IT IS RARE FOR AN AMERICAN SAILOR TO BE BURIED IN A FOREIGN LAND. Interment at sea was more common for that class of man—the traditions and custom of the service demanded it—and so a naval burial in a Spanish churchyard was, for that reason, a doubly mournful event. Yunis had suffered three dead and six wounded in her encounter with Um Qasim. Mulherrin, Moody, and Finch had been buried at sea off Cabo de Gata, Nolan saying over them what words he could, and the wounded were transferred to Enterprise’s sickbay at Cartagena. Of these, three succumbed despite Doctor Darby’s valiant efforts. Guild and Hackman were Catholics and O’Mara was thought to be, and the following day they were rendered full military honors behind the small Franciscan chapel next to the American consulate.
In dress uniforms with swords reversed, Pelles and his officers escorted three simple wooden caskets up from the harbor. Behind them, the ship’s company marched, mustered by divisions, their hats under their arms and black bands of crepe around the right arms of their best shore-going rigs. The familiar, heartfelt words were spoken, prayers were whispered, the Marines fired their volleys, and it was over.
After the service Pelles walked alone down the Calle Real. A rainy morning had somehow turned into a beautiful day, the wind plain out of the north and the sky as blue as a Dresden cup. A little before noon, Enterprise had been joined in Cartagena roads by the flagship of the Mediterranean squadron, USS Constitution. Anchored inboard of Enterprise, Constitution wore her jack and ensign at half-staff, and after a decent interval she ran up a signal: captain repair aboard flag.
On the quay, Pelles signaled for his barge. “Flagship, Mister Wolfe,” he said to a tall, lanky, and brand-new midshipman.
“Give way,” the boy said firmly. “Smart and dry.”
As the barge pulled across the harbor, Pelles had a moment to compare the two frigates. Enterprise and Constitution had been laid down by the same hand, Joshua Humphries, and they looked very much like sisters. Each ship had her own superlatives and foibles, but it would be very hard for a landsman, or even many sailors, to tell them apart from the bows. Enterprise had a more gimcrack stern; it was rounded in the modern style and had a pair of galleries and the glory of a poop deck. Enterprise was longer by seven feet six inches, and though stoutly made was as lean as a thoroughbred. To Pelles’ not impartial eye, it was Enterprise who was the beauty, and Easy E was renowned for sailing plain and true—a dry, weatherly ship, snug as a duck.
At twenty-three, her sister Constitution was starting to show her age. Old Ironsides was still a formidable ship, and without doubt the most glorious frigate in the United States Navy. It was a compliment to the ship as well as the seniority of her captain that Constitution wore the pennant, a burgee with twenty-four stars encircling a single large, five-pointed star. But even this distinction did not go unanswered by Enterprise. Since the sinking of Ar R’ad, Easy E had sported a broom fixed to her mainmast, a time-honored signal meaning that she had swept the seas.
The sailors of the flagship were spurred to something like envy when they came to moor and saw not only Enterprise, the victor over Ar R’ad, but two corsair ships taken in that same action. At anchor, the snow Courier and the xebec Yunis both wore the Stars and Stripes over the three green crescents of Bou Regreg. They were taken ships—lawful prizes; this meant, for the crew of Enterprise, honor, a certain moral superiority ashore, and the delight of all: prize money. Scuttlebutt had it that both ships would be “bought in”; that is, purchased directly by the Navy. This meant cash on the barrelhead for every man jack aboard Enterprise, paid in shares calculated down to the last glorious golden quarter eagle, silver half dime, and copper cent.
As Pelles approached the flagship, he could see that Courier and Yunis were being swarmed over by carpenters, sailmakers, gunners, and bo’suns; to judge by the multilingual curses wafting from both decks, there were some differences of opinion between the American and Spanish shipwrights. More somber, and perhaps less fussed over, Yunis was tied up to the ordnance dock taking aboard guns, powder, and shot—arms and ammunition to replace those thrown overboard in her costly escape from Um Qasim. Unlike Courier, that happy ship, Yunis wore her lateens crossed in a token of mourning. Work aboard her had been suspended for the funerals and would resume tomorrow after the hands had time to eat, drink, and mourn their shipmates.
Enterprise’s barge pulled within hail, and a sentry called from the flagship, “Ahoy the boat!” Midshipman Wolfe answered, “Enterprise,” indicating that the commanding officer of that ship was approaching. This exchange set in motion ceremonies appropriate for the arrival of a frigate captain, and as the barge came gently against Constitution, Pelles went up the side to the sound of bells, pipes, and the measured stamp of a squad of Marines.
With a look of calculated severity, Pelles saluted the colors and the quarterdeck in turn. The commodore, Jacob Jones, was a friend of thirty years. Both knew it was a matter of seniority rather than strictly merit that had granted Jones his office. Jacob Jones and Arthur Pelles had been mids together, and Jones was senior by three weeks.
The commodore returned Pelles’ salute with due gravity but could not hide the frank and familiar pleasure of his smile. “Welcome aboard, Captain Pelles. Congratulations on your cruise.” Jones took his friend by the hand and added, “I am sorry to hear of your losses.”
Pelles nodded, and the commodore introduced his officers. They were memorably young. Jones’ flag captain, Ezra Mullins, was not quite so young, but a spry man of forty. Pelles clasped his hand with a grin. Mullins had once been Pelles’ exec in John Adams.
“Good to see you, Skipper,” Mullins said, or rather mumbled, for since John Adams Commander Mullins had somehow lost all of his teeth.
“Howdy, Ezra. Good to see you.”
A young officer, scrubbed pink, stepped forward and waved a white-gloved hand. “This way, sirs, if you please.” Pelles had to look at the young man twice to believe that he wore an epaulette. No, two epaulettes.
Jones smiled. “I thought you might take some lunch, Captain.”
In the great cabin the two august personages could be more like themselves, and not the living, breathing representatives of Yahweh. Jones took off his coat at once. “Sit, Art, sit. How are you? You look trim.”
