The Devil in Paradise--Captain Putnam in Hawaii

by James L. Haley

  “Yes. Originally it was to help him clear up some family difficulty, as I understand. Now he can’t wait to find his sea legs again.”

  “Where next for you, Jones?”

  “Mediterranean Squadron.” Jones grasped the rail and peered up the two hundred twenty feet of mainmast. “Several more months of fitting out, of course, after being in ordinary for a few years. You will find Hull on the receiving ship. He wanted his office there; he cannot be at sea, but at least in those surroundings he can close his eyes and imagine. Well, let us have the customary ceremony about this.” The bosun had known to station himself nearby, and at a wave from Jones barked an order. Work stopped as the sailors within earshot stood at attention and saluted, as the bosun took the silver whistle that hung about his neck and piped Bliven off the ship.

  The sailors in his gig rowed him over to the quay, which he ascended and then went up the gangplank to the roofed-over receiving hulk. He was announced and straightaway shown into the inner warren at once. Even as Bliven saluted, Hull rose and advanced to him, his hand extended. “Captain Putnam! Putnam, it is good to see you.”

  “Commodore, it is good to see you also. You look well.”

  “Come, sit, sit. The report that you sent from Mobile arrived safely. Congratulations on good hunting. Were you able to contain the leak that you reported?”

  “Yes, sir, our carpenter isolated it and was able to wall it off. Apparently there was some deformation in the hull planking. The copper will have to be removed before it can be repaired.”

  “Yes, we will see to it.” Hull took a deep breath. “Well, Mr. Putnam, there is something I must tell you.”

  “That is a remarkable coincidence, for there is something I must tell you also. You are senior, please continue.”

  The sloe-eyed Hull’s expression went cold. “I warn you, you are not going to like it, so I am going to give it to you straight as whiskey. I have new orders for you.”

  “No, not right away! Surely I have some time coming with my family.”

  Hull waved it off. “No, not right away. Your ship is going into dry dock. The leak will be found and repaired, and she will be re-coppered as may be required. You will have at least a couple of months with your family.”

  “Good.” That news at least made more palatable whatever the coming orders might be.

  Hull leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Mr. Putnam, this is how it is. Up until now our naval affairs have been largely concerned with protecting our primary trade routes—the Mediterranean, the North Atlantic, the Gulf, and the Caribbean.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, our country is now at a stage where we are discovering just how big the world is. Certain of our merchantmen have been venturing into the Pacific for some years now. They carry our goods away to trade for . . .” Hull’s voice trailed off as he thought for examples. “. . . pepper from the Indies, or they take on sandalwood from the Sandwich Islands, and sell it for silk and porcelain in Canton, which they bring home.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Our trade with Europe has been profitable, but that pales in comparison to the riches we might acquire by trading in the Pacific. However, our ship captains there have discovered, sometimes to their cost, that their trade may not be wanted. For instance, the king of the Sandwich Islands has granted trade advantages to England, to the detriment of other nations. Moreover, our trading vessels are learning that those waters are not any safer than the Mediterranean was twenty years ago, or the Caribbean now.”

  Bliven shifted in his chair. “That should hardly be a surprise.”

  “No, but it is not to be brooked. Mr. Putnam, we have received word that an American merchantman, the Fair Trader, Captain Saeger, out of Providence, was boarded and looted by Malay pirates in the Malacca Strait. The brigands then had the insolence to state that they let Captain Saeger and his crew live so they might harvest them now and then for more loot. Such insolence is not to be borne.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Now, the British, the French, and the Dutch have naval forces in the region, but they lack the instructions, not to say the disposition, to vindicate American honor in an area that they feel privileged to divide among themselves, to our exclusion.”

  “The Malacca Strait?”

  “Oh, that’s right. You are the geography student. There is British Malaya to the east, Dutch Sumatra to the west, the straits extend for three hundred miles, and in some places only twenty miles wide, lined with coves and islands for pirates to lurk in and pounce upon whatever low-in-the-water trading ship comes lumbering by.”

  “I see.”

  “A wooded gorge full of Iroquois Indians could not effect a better ambuscade.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Putnam, your orders will be to proceed to the Pacific. You will punish the pirates in the Malacca Strait and open that sea-lane for our ships, but also to benefit the ships of all nations. You will also show the flag in the various native ports. You already have experience in conveying American friendship, expressing the advantages of trade with us as well as other nations, even as your presence in a sloop of war will convey the cost of disrespecting us.”

  “Dear Lord. How long will I be gone?”

  Hull looked at him without speaking until Bliven’s gaze met his. “A minimum of two years; that is the worst news. The United States is establishing an agent and acting consul in the Sandwich Islands, where our trading ships have been calling for nearly forty years—not as many as the British or the French, but the natives know who we are, most certainly. Now, one of the Sandwich Islands is called”—Hull glanced down at a small leaf of notes—“O-wha-hoo, and there is a harbor and town there called Honoruru. You may have your mail directed to the American agent there.”

  “I apologize, Commodore, my mind is still beached on the idea that I will be gone for two years or more. How can I tell that to my wife, and my parents?”

