleman can tolerate, and I suspect the entire incident was deliberately staged.” Nolan lowered his voice. “This ship is my entire world. There is no place else I can go.” He looked into the shelves above Curran’s head. “I would not play Varney’s victim in any case. You see, whatever small amount of honor I still possess is precious to me.”
“There can be no duels on this ship.”
“I will consider a withdrawal of the challenge should he reconsider it, or a simple apology should he come to his senses,” Nolan said. “Otherwise, I must insist on the interview going forward.”
Curran drew a deep breath.
“I will require a second, Mister Curran, whether or not there is a fight.” Nolan paused. “Will you do this for me?”
Curran stood. “You are in my custody,” he said. “I am responsible for you. Though I will tell you, sir, I think dueling is a wicked nonsense.”
The ship creaked, the note underscored by the droning of the sea around them. Nolan turned his face upward. “Do you think that honor is ridiculous?”
“I do not.”
“Then we might agree that it is fragile.”
“I’ve never fought a duel, Mister Nolan, and I do not consider myself less of a gentleman for not going out.”
“I do not think less of you either, sir. My ways may be the old ways, but they are mine. If Varney comes to his senses and apologizes, I will happily let the matter drop.”
“And if he does not?”
“I am a gentleman, sir.”
On the way back to his cabin, Curran thought to order Nolan confined to quarters but reconsidered at once. The challenge had been formally delivered, and the fight would be formally conducted. There was very little chance of the two gentlemen flying at each other on sight, but this was a grave and serious business. Whether he liked it or not, Curran was now functioning as Nolan’s second. It was not unusual for seconds to come up with a diplomatic solution, but that took a great deal of intelligence and a flexible mind, two things his counterpart, Piggen, did not possess. Also looming over the matter was the fact that Curran was responsible, militarily responsible, for both Nolan’s care and his conduct. Curran did not want to see him hurt, nor could he allow Nolan to harm Lieutenant Varney—no matter what he thought of the man personally.
By the end of the mid-watch Curran had anguished sufficiently over the problem. As he came down into the wardroom, he saw that a light was on in Erskine’s cabin and knocked.
“Yes, come in.” Erskine smiled as Curran opened the door but saw at once that his expression was a bit more tired than might be expected even of a man who’d just finished an all-night watch. “What’s the matter, Mister Curran?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I need both your opinion as a gentleman and your guidance as an officer.”
Erskine listened to the circumstances as Curran knew them, and then read the challenge written by Mister Piggen. He rubbed his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he grunted.
“I realize that these matters are supposed to be kept confidential. But I saw a conflict between what is my clear duty and what might be my obligations as a gentleman.”
“You did the right thing to bring this to my attention.” Erskine tossed the paper on his desk and pushed the door closed with his foot. “Is there anyone else who knows of this?”
“Piggen, of course, and Varney. I have told no one. But I am sure several of the men witnessed the incident. I thought it best not to make a general investigation.”
“Just so.”
Curran leaned forward in his chair, placing his elbows on his knees and gripping his hands together. “Do we tell the captain?”
Erskine leaned back in his own chair and cocked his head. “That’s the rub. We are obligated to inform the captain of everything that could affect the conduct of the men or the ship. But this is a personal matter, an affair between two gentlemen, even if Varney is a donkey dick.”
“I wonder if it all might be ignored. Like a child’s tantrum?” Curran said.
“They have a much better way of settling these things before the mast. Nolan would have punched out Varney on the spot. Done and done.”
“I have no doubt that Nolan was sorely provoked,” Curran said. “He has ignored a dozen slights that I know. Some of them very hurtful.”
Erskine nodded. “I have known him off and on for more than a dozen years. I sailed with him on Brister when I was just a yonker. He has always been a perfect gentleman. And that is what compounds the problem.”
“The captain is cut from the same cloth, isn’t he?” Curran observed. “I mean, a fighting sort.”
“He is,” Erskine nodded. “The Old Mogul is quite particular about points of honor. If he were to get wind of this, I’m sure he’d steer the ship to some desert island and let them play at cutlasses. I don’t care very much about Varney, but I care very much about the reputations of our captain and our ship. An intramural duel would be a disgrace.”
“Might we find some sort of compromise?”
Erskine shrugged. “From what you tell me, it is not Nolan who is the problem. He would accept a simple apology, and it is his due. The problem is Varney.”
“And Piggen.”
“That honking fart,” Erskine muttered.
“Perhaps, sir, you might have a word with Captain MacQuarrie?”
“He is a decent sort.” Erskine put the paper into his desk. “He might be able to talk some sense into Varney.” It would not help that MacQuarrie was everything that Varney was not—calm, brave, and dignified—but Varney might at least listen to a superior who reminded him that shooting a prisoner was, at best, not good for a career.