Pelles tossed his hat on the chart table, found a chair, and stretched out his legs. Commodore Jones’ cabin was the mirror of his own, though perhaps polished more ferociously.
“Will you have some monongahela?” Jacob asked. He poured himself half a tumbler.
“Just beer.”
Jacob touched a bell, and the steward nipped in with a brown ceramic bottle. He opened it, poured the contents into a glass, and disappeared like a phantom. Jacob slipped on a pair of spectacles and sat at his desk.
“By God, you look like a schoolmaster,” Pelles said, sipping his beer.
Jacob poked through a pile of papers. “I am a mere scribbler. And a seagoing nanny. I’ve fifteen mids about, four of them squeakers.”
“I might have vacancies for your oldsters. Can you spare me a few?”
“I am amazed at how you go through lieutenants. How many did you lose in the last go?”
“Three against Ar R’ad. And the rest pretty well banged up. Only two of them can count all the arms and legs God gave them.”
Jacob sipped his drink. He remembered getting wounded himself. “I have a pair of master’s mates that I can make into lieutenants, they’re ready,” he said. “But it will be up to you to make them sea officers.”
“I should be able to do that.”
“I am sure you will. Who is the officer you mentioned in the dispatch? The one who fought the captured whale ship?” Jones lifted one of the pages and looked at it approvingly. “Fought with grenadoes and stinkpots, by God. What was his name?”
“Curran.”
“Just so. A Marylander?”
“Virginian. His father was a diplomat.”
“Mnnn,” Jones hummed. “Is he the one you buried today?”
“No. He was wounded while in command. Probably the last man shot in the engagement. A rifle bullet struck him, went under his shoulder, and traveled right round his rib cage. Do you believe it?”
“Will he live?”
“It seems so. The surgeon has put him ashore.”
“He’s likely to become religious, that boy.”
“I would, too. The fact that he’s walking seems a miracle.”
“As was his escape from that corsair.” Jacob touched the report. “A close enough shave.”
“He is the first to say that he was lucky,” Pelles answered. “And it is better to be lucky than dead. He’s been given three weeks’ leave.”
“I wish someone would give me leave.” Jacob found a file. “I hate to talk about money, Art, especially when I am drinking, and especially when most of it is going to you and not me. Shall I get the matter of the prizes out of the way?”
“I would be obliged.”
“The cargo condemned, head money for the slaves, gun money—altogether a pretty penny. Pretty indeed. All the particulars are under the red cover.” Pelles squinted around. “The red one, you blind bastard, and the shares to be paid out on the top sheet.”
Pelles borrowed Jacob’s glasses and looked at the numbers.
“A fair afternoon’s work, by God,” Jacob said. And a pretty one for the commodore, too. As Enterprise was at least nominally under his orders, Jacob’s own share of the prizes was definitely enough to pay for lunch.
“We earned it,” Pelles said. “Seventeen killed aboard Enterprise, and three aboard Yunis. A score of wounded.”
“Twenty lives for two enemies taken, one sunk, and one left burning. You’ve done shrewdly, Arthur. If you’d lost a hundred men, Crowninshield would strike you off a medal. The Secretary does love the blood of sailors.”
Pelles tossed the file on the desk. He suddenly felt tired.
“I’ve bought Courier into the service,” Jacob said. “I can always use gun brigs, and her French owners were happy to part with her. I intend to put her to sea at once. Would you like to give command to the young officer who brought her in?”
“Fentress? No, I would like to place Kim Erskine in her, my exec. He’s lost an arm and is due his step. Fentress may be kept on as his number one.”
“Done.”
There was a rap on the door, and the commodore’s chief of staff stepped in. He was the same man-child Pelles had seen on the quarterdeck. “Captain Mullins’ duty, Commodore. The political gent has sent his apologies. He is unaccommodated today, pleading the flux, and hopes it will be convenient to wait upon you in the morning.”
“That will be excellent, Mister Kidd. Thank you.”
The officer ducked out.
“Tell me, how old is that child?”
“I will not oppress you with numbers. He was the youngest lieutenant in the fleet, and then a commander in two years.”
“His father is a congressman?”
“A senator.”
“It is a different sort of Navy, Jacob.”
“No it’s not. Another beer?” By some hidden signal the pantry was alerted, a new bottle of beer appeared, and a rattling of crockery announced the imminent arrival of dinner. The cabin door opened and in came a silver platter carried by two men. The dome was lifted on a mound of saffron-colored rice that would have fed a half a dozen commodores. It was studded with mussels, bits of chorizo, fish, chicken, and whole langoustines.
“Capital. The prawns alone are the glory of the world. They were milling about at a hundred fathoms just last night.” Jacob made a gesture for the stewards to serve and he walked over to the mess table.
“You will give yourself the gout, Jacob.”
“We can’t all be lean sea wolves, Art. We can’t all sleep on wool blankets in wet peacoats. And a certain amount of sizzle does impress the natives.” Jacob tucked his napkin under his chin. “In bocca al lupo.”
Pelles drew at his beer. “Cin cin.”
When the stewards retired, Jacob said, “Eat while you can, Art. There will soon be enough gun smoke to go around.”
“Tell me about the cannon,” Pelles said. “Who gave the Dey of Bou Regreg such prodigious guns?”
“The 42s were Portuguese, as you discerned. Delivered by that slippery bastard you shot the rocket over. It was thought originally that the Portuguese gave the Dey of Bou Regreg four guns, but our Sicilian allies . . . ”
“Allies? The shits.”
“Our esteemed friends, and allies, Captain Pelles, have confirmed that the actual number is six. Six guns were delivered to the Dey of Bou Regreg.”
“And pray, how would the Sicilians know this?”
“Those remarkable carriages you reported—”
Pelles frowned. “The armored pivots? Infernal bits of equipment.”
“They did not spring from the genius of the Arab corsair. They were a gift from His Majesty Ferdinand, King of the Two Sicilys. He gave them, gratis and for nothing, to the dey.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Peace be upon him,” Jacob smiled.
