A swarthy stowadore, sweating in the midday warmth, craned his head around, stepped up to a pass of decking along the keel, and advanced to ten feet from her. “Your pardon, madam. We are not used to feminine company down here. You must excuse our appearance.”
“I will, if you will excuse my intrusion.”
“How may we help you?”
“I wished merely to see that you have enough room for everything.”
“Yes, ma’am, allowing for some clever stowing.”
“And to have my trunks brought aboard. I will be taking passage.” Clarity surveyed the hold. “You are placing the heaviest beams lowest down, for ballast?”
“Bless you, ma’am, so we are. You have cargoed many ships, have you?”
“My husband is a sea captain. I have assimilated some rudimentary knowledge.”
The stowadore gestured into the hold. “I have loaded some unusual cargoes in my time, but this is the first time I have stowed an entire house, and a large, mighty house at that.”
“Yes, well, where we are going, it will be easier to reassemble one than to take our axes and commence to chopping trees down, you see.”
“Bound for the Sandwich Islands, as I hear.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if the winters in the tropics are as hard frozen as they are in New England, you will be well prepared.”
Clarity straightened. “But we will repent our plan as we roast under the sun, if I take your meaning?”
The stowadore cocked his head to the side. “Oh, no, ma’am, not at all.”
“Well, we shall see.”
“You have chosen your vessel well. Captain Blanchard has made the voyage twice and not lost a stick of cargo.” He gestured back to the hold to recover any offense he had given. “As you will see, we laid the sills and the joists on the bottom, alongside the keel, with the ironwork, and then the millwork in the open spaces. We saved the clapboards for last; they are the greatest amount of lumber. We will lay them athwart the heavier beams, and that will make you a kind of decking on which to store your personal belongings and such like.”
“Clever man. I thank you for your trouble.” She turned to ascend the ladder and he reached out to help her up. “No need,” she said. “Thank you.”
At the head of the ladder she encountered a middle-aged man, barrel chested and bearded, his whiskers ample but carefully shaved down the cheeks to shape his face. “I was not aware that we had taken on additional labor. Have you registered at the office, that you may collect your wages?”
Once Clarity mounted the last step of the ladder, she squared herself. “You have the manner of a captain.”
He removed his cap to reveal a shock of graying auburn hair. “Andrew Henri Blanchard,” he said, pronouncing his middle name in the fullest French manner. “Master of the brig Thaddeus.”
“I am Clarity Putnam. I will be one of your passengers.” She held out her hand, and he took it.
“May I come aboard?”
Blanchard turned to see Bliven standing at the boarding gate. “Come aboard and welcome, sir.”
“Captain Blanchard, may I present my husband, Captain Putnam, United States Navy?”
“Oh, I have heard of you.” He advanced several steps, holding out his hand. “Welcome indeed. It will be a pleasure to have your company on such a long voyage.”
They shook hands. “Thank you, Captain, but I shall not be accompanying her, as my wife’s business is quite urgent. I shall follow in my own ship when the repairs are done.”
“Oh?” Blanchard’s face fell. “I am sorry to hear you will not be with us. Ha! But I do see you casting your gaze about. She is eighty-five and one half feet between perpendiculars, twenty-four and one half feet in the beam, two hundred and forty-one tons burthen. We have been around the Horn twice together, and both of us the tougher for the experience. Have I anticipated your questions?”
“Indeed, sir, you have. I would not entrust my wife to just anyone.”
“I have been reading of your exploits, Captain Putnam. There is a new book about you and the Barbary War. I do believe that everyone I know has a copy.”
“You don’t say so!” He and Clarity passed a knowing smile between them.
“Tell me, may I ask?” said Blanchard. “Is it true that at the Battle of Derna you fired ramrods from your guns at the Berber defenses?”
“Oh, God. How did— No one knows about that anymore. How—” He shot a sudden look at Clarity. “You didn’t. Please tell me that you didn’t.”
“But, dearest, it was such an interesting part of the story. I could not possibly leave that out.”
Bliven turned away and covered his eyes. “Oh, no.”
She patted his shoulder. “I guess you have not read that far yet.”
“Captain Blanchard”—Bliven turned and faced him again—“at Derna I was given a motley mix of Greeks, Egyptians, and Levantines to fire the guns placed under my command. They had no training, and, yes, one of the crews left a ramrod in a gun when they fired it. We were damned lucky it did not blow up and kill us all. I could have beaten them to death. So, yes, there is a grain of truth to the story, but I have not yet read the account that you are referencing.” He glared at Clarity. “I cannot swear to its entire accuracy.”
Clarity took his arm as they walked leisurely back to the end of the wharf. “Please do not be angry, dearest.”
She felt his chest begin to shake, and looked to up see that he was stifling an eruption of mirth. “I am too proud of you to be angry. But mark now: we have let the cat out of the bag. At least one person now knows that your book was written by a woman.”
“Well, that may not be a bad thing. Let a rumor start; let people wonder. In fact, let us buy one in a bookshop, and you can tell people, just a couple or a few. Not for the sake of my vanity, but it may be good for sales. The times are turning sour, and few people think of books as necessities of life. Talk can only help. Dearest, where is our carriage?”