  Hull breathed deeply. “Well, I doubt not that your farewells will be very affecting.”

  Bliven descended into a surly mumble. “So might my resignation, by God.”

  “What’s that, again?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Oh, that reminds me . . .” Hull rose and began fishing through his desk. “We had word of you when you touched at Mobile and Charleston, and knew you would be coming home, so we did not forward this. Ah, there it is.”

  Bliven took the letter from him and recognized Clarity’s hand in an instant. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, your orders will not issue officially until your ship is repaired and fitted out. So enjoy your time at home. You will receive half pay while off duty, of course, and I will keep you informed.”

  “I understand. Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, damn me, I nearly forgot: What was it you wanted to tell me?”

  Bliven had already risen and did not want to settle again. “Sir, may I trust in your confidence?”

  Hull grew suddenly concerned. “Yes, I hope so. What is it?”

  “I have heard you once bought a slave in order to free him. Can you tell me, please, if that is true?”

  Hull had also risen. “It is, although in full justice it had partly to do with resolving a labor dispute in a Navy Yard. But, yes, I bought him and manumitted him.”

  “Then perhaps you will not judge me too harshly, one Connecticut man to another. When I chased the slaver into the Bay of Pigs, he cast off a dinghy with nine Africans in it, thinking that I would leave off pursuit of him to rescue them. I pursued him, but turned back after he reached Spanish territorial waters. I returned and took the nine into my care on the Rappahannock. Later, after engaging the pirate brig and taking possession of the barkentine with a full cargo of slaves, I did not include the nine when I took that vessel into Mobile as a prize.”

  “That barkentine full of slaves intend
ed for market—you did turn them over to the Customs Service?”

  “Yes, sir, but the nine slaves that I took on board at the Bay of Pigs I did not turn over to the Customs Service. Relying upon my own judgment, I determined that conditions along the Gulf Coast have perverted the intent of the governing law.”

  “You mean that slavery ring with Lafitte and his American accomplices?”

  “I mean that precisely, sir, and in addition the customs officer in Mobile was a Southerner who I suspect had no qualms to send those slaves to the auction block. To turn over these nine that I had the power to save would have made me complicit in their operations, and this my conscience would not permit me to do.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Still on my ship. I have sent my first lieutenant ashore to find an influential and educated Negro that I know, to inquire whether he can take responsibility for them.”

  Hull nodded in thought. “I see.”

  “Nine luckless blacks I may be able to blend into Boston unnoticed,” Bliven urged. “An entire hold of slaves I could not. I regret their fate, but I could not see how to save them.”

  Hull thought for a long moment before he spoke. “Well, Putnam, we have come to a hell of a pass in this country when an officer of your character must take into consideration what section his fellow officers hail from in trying to act with honor. I will tell you what: You make your connection with the African gentleman you mention. If he can help you, get the nine off your ship and into his care fast as you can. You have already made your report to me, and I see no need for it to go any further. I imagine that no one above my level will know or care to know anything more of the matter.”

  Bliven extended his hand. “We are conspirators, then?”

  Hull took it. “That is a hell of a thing to have to be, but you and I can recognize that acting in honor has come to mean a different thing to an officer from the North than it does to an officer from the South.”

  “Yes.” Bliven nodded sadly. “And I fear that such considerations will become more convoluted as time goes by.”

  “Captain Edwards is in charge of the dry dock. He will inform you when he is ready for you, but it won’t be before four days’ time. Get those poor wretches off your ship. Once you’ve got her high and dry, Edwards will take over, and we will sign you out to go home and visit your family. It will look well, of course, for you to come and inspect the progress regularly.”

  4

  Helpless

  Five mornings later Ross knocked at the door of the captain’s cabin. “Enter,” called Bliven from his berth, rising from where he had been reclining and entering the great cabin.

  Ross entered, followed by a tall blond officer with raw and tightly drawn features. “Captain Edwards, sir,” announced Ross, “master of the graving dock.”

  They traded salutes. “Michael Edwards, sir. Good morning.” They shook hands. “We are ready for you. The tide will be at its height in midafternoon. It would be helpful to have you in position before then. Would that be satisfactory? Are you ready?”

  “Yes, quite.” Bliven found no need to tell him that his trunks and sea bag had been packed for two days, awaiting space in the dry dock. The nine black refugees in his sail room, his single great concern, had gotten safely off the ship. Miller had had no trouble locating Jonah. After depositing Bliven to meet with Hull, the crew of the captain’s gig had rowed him around the peninsula and into the Back Bay, which they crossed. He left them at a quay as he hired a carriage to take him the two miles north to Harvard College. He needed inquire no further, for Jonah spent as much of his day there as he could. As Jonah explained to Miller, construction of the new Mill Dam had obstructed much of the Charles River’s free flow, rendering Back Bay itself pestilential and stinking. He agreed to take the nine freed slaves off their hands, as Dakar had been the departure point for many in his community, some of whom he knew to speak the Wolof language. The first thing Bliven did after seeing them rowed away was to write to his parents that he would be home imminently. So, yes indeed, he was prepared for Edwards to get on with his duties. “What do you need for me to do?”