“Is there not one upright man in the entire continent of Europe?”
“You should have been a philosopher, Art. This is about money, which makes it about politics, and politics will always find an outlet in war. Ferdinand of Sicily has a merchant fleet and no way to protect it. He can’t even protect his fishing boats, for that matter. Last year the Sallees kidnapped two hundred of his fishermen during the run of tunny. Snatched them up in sight of shore—right in front of their families. They are presently slaves at Arzeou—that means he pays. Portugal has African slaves to ship to Brazil, a very lucrative industry, and the Portuguese have only the stub of a navy to uphold the trade. That means they pay. In guns.”
Pelles tried not to look appalled.
Jacob continued with his mouth full, “It is not all the end of the world. Their six guns will not make them bring on the Apocalypse. You sank two of them when you sank Ar R’ad, and two were put aboard McKendrie Evans, which they now call Um Qasim. Your young prodigy blackened their eye, and likely those two guns will have to put in and refit before they can serve again.” Jacob chewed thoughtfully, his jaw clicking. “The question is, where is the other pair of guns?”
“Now I have an interesting story,” Pelles said. “They are in the Med.”
Jacob blotted his mouth with his napkin and then looked at it. “I don’t think so.”
“They were delivered to Bou Regreg and hauled north toward Cape Spatal.”
“How do you know that?”
“Not only is Mister Curran a dashing naval commander, he is fluent in Turkish and the Arabic. Since he has been at leisure due to his wound, he has had occasion to reexamine the papers captured when we took Ar R’ad. He found within them several coded documents that yielded to his cryptological skills. They revealed that two of the guns were the property of the Bashaw of Arzeou.”
“Another damn pirate?”
“The bashaw is nominally a sovereign prince under the Ottoman sultan. The bashaw rules a voracious little city-state on the Baie des Andaluces on the Barbary Coast.”
“Why have I not heard of this place?” asked Jones.
“It is a Shia emirate, like Bou Regreg. Until now they have been content to operate in obscurity. They have preyed mostly on the coastwise trade of their neighbors, and exacted tolls from the caravans and pilgrims that pass through the Wadi Misserghin.”
“They prey on their own?”
“Not quite their own. As you know, the Shiites do occasionally find themselves at odds with their more orthodox Sunnite brothers.”
“I scarcely care for my own religion, Art.”
“But you care about war and money, so listen.” Pelles cracked a tail off one of the langostines and continued, “The bashaw is entered into a secret agreement to condemn and sell the prizes taken by the Dey of Bou Regreg. They are after all both Shiites, and regardless of how other Muslims feel about heretics, their hatred for infidels is far more violent. Bou Regreg and Arzeou have made a secret treaty to cruise on us and a few other far-off, weak-willed countries. In return for that privilege, the Bashaw of Arzeou is to outfit his own ships and also raid our commerce.”
“How very ambitious. But there is 1,500 miles of desert between Bou Regreg and Arzeou. The Spanish closely watch the port of Tangiers, and they have a well-developed network of spies. They would have not let the guns be exported.”
“Who knows what the Spanish would allow? Any gate, the dey’s gunners did not even reach Tangiers. They put the cannon across the beach at Diasra.”
“How could they get 42-pound guns across a sandy beach? Flying carpets?”
“Palm mats, Jacob. Woven palm mats. The same way we get field guns ashore. Off Diasra, the guns were put into the hold of a Russian ship and covered with grain. The Spanish boarded her in the strait but did not find the cannon. The Russian put into Arzeou three days ago.”
“You amaze me.”
Pelles lifted his glass. “I should.”
“Then I am no longer left to wonder why Um Qasim did not try for the open ocean. After your xebec set her afire, I thought they would run back through the strait.”
“Didn’t they?”
“No. Um Qasim, formerly McKendrie Evans, put into Arzeou. Her captain, we understand, was killed in the engagement, so the bashaw was left to express his displeasure to the officers and gun captains by decapitating one-third of their number.”
“Good for the bashaw. May he kill all his sailors until he has none left.”
“Frigate captains are a glut on the market—at least ones who used to work for Napoleon.” Jacob poured beer for them both. “The bashaw has hired Gaston de Puys, a French renegado, and he is scheduled to take Um Qasim back out after they refit.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Penniman aboard USS Torch has them penned up in the harbor.”
“Not Bob Penniman?
“August Penniman, his son.”
“Is he also a doorknob?
“He is much like his father. Young Mister Penniman has the personality and brains of a terrier, but that qualifies him to bottle up a harbor. I am sure he will continue to do so with great zeal. Please pass the catsup.”
“And what will young Mister Penniman do, in a sloop, should Um Qasim put to sea?”
“His instructions are to run like hell. Any gate, that ship will not be a factor for several weeks, and if she does come out, Penniman has the sense to lay off her quarter, as you did with Ar R’ad.” The commodore pushed his plate away with a thumb. “If Um Qasim does come out, we will know it. I have no doubt that Enterprise and Constitution will put an end to the bashaw’s capers.”
“They secretly moved the guns once,” Pelles said. “They might move them again.”
“I am certain they will—and they will put them to sea as fast as ever they can. With Bonaparte out of business, French officers are not the only things on sale. Now I shall surprise you: there is an ex-imperial frigate that the Bashaw of Arzeou has purchased from the Cretans.”
“What ship?”
“Le Combattant, 28 guns, what might be called a sixth-rate, but a handy little craft. She kept herself out of the way of the Royal Navy, and there was a squadron out looking for her in the Adriatic. They never caught a whiff. After the Hundred Days, she put into Crete and surrendered. The Cretans kept her in ordinary and have recently offered to sell her to the Greeks as a fireship. The bashaw had alert people about, and they snapped her up. She is anchored in Trachilos.”
“Just so.”
“I am going to take Constitution to Crete and find the frigate. If they have put to sea, I will sink them. If she is docked or careened or pierside, I will burn her in the stocks.”