“I sent it ahead to the hotel. I thought we might walk there; it is not far.”
“Where have you arranged for us to stay?”
“You will see.” He patted her hand that lay on his arm.
From Milk Street they turned into Liberty Square, then west on Water Street, and immediately upon turning right onto Congress Clarity caught her breath. “Oh, my stars! Look at that!” Before them rose an enormous building, seven stories high and surmounted by a shallow glass dome. “What on earth is that?”
“That, my love, is the Boston Exchange, the largest building and perhaps the finest accommodation in the country. Let us go in.”
They mounted a broad portico past a rusticated first floor, entered, and presented themselves to a receiving desk. “I am Captain Putnam,” said Bliven. “I believe you have a room for us.”
“Oh, yes, sir, we do. Your baggage arrived earlier today and was deposited in your room. Your key, sir. This gentleman will conduct you. Porter?”
Clarity allowed her gaze to be drawn to a rank of four easels standing on tripods beyond the registering desk. They bore simply framed portraits of seeming domestic couples, smiling, thoughtfully confident. Three of the easels bore two of the portraits, the fourth held one couple’s portrait, with a similarly framed announcement. “Bliv, dearest, come look at this.”
He bade their porter to wait a moment and joined her. In the rustic type of a handbill he read, “Our Christian Missionaries to Evangelize the Pacific Islands,” followed by text describing the mission and inviting all readers to a great farewell blessing and service at the Park Street Church. “This is announced for last Sunday,” he said.
“Yes, but as it says, there is still time to make a donation. Would you care to contribute?” He was glad she was playful.
“I am already giving them the most precious thing I have. They must be cont
ent with that. These are their portraits, the ones that are going?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Oh, I was an afterthought. The pictures had already been painted.”
“Hm!” He read on, that the portraits were done in watercolor by the celebrated artist Mr. Samuel F. B. Morse. “Good Lord! Is he not the most fashionable portraitist in the city?”
“Surely,” she answered. “One of the most, if not the very most.”
“I wonder that they would spend precious money for such a commemoration.”
“Oh, I doubt that he charged his full fee. And the public notice that has been taken surely earned back the cost. I am told that they raised a small fortune at that service.”
Bliven took her arm and led her across the lobby. “Well, I still think your portrait should have been included. You are by far the prettiest of that lot.”
She held his arm tighter but leaned her head to the side, askance. “Well, thank you very much, I think.”
“How in the world did they find seven married couples who wanted to go?”
“Well, they didn’t; they only found one. The other volunteers were single men. Reverend Beecher and Dr. Dwight and the others decided to send married couples rather than, forgive me, follow the sailors’ example of being tempted by native girls on every island. So, except for the Chamberlains, who have several children, the young men had to go out and find wives quickly.”
“Well, now, that is the damnedest thing I ever heard.”
“It is not generally known, dearest, and best kept that way. Yes?”
“If you wish. You know these people?”
“Only a little.” Clarity took in the lobby of the Boston Exchange, wide-eyed. Though she had graduated from Sarah Pierce’s school, she had never been to Boston. She was too self-possessed to be overwhelmed but found it heady. “Such a dining room!” She pointed across the lobby. “Are we to eat in there?”
“Yes, in a bit. First we shall catch our breath and change clothes, then there is something else I wish to show you before dinner.” Their suite was on the third floor, as well appointed as her own room had been at her mother’s house. After she changed she gazed out the tall windows of the sitting room and the bedroom before he led her downstairs and into a waiting carriage. “Julien’s Restorator, please,” he said to the driver.
When they stepped down after a drive of a quarter of an hour, Clarity marked the house as very old, from Puritan times, for it had an overhanging second story with many corners and gables, all collected about a massive central chimney with numerous flues issuing from the top. “I thought,” Bliven said as he opened the door, “you might enjoy to experience the finest oysters in the city. They tell me that Monsieur Payplat has been in business here for no fewer than twenty-five years.”
Clarity peered about at the dining rooms and the throng within them. “The fare must be extraordinary: Look at all the people!”
She found the oysters and white wine exquisite, but they were not so many as to spoil the dinner to come. They returned to the Boston Exchange and ate courses of a supper centering around boeuf à la Bourguignonne. Although Clarity dined to the point of surfeit, and although it was late, she found herself not drowsy. Back in their room she closed the bedroom’s window curtain, and as Bliven started to extinguish the whale oil lamp she caught his hand and became very serious. “Dearest, we shall not see each other for many months. Do not think me unladylike.” Her breathing became shallow. “I want there to be light in the room. I want us to take off our clothes and see each other as God made us. I want us to have this in our memories in the coming months. I want us—” Her voice choked and he held her tightly.
“I know what you want, my love. I want it as well, and as much.” It was as she desired. Not in the chiaroscuro of the night but in the colors of the light they made love passionately, sweatily, multiply. At the last she fell asleep, her face on his chest, his in her hair.