“We might also be able to put this thing about if we transfer one or the other of them off the ship,” Erskine said.
Curran thought about the moment he first saw Nolan in Cádiz, rowed to the pier by a silent boat crew. “I’d not like to see him put off for this,” Curran said. “It was Varney who started it.”
“Varney has friends in Washington. Nolan has none.”
Eight bells, and from below came the sounds of reveille, bo’suns roaring, and the ship coming to life as the sun came up.
“You will speak to Mister Piggen?”
“Yes, sir.” Curran did not need to add his own opinion of the man. He could hardly better Erskine’s assessment. “Perhaps I can make some progress,” Curran said, though he was not hopeful.
The executive officer stood; the meeting was over. “God damn me,” Erskine yawned, stretching his long arms over his head. “Is that bacon I smell?”
BREAKFAST WAS ALWAYS A SKETCHILY ATTENDED MEAL AS THOSE OFFICERS WHO had been on night watches usually preferred to grab an hour’s sleep. On this morning, exhausted from his duties, Curran did exactly that. Navigational chores filled the rest of the morning, and Curran was hungry when the hands were piped to dinner. In the wardroom, he could already feel a diffused sort of grudge lurking under the conversation. At the far end of the table Varney was his usual complacent self. The Marine might even have considered himself a little more charming than usual, joking with the purser and expounding on the new triggers he had put on his pistols. He drank a fair share of the doctor’s lager and put away a pair of ham-and-cheddar sandwiches; the prospect of a duel had not affected his appetite in the least.
Each time Varney filled his mug with beer he got louder. Piggen was, as usual, playing Sancho Panza to Varney’s Quixote. Curran could see measured glances pass between Erskine and MacQuarrie. They were the two most senior officers in the mess, and it was obvious to a knowing eye that they had spoken. From Darby’s scrupulously polite treatment of Piggen, Curran guessed that Erskine might have told him as well. That would not be surprising, as Erskine and Doctor Darby had long been shipmates. It was an awkward meal, and Curran knew that the situation would become increasingly unpleasant until it was resolved.
After dinner, Curran asked Piggen if he might have a word. Showing a mouthful of yellow teeth, the purser answered that he might be able to do so at four bells. The delay did not bode well for their discussion. The postponement was a snub; it was well known that Piggen generally napped after his midday meal.
During the early afternoon, Curran and Pybus went through the navigational fixes, marveling at Nordhoff’s and Hall’s more outlandish calculations, and at four bells Curran went below. Bleary from the long night, Curran washed his face and shaved. This had the effect of both refreshing him and allowing him to be slightly, but not insultingly, late for his appointment. Reminding himself to be polite, he arrived at Piggen’s small office in the after end of the berth deck. It was a low, dark, and cramped part of the ship. Curran knocked and opened the door.
“Oh, there you are,” Piggen exhaled, “I was just about go on deck.” This was communicated with a straight face, even though the purser was sitting behind his desk in a nightshirt.
“I know you’re busy, Mister Piggen. With your permission, I’ll get to the point.” Curran pushed a box of pen quills to the middle of the cabin and sat.
The little man smirked. “When shall we schedule the interview?”
“I had hoped that we might drop the entire matter.”
The lantern winked off the lenses of Piggen’s tiny glasses. “That would be impossible without a formal apology. A written apology.”
Curran felt his teeth grind. “Piggen, you wrote the challenge.”
“I did,” he said with a vapid sort of pride.
“Are you very familiar with the code, sir?”
“I am,” he fibbed.
“It is you who have laid the challenge. It is not Mister Nolan’s place to offer an apology. Only an explanation.”
“Of course, that is what I meant,” Piggen said.
“This is a deadly business, sir. An exacting one.”
“You need not inform me of my duties, Mister Curran,” Piggen sniffed. “I am a gentleman.”
Curran said evenly, “I have read the challenge. I wonder if you might tell me what happened?”
“Lieutenant Varney was insulted.”
“I gather that. What were the circumstances?”
Piggen sat back in his chair. “Nolan was reading aloud from a book, and went into a passion. He threw it down and stormed off. Mister Varney merely reminded him that the book was not to be thrown on the deck.”
“Were you present?”
“I was. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Whose book was it?”
Piggen made a blank face.
“Who owned the book?” Curran asked.
“I loaned it to Lieutenant Varney.”
Curran folded his arms across his chest, studying the man behind the desk. “Mister Piggen, you are aware that Nolan is being kept in a unique, confidential type of custody?”
“Everyone knows it.”
“I am responsible that he not read of the United States at any time he is aboard this ship. Nor may he discuss our country with any member of the crew.”
“He probably deserves worse for what he done.”
“That is not for you to decide, and it is my responsibility to see that he is kept in accordance with his sentence.”
“The book had nothing to do with America.”