“And you would have me mother convoys in the meantime?”
“Not you. I will deploy Ontario and Courier to do that,” Jacob said. “You are to stay at Cartagena, or near here. We can convoy to hell and back, but the root problem is that our ships are being attacked. I intend to deny the enemy his weapons. As long as Um Qasim remains in Arzeou I am happy. As soon as I can sink Le Combattant, the corsairs cannot put their guns into her.”
“You are a strategical guy, Jacob.”
“I am very highly thought of, even by myself.”
Pelles sipped his beer. “I’m sure it has occurred to you that they might take the guns out of Um Qasim and put them in some other ship. No matter how industrious Enterprise is, I will not be able to search every likely ship off the coast of Arzeou.”
Jacob rolled a crumb against the tablecloth. “And there is the rub. You may patrol, but we cannot impose anything that looks like a blockade, and some of the merchants are damn touchy, particularly the English. But with you positioned in the east we will have a deterrent force. At present the strait is the only point of vulnerability. With Enterprise perched here and Um Qasim repairing, I do not expect you will have much to do until I get back.”
“Brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
Pelles finished his beer. “You have covered almost everything, Jacob—all that is interesting and tactical. May I ask you about an administrative issue?” Jacob cocked his head. “You read the letter I sent to the Navy Department?”
“What of it?” Jacob asked.
“Nolan.”
The commodore narrowed his eyes. “The old Iron Mask. How is he?”
“Older. He is forty, but he looks sixty.”
“Hmm.”
“He fought a division of guns when we took Ar R’ad.”
“That is commendable,” Jacob said flatly.
“It was more than commendable, Jacob. It was brave and resolute. It was above and beyond the call. And now he has brought in Yunis after Curran fell wounded. He navigated her himself—made as pretty a landfall as you’d care to see.”
“I am happy for him.”
“He owes the United States no obligations, Jacob. He could have taken the ship and sailed it into Algiers. He would have made himself rich.”
“Do you want me to congratulate him for not turning Turk?”
Pelles fixed his eyes on his friend. “Did you forward my letter?”
“I did.”
“Did you add an endorsement?”
Jacob leaned back in his chair. “I forwarded it, Art.”
“You are not as brave as I remember you.”
“I am not. Nolan’s confinement is a political matter, not a naval one. I have enough to do.”
“Nolan does not deserve to be held any longer.”
Jacob folded his hands behind his plate. “How do you know?”
“I saw what he did on the deck of Enterprise.”
“And how do we know what he did with Burr? How do we know what else he did with Wilkinson, or any of those other traitors?”
“It is ancient history.” Pelles said flatly.
“Were they traitors?” Jacob asked.
“Jacob . . . ”
“Yes or no?” Jacob insisted. “Were they traitors?”
“Burr certainly was,” Pelles admitted.
“And Nolan was a conspirator.”
“How grand you make him sound. He was a lieutenant then.”
“So were you, Art. So was I. But we had nothing to do with Aaron Burr.”
Pelles was not used to contradiction. “Wilkinson, Jackson, and Dayton, just to name a few. They knew Burr, they certainly knew what he was up to, and they walked free. Hell, that rascal Jackson may even run for president.”
“Soldiers,” Jacob sniffed. “Though I will grant you Wilkinson was truly a shit.”
“What about Commodore Truxton?” Pelles retorted. “He corresponded with Burr, did he not?”
“Truxton did not leave his post,” Jacob said.
In their thirty-year friendship, Arthur Pelles and Jacob Jones had never had an angry word. Silence strained them both.
“I don’t think Nolan should be held any longer,” Pelles said. “If the decision is that he should be imprisoned forever, then I no longer want to be his keeper.”
“Art, this is a political matter. Nolan’s crimes were political. We are in the Navy. We’re not politicians.”
Pelles stood. “Perhaps you have become one, Jacob.”
“Maybe I have.”
Pelles went to the chart table and picked up his hat. “Tell me something, Jacob. What if they decided to do this to you? Make you disappear? What if they didn’t like your politics?”
Jones considered his friend for a moment and then said quietly, “Let this go, Arthur. If you ever want to hoist your own pennant, do not write another letter.”
“I will never hoist a pennant, Jacob. And I am happy to command a frigate.” Pelles put on his hat and looked at himself in the quarter galley’s small mirror. “Thank you for luncheon, Commodore Jones,” Pelles said. “And thank you for sharing your plans.” He walked to the cabin door, paused for a moment, and then passed through it.
Jacob sat alone in the cabin. The silence was just permeable enough to admit the sounds of his friend’s departure—the trill of the pipe and the tramp of Marines presenting arms. Then the ship’s bell tolled out two double strokes and through the skylight came the bo’sun’s strong, clear voice from the quarterdeck: “Enterprise departing.”
AFTER A FEW TENSE DAYS CURRAN WAS DECLARED OUT OF IMMEDIATE DANGER. Pneumonia following a chest wound was to be feared, though, and when Curran was well enough to be moved he was taken from Enterprise’s sickbay and put up at the villa of the Conde Desagoado, a rambling stone-and-stucco affair overlooking the Puerto de Escombreras. The hidalgo was not wealthy, and Darby had rented the sunny, windswept place for Yunis’ wounded to convalesce. The clean, pleasant air and of course liberal amounts of beechwood-aged lager soon did their work, and after two weeks Curran and the others were coming along as well as any physician could hope.
As he mended, Curran read through a pile of the hidalgo’s newspapers: French, Spanish, and Italian mostly, with a few issues of The Times of London. On the Hellenic peninsula, Greek nationalists, encouraged by romantic Englishmen, had risen against the Ottoman Empire. Spain’s overseas colonies were slipping away, and Peru and Chile were battling one another. Napoleon, long dead and buried at St. Helena, was reported by the Gazzata di Parma to be alive and at the head of an army in Brazil. There were wars and rumors of war and calamities in diverse places. A comet was seen twisting over the polar sea, and a whale ship in the southern ocean reported hearing a blast like the trumpets of Armageddon.