With all of love’s joys spoken that night, there was little to say in the morning. The carriage took them to the wharf, where she discovered she was the last to arrive, for all seven of the missionary couples were assembled on the deck of the Thaddeus, and Muriel Albright standing among them was the first to see her, pointing, “There she comes.” Her years were apparent in her old-fashioned dress, in her white hair pinned up tidy in a white bonnet, in the blue-gray circles beneath her blue eyes that had seen, and borne, the storms that life offered, and endured. She was, and was known to be, of that stock of New England women who grew old long before they grew feeble, women who, like old Dr. Dwight’s wife, might well live to see her hundredth year.
All twenty-four of them—seven married couples, one couple with five children accompanying, the four Hawaiians, and Mrs. Albright—turned to see Clarity descend from the carriage. The leader of the expedition, Hiram Bingham, commanded their attention. “Let us leave our native land by singing ‘Blessed Be the Tie That Binds.’” Their voices rose, not strong, not prominent, but curiously not out of place among the cries of seagulls and splash of chop among the pilings.
“Do not come aboard, dearest; I could not bear it,” she said quietly. “Keep your seat; let us part now, as I invoke God’s protection upon you, my heart, my husband.”
“You have a good ship, my love. I pray a safe voyage for you, and I shall join you in that far ocean as soon as the winds will bear me.” They kissed, and she saw the coachman attending to help her down. She walked to the gangplank and did not look back.
“Navy Yard, if you please,” Bliven told him when he resumed his seat. He found the Rappahannock still on stilts in the dry dock, but with new yellow planking stacked around the gaping wound. Beside her lay thick sheets of shiny copper, ready to be hammered and shaped to the conformation of her hull. It was time to get himself back to Litchfield and order his affairs.
* * *
* * *
DOROTHEA WAS BUSYING herself about the keeping room when Bliven emerged from the rear apartment. He was immaculate, in dress uniform. About his waist hung the sword that the Congress had presented him at the conclusion of the Second Barbary War, four years before, and as he now habitually wore it his Berber jambia was thrust into his sash—not part of the regulation uniform, but no one begrudged this small portion of pride. He himself knew it to be his slowly swelling conceit and one day he must confront it, but for now he could call it pride.
Dorothea’s floured hands flew to her cheeks before she could wipe them on her apron. “Oh, my son! You are not leaving so suddenly!”
“Oh, no, no. I am sorry to startle you so. Father wished to see me, and he asked me most particularly to come in full dress.”
“Whatever for?”
Bliven shook his head. “I have no idea.”
She motioned him on. “Well, your timing is good: he has had his breakfast and is reading over the last newspapers.”
“He is not in here today?”
“No, he told Mr. Meriden that he would lie in bed today.”
Even after a lifetime in their house, Bliven seldom had business in his parents’ room, and the airiness of it always surprised him. It was spare yet comfortable, tidy yet amiably lived in, whitewashed but with sufficiently vivid colors in the corners to make it cheery.
The door was partly open, but he rapped three times anyway, not too loudly, just as he had Ross do on the Rappahannock.
“Ah, come in, my son. Yes, yes, that is very fine.”
Bliven crossed the room, the hollow-sounding splat of his shoes on the wide pine flooring suddenly muffled as he crossed onto the braided rug in various shades of blue.
“Yes, come stand by me. Stand tall, now.”
Bliven did as he was bidden, smiled, and opened his hands. “What is this about, Father?”
“You have asked yourself why have I wanted to see you thus?”
&nbs
p; “Yes.”
Benjamin paused to consider his approach to an answer. “You will be leaving us again, will you not, within a very few days?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Well, this is how I wish to remember you. For, once you go, I think that you and I will not meet again in this world. Surely you have considered this.”
Bliven felt the lump form in his throat. “Yes, I have thought on it, but you may yet regain some strength.”
“Oh, my son.” Benjamin waved off his patronizing. “Let us not pretend, not you and I. Look at me, lying here as helpless as a poor damned toonuppasog on its back.”
Bliven sighed and sagged, and began laughing. “Yes, you are right. I see the resemblance.” The image was an apt one, of the snapping turtles that lurked in their Connecticut bogs, warty and long clawed. For all their wiles in hunting and their sharp-hooked beaks, when you turned them on their backs they were as pasty white and crepe-skinned, as confused at their unaccustomed posture and diminished capacity as his father was, trussed up in bed.
Benjamin patted the side of the bed next to him. “Come sit with me, my son.”
The Navy’s dress uniform was not designed for comfort in sitting, owing to the tightness of the trousers, the width of the sash, and having to arrange the sword. One had to sit at attention even as one stood at attention.
Benjamin grasped Bliven’s forearm firmly. “When I was your age, my father told me a thing. I did not understand it then, but as time has gone by I believe I understand it now. He said that when men get old they can feel when their time is coming—not all men, but oftentimes. It does not come down to a pain but to a kind of awareness. You cannot call it knowledge because there is no evidence, yet he knows.”
“And that is where you are?”
“It is. Only do not tell your mother I said this. It helps her to think that I may yet regain my vigor.”
The Devil in Paradise--Captain Putnam in Hawaii Page 9