  “Not a thing, sir. You may think of the dry dock as your harbor, and I am the pilot. Once we get you to the entrance, my crew will take out your bowsprit so you will fit easier. You appear to be about one hundred thirty feet between perpendiculars. Is that close?”

  “Close? You have guessed it exactly. You have a practiced eye.”

  “Yes. What is your beam?”

  “Thirty-two feet maximum, with a twenty-foot draught.”

  Edwards nodded. “Good. It should be easy enough to center you over the keel blocks. Do you have the architect’s drawing plans?”

  “No,” Bliven said with some alarm. “She was built in Norfolk. Do you need them?”

  “Not urgently. It would be useful to know what angle of bilge blocks to use beneath you to support the ship and not place too much weight on any one point. But we will discover that as we draw the water down.”

  “Well, then, I just stay on board while you perform your tasks?”

  “Yes, sir, and once she is high and dry, you may disembark down a gangplank as relaxed as you please. Now, if you have never observed this procedure before—”

  “I have not.”

  “Well, let me advise you: no ship enjoys the dry dock. She will groan and growl as she settles down, but think of it as you going to the doctor. You may groan and growl, but you endure it because it is necessary for your health.”

  “I understand.”

  “She will come out the better for it.”

  With the authority and sure hand of a pilot, Edwards had his own crew weigh anchor and set the topgallants, giving Rappahannock just enough headway to inch toward the narrow entrance of the graving dock. There, with block and tackle, the bowsprit extension was unlashed and stored on the spar deck, and after that the bowsprit was withdrawn from its footing and laid next to the extension. Then high tide lines were stretched forward, she was winched into the slip, and the huge gate was closed behind her.

  Beams of equal length reached out to her port and starboard, centering her precisely over the keel blocks, and as the water withdrew, stout wooden stilts were braced under the hull, shorter as they approached the curve of her bottom, where finally a line of fat bilge blocks was placed under her.

  It was Evans Yeakel, the bosun, who saw Bliven to the gangplank, which seemed like the edge of a cliff, so shocking was the sight of no water beside them. He held up the whistle that never left the leather string around his neck. “Shall I pipe you off, sir?”

  “Ha! I think we can dispense with ceremony today.”

  “Do not worry, Captain: if any need arises I will send for you at once, and I will write you of the progress every few days.”

  “Very well. I leave her in your hands.” Bliven glanced about the spar deck, then up into the rigging. He had every confidence in Yeakel. Officers came and went as they scaled the ratline of rank and command and influence. Bosuns, customarily, stayed with a ship, almost marrying the vessel. After a few cruises and changes of command, no man knew her as well as the bosun, her needs and her moods, how to coax her. The same indeed was true of the bosun and the crew, and his position was indispensable as a buffer, often an intercessor, between the officers, who were gentlemen, and the enlisted men, who were drawn from the lower social classes. No officer doubted that bosuns deserved a higher rank than they held, but if they wore the gold lace of command, it would sacrifice their credibility, their point of identification, with the crew. A bosun had to be content with his station and the knowledgeable appreciation of his officers.

  Bliven hired a wagon to take his baggage to the stage depot, and he turned to regard Rappahannock in farewell. The sight alarmed him, even though he accepted that she was in good hands. There is something unnatural, something helpless, about a shi
p out of water. Whether powerful, or deadly, or capacious, or efficient, like a swan her beauty depends upon her being in the water. He saw Rappahannock supported on a very forest of spindly timbers that balanced her, held her up, and kept her from pitching onto her beam ends. To see her immobile, her big round belly exposed, was rather a shock, like seeing a large woman out of her corset for the first time. You might still love her, but you must see and acknowledge what she had been concealing.

  Mr. Strait’s stage line had long since passed away, replaced by others faster and more efficient. Public roads had begun to replace the private turnpikes, as there grew a popular clamor for internal improvements—canals most expensively, but straighter roads came in the bargain. In the two days, no longer three, it took to get home to Litchfield, it was impossible not to notice the changes also in the land. In the seventeen years since he first went to sea, the rural areas were even more thickly settled, farms crowded cheek by jowl as the landscape rolled by, forests confined to stream banks and hilltops. If firewood was dear before, it had become precious now, and Bliven told himself to make certain to provide for his parents before he departed for the Pacific—and how without imparting a shock could he tell them about that?

  Although the company was more commercial and impersonal, the road north from New Haven still passed by his very door, and he prevailed upon the driver to halt long enough to deposit him. His mother as was her custom flew out the door to him, and Clarity close behind, whom he held long and kissed tenderly.

  “Where is Father?”

  “He has not been all that well. He is in bed but wild to see you. Come in, my son, and welcome home.”

  They let him enter the bedroom alone and could hear the laughter of their reunion. When he emerged, Clarity took him by the hands. “Dearest, I have a little something for you, a homecoming gift, as it were. Come back to our room.” She pulled him through the hall and the keeping room, into the suite he had built on when they married.