From Constitution, Darby brought up American papers, the packet press, and among them were a few of the weekly magazines from Washington and New York. Curran read that Secretary of State Henry Clay had challenged Senator John Randolph to fight a duel in Arlington, Virginia. Both of the political gentlemen managed to miss each other after firing four shots: one wide, one low, and two into the air. In the Pilot and Ledger, Curran scanned a dozen less stirring pieces. Thomas Jefferson, greatly encumbered by debt, had asked for permission to raffle off some of his property; this was followed by an informative article claiming to prove, once and for certain, that the tomato was a nonpoisonous fruit. These stories were punctuated with fascinating splashes of advertising, an annoyance to ordinary readers but a treat for sailors halfway around the globe. Between advertisements for Daffy’s Elixir and Doctor Morse’s Beet Root Bolus was a small, black-bordered column that struck Curran like a blow.
The Loss of the U. S. Brig Epevier
No Survivors
Last Seen at Cádiz
Curran felt a sickening pang. In his mind, a voice instantly said, No, it is not possible. Had he not just left that ship six months ago? Had he not shaken hands all around the quarterdeck as he took his leave? The words seemed to expand on the paper, and he felt his stomach turn: “The melancholy news is received that the sloop-of-war Epevier, 18 guns, under the command of Captain John T. Gormly, is confirmed lost by the Department of the Navy at Washington. Epevier carried seven officers and a crew of 123 sailors as well as a detachment of United States Marines.”
Every man aboard was known to Curran, all had been shipmates and many his friends. The words “no survivors” flickered up again at him from the page. It must be hyperbole, vile sensationalist exaltation, and it made Curran dizzy with woe and anger. Epevier had put him ashore at Cádiz, he had watched the men sail away, and it was sickening for him to think that he might have been the last man to see any of them alive.
Epevier had detached from the Atlantic Squadron and was expected at Newport in the last week of March. Confirming the loss was the testimony of the master of the trading brig L’Aimable Louise of Collioure. That ship, sailing in proximity to Epevier, encountered a heavy gale off the Grand Banks. The brig’s master witnessed the foundering of Epevier in a blizzard on the evening of February 27. Dismasted in that same storm, L’Aimable Louise managed with great difficulty to make Halifax to report the calamity.
Horror-struck, Curran tried repeatedly to dismiss the story, but he had been aboard Epevier in a gale. She had been a spirited ship, a runner, but inclined to gripe in a heavy sea—she might easily have succumbed in a North Atlantic gale. Curran remembered a passage aboard President when he was a youngster, the first time he had stood in terror of the sea. On a lashing night, President, every inch as big as Enterprise, had plunged into a valley between two monstrous waves; her stern had been lifted and her bow pressed down as she took a wicked lurch. Green water had surged aft, a wall of it that quickly filled the ship to the waist, stopping her dead and snap-rolling all of her two hundred feet on her beam ends. Curran had been forward, alone, and remembered the terror he’d felt when he had been snatched off his feet and had tumbled upside down. By a flat miracle his fist had clamped onto a stray line, and as he had held on he had been turned over and over, never knowing if he had stayed with the ship or had been cast over the bulwark.
Epevier had faced a similar storm; but she was a sloop, not a frigate. In such a gale, Curran could easily imagine a port lid coming loose or a hatchway caving in. Aboard Epevier, the chain pumps were directly across from the midshipmen’s berth. The main pipe, number one, had transected his own bunk.
The ship was gone, but for a long time Curran could not believe anything could possibly have killed Mister Morell, the gunner. That bear of a man who had taught him not only gunnery but how to reef, steer, and splice. Curran had seen Morell swim after men gone overboard, an indefatigable marine animal if there ever was one, and Curran’s patient mentor. But no man could ever survive overboard in a Grand Banks gale. They were gone—Captain Gormly and the exec, Mister Club. Tommy, Murph, and Vince: his friends and messmates. Curran knew it was only mere a quiddity that had saved him. Had Captain Gormly not endorsed his orders, transferring him directly to Enterprise, Curran, too, would have perished. He had been spared from eternity by the jot of a pen.
DARBY ANNOUNCED AT THE END OF JUNE THAT CURRAN MIGHT REJOIN ENTERPRISE. Curran returned to the harbor, surprised to find the frigate no longer anchored in the roads but tied up to the principal pier at the Tarcanal. Instead of a boat ride he had only to debark from the coach at the foot of the pier. He was even more pleased to find Fancher standing duty on the quarterdeck, resplendent in the uniform not of a midshipman but of a newly made lieutenant. Curran saluted the colors as he came up the gangway. “Permission to come aboard?”
“Permission granted.” Fancher smiled. “Welcome aboard, shipmate.” As if Fancher’s smile weren’t enough, Curran was soon surrounded by men welcoming him with winks and claps on the back. “Tell ’im, sir,” Padeen said to Fancher. Kanoa nodded. “He oughta know.”
“Know what?” Curran looked about. There were a score of sailors and Marines smiling at him from all over the deck. They were joined by a dozen more peering out of hatches and companionways. “What’s going on?”
“You are the new exec, Mister Curran,” Fancher smiled.
Curran shook his head. How could that be possible? When he went to hospital ashore he had been the ship’s most junior lieutenant.
“You’ve been kicked upstairs, Mister C,” Padeen said. “Congratulations.”
It was true. Commodore Jones had made a series of transfers, some made necessary by Enterprise’s losses, others made possible by her captures. Aside from Fancher, Doctor Darby was presently the only other officer aboard; the rest of Enterprise’s wardroom was now scattered about the harbor on other duties and new assignments. In sickbay, between personal questions, pokes, taps, and the examination of Curran’s tongue, Darby explained as best he could.
“The captain is ashore, of course, as there is an opera to be seen. Though he is aboard most nights—well, at least for supper. He has generally been in a merry, even jovial mood. Please turn your head and cough.”