“No. Strictly speaking it did not.”
“There. See? It makes his conduct all the more—” Piggen faltered, “well, ungentlemanly like.”
“I think, Mister Piggen, that some joke was being made of Nolan. A sort of prank at his expense.”
“That’s not true.”
“Have you read the poem?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Perhaps you could have guessed that it might be provocative?”
Piggen shrugged.
“That it might be wounding to a homesick person?”
“You can’t be trying to defend his conduct?” Piggen sneered.
“No. But I don’t see that you and Varney are without blame.”
“Blame? How could that be?”
Curran let a second or two pass. “It would be in the best interests of all of us, and in the best interest of the harmony of the ship, if this challenge were to be withdrawn.”
“A gentleman never withdraws a challenge,” Piggen huffed.
“He does, sir, when he was mistaken in delivering it,” Curran said calmly.
Piggen’s face was growing red. “Nolan insulted a commissioned officer, in front of the crew. He threatened to beat him.”
“After he was shoved by Lieutenant Varney.”
“Well, it was not really a shove.”
“Did Varney touch Nolan?”
“He might have. I couldn’t see.”
Curran knew this line of inquiry would go nowhere. Piggen did not know his way very well about affairs of honor; Curran had at least a firm knowledge of the code duello. He had not been out, but he had served on three occasions as a second. Twice he had helped to adjust the disagreement, putting the matter to rest; the third time he had carried a bleeding friend from a dew-covered meadow. Curran guessed that Piggen had never seen a man shot through the face.
“So,” Curran said, “we are at an impasse.”
Piggen smiled. “I reckon we are.”
Curran chose his words carefully. “As you know, sir, if a doubt exists as to who first gave offense, the decision rests with the seconds.”
“Of course,” Piggen said, though he was anything but firm on the details.
“As a blow was involved—”
“A shove.”
“As you will, a shove,” Curran conceded, “the code does not allow for any apology.”
This seemed to delight the purser. “Then Nolan must fight.”
“It would seem so,” Curran said. “Are we agreed, then, that the matter should proceed strictly in accordance with the code?”
“I am for it, firmly,” Piggen said.
“I was hoping you might say that, Piggen. I counted on it.”
Piggen bent from the waist, making a sort of sitting bow.
Curran said, “Seconds are considered of equal rank in society . . . ” The purser nodded happily. He understood the concept of rank. “And, of course, as we support our respective sides in this affair, we may choose to become involved on the field,” Curran said.
The bliss started to evaporate from Piggen’s face. “Involved, sir? How do you mean?
“As participants,” Curran said pleasantly. “We have the honor, as seconds, to join our principals on the field.”
Piggen looked shattered. “The disagreement is between Varney and Nolan.”
“And you and me,” Curran said, “as seconds. We are at an impasse, are we not?”
Piggen belched nervously. Curran was applying a rigid interpretation of the Irish code (the one used in the wild places of Antrim and Sligo), and while it was true enough, it was much more a Hibernian than an American tendency for the seconds to fight alongside the principals.
“I am sure you took up your duties as a second fully informed of these obligations,” Curran said. Piggen did not answer. “And, according to the code, as you and I cannot agree, we may resolve to exchange shots ourselves at the same time as the principals. At right angles, of course, and after the principals have fired their first volley.”
“I am no pistolero, sir. I don’t even own a weapon.”
“We can provide you one,” Curran said. “You won’t need it long.”
“But I have no quarrel with you, Mister Curran, no sir-ee,” Piggen winced.
“I’m not taking it personally, Piggen. Not at all. It is the code, you understand. Since we can’t agree on the particulars of the first offense, we shall fight when the principals do.”
“This seems very irregular, sir.”
“There is a copy of the code duello in the bookcase in the wardroom. Please, if I am mistaken, only tell me.” Curran put his hand on the cabin door. “Now, I’m sure you know that this matter must be kept strictly confidential, especially now that it has become, shall we say, expanded?”
There were two wet spots on Piggen’s blotter where his hands had rested.
“Mister Nolan will have to be smuggled off the ship in order to conclude this business, so I’ll need some time to make arrangements.”
“You need not fight me, Mister Curran.” Piggen’s face had gone from yellow to gray. “We have no quarrel, do we?”
Curran had no intention of fighting anyone, or of allowing anyone to fight, but Piggen didn’t know it. Curran said with all the sincerity he could muster: “Piggen, I regret that I must discharge my duty in this affair. We are both gentlemen and are bound by our obligations. Since we cannot agree, we will exchange two shots, like our principals. Of course, if the matter should resolve itself without us resorting to bloodshed, I would be only too happy. Shooting you once or twice would be a sad way to end our friendship.” Curran touched Piggen on the shoulder. “Please pass along my best compliments to Lieutenant Varney. Good day to you, sir.”