Curran complied. “Where is everyone else?”
“If by ‘else’ you mean our former messmates, they are scattered. Before he left, Commodore Jones made several transfers. Our good friend Mister Erskine has been given command of Courier, bought into the Navy and newly christened USS Seafox.”
“Excellent, he will be a capital commander,” Curran said. The transfer meant also that Erskine had been promoted to master commandant, the next waypoint to the rank of captain and a lifelong sinecure. “How was Seafox armed?” Curran asked. Courier had been practically without guns when she was taken.
“Constitution, that commodious vessel, carried nearly twenty carronades in her hold. Guns as ballast! Sixteen of these were put aboard Seafox. She has become a very warlike ship.”
And maybe a bit overarmed, Curran thought. With sixteen guns, she would be a ship to be reckoned with.
“The carronades are her bite,” Darby said, “Fentress went with Mister Erskine as his exec. He is the bark, I believe you’d say.” Darby chuckled to himself, “Seafox, bark and bite. I am a wit, I am.”
“Fentress as exec,” Curran smiled. “He is fit for it.”
“We are almost the only ones left. Mister Pybus, of course, continues as master.”
“I am delighted to hear it.” The master was one of the ship’s standing officers, like the gunner and purser, and their appointments were usually for the life of the vessel. Pybus knew the frigate better than anyone else aboard. He was a plank owner, had helped put Easy E into commission, and it was impossible for Curran to imagine the ship even floating without the redoubtable Pybus to conn and sail her.
“Your wound is doing admirably, but I must recommend a glass of lager.” Darby took down a pair of green jars from his cupboard and drew two pints from the tank and spigot on the bulkhead. “As you see, I have that noble antiscorbutic near at hand. I believe I have the only sickbay in the Navy that can serve out a salubrious draught.”
Curran took a sip and said, “What of Mister Ward? And I did not see Captain MacQuarrie when I came aboard.”
Darby looked at his beer. “Perhaps my own failures. Neither has thrived under my care, and I have invalided them both home.”
Curran drank the rest of his beer. It amazed and puzzled him that he had somehow become the most senior lieutenant aboard.
“Oh,” Darby said, “I forgot to mention, your hammock and kit have been moved into the exec’s cabin.” Darby clinked his mason jar against Curran’s. “We are now neighbors!”
After his agreeable beer Curran went down to the orlop. Aft of the cockpit, Curran knocked at Nolan’s cabin. There was no sentry on duty in the passageway, a change in condition ordered by Pelles when they had come back aboard from their cruise. Curran knocked again and pushed open the door. Nolan’s things were gone, the mattress was rolled up, and carpenters’ tools were piled on the deck. One of the frames overhead was being replaced.
Curran saw a lantern shine behind him. When he turned, he saw Padeen and Stephen Bannon edge-rolling a keg from the after hold. “Hullo, Mister C. Better gang way.”
“Padeen, where is Mister Nolan?”
“Why, transferred, sir.”
“Transferred? Where?”
“Just temporary like. Chips says he’s got to get at the knees here in this frame. Mister Nolan has repaired aboard Yunis, sir, moored outboard; got himself set up in the great cabin. Happy as a clam.”
From the cockpit, forward, came a stifled series of snorts punctuated occasionally by Nordhoff’s whooping laughter. Curran walked down the passageway and pulled back the curtain screening the midshipmen’s berth. When his face appeared, the occupants came to their feet, dodging the lantern over their mess table and stooping under the low ceiling. “Good evening, sir,” they said, pretty much at once. Their dirks, buttons, and side arms covered the table, as did a handful of rags and pots of polish. Curran was instantly suspicious. It was not often that the devil’s children did the Lord’s work.
“Carry on, gentlemen,” Curran said. They dropped back into their cramped seats. The smell of shiny brass wafted through the stagnant air. “What are you about?”
“Why, we are shining our brass, sir,” said Hall.
Curran saw that in addition to a pair of brushed coats, clean linen and collars had been piled atop their cruise boxes. “You are shining buttons of your own initiative?”
“Why yes, sir,” Nordhoff said. “We’ll be on display come Friday. Inspection, in course, and then the ball, sir. The dancing.”
“What dancing, Mister Nordhoff?”
“Why, it’s the Fourth of July, sir. And there is to be an open house of the ship. Dignitaries and Spanish dons.”
“Ladies too, sir,” Hall enthused. “Spanish ladies, like in the song.”
“I see.” Curran had almost forgotten. That explained the paint stages over the side and the work aloft, as well as the industrious scrubbing by both watches. As he came aboard he had noticed that the painting and swabbing were being undertaken with a degree of enthusiasm rare for a ship in port.
“All right, gentlemen. I must say your zeal impresses me.” Curran started away, but Hall called after him.
“And give us joy, sir!”
“Of what, Mister Hall?”
“Why sir,” the boy said, almost blushing, “Nordhoff and me, we were both made master’s mates by the Old Mo—”
“Captain Pelles, sir,” Nordhoff said quickly. “Skipper’s orders, sir. We are both rated master’s mates.”
“Oh, my God,” Curran said.
CAPTAIN PELLES RETURNED ABOARD FOR DINNER RATHER THAN SUPPER, catching the working parties hard at it. As Enterprise was pierside they did not have the usual warning of the approach of the captain’s gig, and it took several minutes, much to Fancher’s mortification, for the Marines to form, the bo’sun of the watch to be found, and for the captain to be piped aboard. Pelles took no notice; a French company was playing Valentine de Milan at the opera house, the contralto was of long acquaintance, and he had spent a marvelous night ashore. Fancher made a furious gesture as the bo’sun pattered up. While he waited for the ceremony of his own arrival, Pelles looked about. The yards had been reblackened, and the topmen were aloft painting the trestletrees with rapid strokes. Finally the Marines presented arms and the pipe warbled. Absorbed by the work aloft, the captain was almost surprised when the bell rang and Fancher said formally: “Enterprise arriving.”
Pelles, pretending he had just magically appeared, returned the officer’s salute. “Is Mister Curran returned to duty?”
“I am here, sir,” Curran said, coming up the ladder.
“Ah, the lion of the sea returneth. Are you recovered, sir?”
“Yes, sir. I am feeling prime.” It was mostly true.
“Excellent,” Pelles said. “Outstanding. You will please join me in my cabin in five minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Curran saluted.
“And Mister Fancher?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“A gull has shit on your hat.”
THE CAPTAIN’S CABIN HAD BEEN SPARED THE SHAMBLES OF THE GENERAL OVER haul, as it was usually kept in a pristine condition. “Mister Curran, please come in.”
Pelles was in the quarter galley, stepping backward to allow Grimble to pour a pitcher of hot water into his shaving basin. Curran watched as the captain slipped out of his coat and pulled his shirt off over his head. He noticed that in addition to the loss of his arm, Pelles had a small, circular scar in his right shoulder: a bullet wound.
“I can come back, sir,” Curran said, “when you’ve finished shaving.”
“When I finish shaving I am going ashore. Come in. Sit down.” Pelles splashed water on his face, and his shaving brush clinked into a mug of soap. Using the fingers of his right hand, Pelles scraped the razor over his cheek, dipped it into the basin, then flicked his wrist so that a facecloth flipped over the blade, blotting it dry. This was the sleight-of-hand necessary for a one-armed man to shave his own face. Curran stared in genuine amazement, then remembered himself.
“Sir, I want to thank you for my—”
Pelles rapped the razor against the basin. “Don’t thank me. You earned the opportunity. Now you must keep the job.” Pelles’ tone was not gruff, but rather the opposite. He seemed to have descended from the Olympian heights. As he watched the captain ply his razor, it occurred to Curran that he had only been in the captain’s cabin on two occasions. He would now become a frequent guest.
Pelles scraped away. “I think you are acquainted with the manner in which I expect the ship to be run.”
“I believe so, sir.”
Pelles made a face into the mirror. “I will be sleeping out of the ship for the next two or three nights. I have taken a room at the Rialto. You will notify me immediately, night or day, of any incident, accident, explosion, fire, grounding, or material casualty to the ship.” Pelles flipped his wrist; the towel went round, he rinsed the blade and started on the other side of his jaw. “I am to be informed if there is a message, dispatch, or order, coded or plain, from the fleet, squadron, embassy, or the Department of the Navy. You may consult the ship’s standing orders if you are compelled to act in my absence.”
“Yes, sir.”
The razor dropped into the bowl with a clang. Pelles felt behind the door, located a towel, and dabbed at his face. This was the signal for Grimble to advance with a clean shirt. “We have received aboard three new officers. Mister Easton will relieve you as navigator, but you will remain responsible for the custody of Mister Nolan.”
“May I ask, sir, are the new officers aware of the circumstances of Nolan’s sentence?”
“They are not. You will tell them.”
Pelles tucked in his shirt and was handed his stock. Curran watched in admiration as he wound it around his throat and then tied it with one hand. “Mister Ruggles and Mister Easton are hatched from the commodore’s own followers. I do not know them, but I know Jacob Jones, and I think you will find them right seamen. It will be your job to inform them how I like things done.” Pelles checked his reflection in the mirror and bared his teeth for inspection. “I have promoted Nordhoff and Hall to master’s mates.”
“They told me, sir. They were overjoyed.”
“I hope that their enthusiasm may not recoil on us.”
Curran remembered the boy standing alone at Yunis’ helm when the corsairs tried to take her back, and his steady, firm conduct when cast overboard with Vanhall. “Nordhoff is game, sir,” Curran said. “I was most satisfied with his conduct aboard Yunis.”
“And that has counterbalanced the fact that he is a menace to navigation. A few months sweating over the celestial tables will bring them both to their duty. See that they do not tax Mister Pybus overmuch. He is a genial soul, but I know not how far he might be pushed should they spill catsup on his charts.”
“Yes, sir. May I ask where the rest of the squadron has gone?”
“You may not. I will say only that the commodore has ordered us to remain here showing the flag, and that accords us an opportunity to put on the dog for the Fourth of July. The ambassador and his retinue will come down from Madrid to help us celebrate. I understand our envoy is bringing with him some sort of duke or prince, or someone whose birth entitles him to a job. Our orders are to impress the natives. That will include a twenty-one-gun salute and an open house for the ship. I want everything two-blocked, Mister Curran, everything squared away. This is on my head, which means I will have yours if anything goes awry.”
“Squared away, sir.”
“Two-blocked,” the captain said with a trace of smile. Pelles gave some other orders relevant to the celebrations—times for meetings and specific evolutions he wanted performed. “If you have a question, you need only ask yourself, how would Erskine have handled this? You will not go far wrong if you act accordingly.”
DUTY KEPT CURRAN IN THE TRACES UNTIL SIX BELLS IN THE EVENING WATCH. He found that his work expanded to fill the available time, and that the arrangements for the celebration were proving every bit as complex as planning for a fleet engagement. The precise cleaning of the ship was nothing new, even carried to the ridiculous extremes taken by sailors when they are to show their ship to landsmen. More complex by far was the coordination of the firing of the salutes (nineteen for the duke and his entourage, fifteen guns for the envoy, and five for the vice consul); this in addition to the exhibition of flares and rockets (in lieu of fireworks) that would compose the grand finale, which included another twenty-one guns to mark the day. The firing of naval ordnance was always an occasion for potential mishap, and though it was frequently undertaken in the face of the enemy, the practice was not often conducted with a deck full of gaping civilians. At the end of the day Curran staggered to his new cabin forward on the starboard side, only to find that it had been partially dismantled. Parked in the space he would have slung his hammock was the bulk of a 24-pound gun and the several wrought iron racks that would be used to fire the rockets. Curran was not too tired to remember that Yunis was still alongside and that his former cabin was grander even than Enterprise’s first starboard.
Taking a clean shirt, he went forward to the quarterdeck. Outboard of Enterprise, Yunis was moored head and stern. Her lateens had been struck on deck for a coat of pitch, and her decks were, by that necessity, covered with lines, spars, lumber, and sawhorses. Piled aboard her as well was everything not being immediately used to titivate Enterprise: ladders, stages, heaps of drying hammocks, strings of laundry, and parts of gun carriages. Being a humble native craft, Yunis would have always come off” badly in comparison with the frigate, but now, pressed into service as a paint punt, she looked very shabby indeed.
Curran went down the ladder onto Yunis’ main deck. Here, his former command showed to even less flattering advantage. The sides, masts, and yards of the frigate towered above, pristine and exact geometry. There was a Marine posted at Yunis’ gangway, a dark blur in the glow of a lantern. “Good evening, sir,” the sentry said automatically, presenting arms.
Curran touched his hat. “Good Evening, Gerrity. I will be sleeping aboard if I should be wanted.”
“Very good, sir.” The sentry was the only sign that marked the xebec as a naval concern. When Yunis came into the harbor she had worn the Stars and Stripes over the three crescents. She showed nothing aloft now, not even the partique, and to Curran’s eye she seemed to droop for shame. Courier had been bought in and rechristened as a United States ship, but Yunis, too exotic or too humble, had not been deemed worthy of the honor.
As Curran started toward the hatch the sentry called out, “You’d better take along a glim, sir. It’s black as hell down there.”
Black it was, and perplexing as well; the ladders and passages were strewn with sawhorses and chunks of lumber, many of them diabolically placed at the perfect height to bark a shin. It took resolve as well as memory for Curran to feel his way down and aft toward the great cabin. The ship that had been so crammed with people, so alive with sounds and sights and smells, was now a dark blank to ear and eye. Carrying his light, he found his way through the peculiar maze of cuddies and compartments that fronted the great cabin. In the solemn darkness Curran could not help but be reminded of Epevier, now sunk and dead at the bottom of the sea.
Ahead he could see a light, and a door was open; in the great cabin, Nolan was crouched over the small desk. He had a trio of lanterns before him, putting down a concentrated pool of brightness. As Curran approached he could hear the soft crinkle of paper as Nolan’s hand lifted into and out of the light; he was sewing.
“Shipmate,” Curran said, stepping over the threshold.
Nolan squinted up from the lantern, blinking from it. “Hello, friend,” he said, coming to his feet. “Mind your step. I have made a mess of the cabin.”
There were bits of cloth and paper patterns scattered about, and Nolan gathered them up, smiling happily. “Let me make a place. Here. How are you?” Nolan hung one of the lanterns from a crossbeam and peered into Curran’s face—he seemed drawn and pale. “Did they not feed you in that place? You look like a sparrow!”
“I am much better.”
“Have you eaten? There is some manchego, that noble commodity, and even some soft tommy here somewhere.”
“Thank you. I had supper,” Curran said quietly.
“Ginger beer?”
“Yes,” Curran said. “I reckon I will.” Nolan poured it out and sat in the lamplight smiling, obviously glad for the company. Curran thought that Nolan looked careworn and older—he could not know that Nolan thought the same of him.
“I am paid out,” Curran said, falling into the chair behind the desk. “Tired as a saw.”
“It’s the crushing burden of command,” Nolan smiled. “Give you joy, sir, of your promotion.”
“Thank you, Philip. Thank you. I am pretty sure I didn’t deserve it.” Curran pried off his boots and let them fall to the deck. He fell into his hammock at once.
“Something is the matter,” Nolan said. “You’ve had bad news?”
Curran was too tired and heartsore to spin a story. He heard himself say, “Epevier was lost.”
“Your old ship? I am grieved to hear it.” Nolan was sitting at the table, his face turned toward the lantern. Almost a minute passed before he spoke. “How did it happen?”
“A gale, on the Grand Banks. A French brig saw her founder in a blizzard. There was no chance of lending assistance. The merchant was herself dismasted and made it only by the hardest effort into Halifax.”
“Were there survivors?”
“Not one.” Curran shook his head. After a moment he said bitterly, “What sort of God would smite a homebound ship?” Curran heard Nolan draw a breath and felt suddenly ashamed. “I am sorry. That was a selfish thing to say.”
“Not at all, friend,” Nolan answered. He had lost in his lifetime not a hundred friends or a thousand, not merely his ship but his country.
After a moment, Curran asked, “How do you stand it, Philip?”
Nolan was quiet for a long moment and then said, “If you were to ask me how to overcome grief, I would tell you that all of the business and all of the work done to distract oneself are perfectly useless. So are postures and attitudes; pretending not to care, which is obscene, or to profess not to hurt, which is simply false.
Nolan let a long moment pass, then said slowly, “Grief is an odd commodity. It is the only thing I know that is at once both dull and implacable. You can fight sorrow for a decade. You can stand up to it and think you have overcome it, face the hardest hours, and then some small thing will happen. You’ll see a cloud or hear a voice behind you—you’ll see a sunrise, and everything breaks down.”
Curran wondered at how long Nolan had been at sea with only grief as a shipmate. What a small, simple comfort it was to have a home—and what a cruel, wicked thing it was to have had it taken away.
Nolan put the lanterns out but left the glim flickering in a holder by the cabin door. Curran watched Nolan’s shadow move across the cabin floor and saw it stop by the stern lights. “I am very sorry about your friends. But I can tell you that the ache in your heart will pass. One can make an accommodation with grief. A truce. The more we have loved the more we grieve, and that is right. But it is wrong to surrender to regret.”
Curran had no answer. For a while he stared at Cádiz: a row of amber dots, and they seemed as far away as stars.
Nolan stood looking out across the harbor and the glittering band of water. “Sleep and dream,” said Nolan at last. “Tomorrow always comes for the brave.”