“Enter.”
“Excuse me for intruding, Captain, but there has been some news I thought I should tell you. It is probably nothing, but I feel certain that you will want to hear it.”
“What is it?”
“As I say, it is probably of no moment to you, but, well, I was ashore to purchase some supplies, and I heard tell that a merchantman, a Boston brig, has foundered off Cape Hatteras.”
To Bliven it felt odd that such instant terror could manifest itself in such outward calm. He was aware that his breath was shallower and his senses heightened, but his voice was measured. “There is no word what vessel?” Surely Clarity’s ship had had time to clear those shoals before this could have happened, but still—
“No, sir. I heard it in the market. Two men who I learned are clerks on the receiving ship were speculating about it, but when I questioned them they knew no particulars. Sir, I do not see how it could be your wife’s ship.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ross, I quite agree. Nevertheless, if you will fetch my hat and coat, I shall endeavor to learn what I can.”
He paced off the distance to the receiving ship with purpose. So this was what Clarity must have felt like when he was months at a time at sea, every time she heard of some unidentified calamity—the emptiness in the pit of her stomach, her hands sweating beyond control, the blotting out of any other thought, the hopelessness of incomplete information, and the desperation for certain news. When he saw her again, he assured himself, he would acknowledge what he had put her through and how much she must love him to have endured it. And now in addition he must raise additional topics, plausible topics, to raise with Hull so as not to appear hysterical.
“I wonder if I might see the commodore for a moment?” Bliven asked Hull’s aide when he reached the office.
“I shall let him know that you are here.”
As he rose Bliven asked, “By the way, what is this I hear of a ship wrecked off Hatteras? Do you know what one?”
“Yes, sir, a merchantman, the Berenice, carrying fish and iron works. Apparently she struck bottom close inshore, and there were survivors.”
“Ah. I am glad to hear it.” He dared not betray the tidal wave of relief that was breaking over him.
The aide ducked in and out of the inner chamber. “The commodore will see you.”
“Putnam!” boomed Hull as he rose. “By God, sir, your timing is impeccable. I am hungry, and I want good food, and to be waited upon. I have in mind some of that roast duck they serve at the Exchange. Everyone here must work. Will you come with me?”
“Most happily, Commodore, thank you.”
Outside, Bliven was struck afresh with the perquisites of command, as Hull had only to raise a finger for a barouche to appear with a young sailor at the reins, and they were rolling easily across the bridge that became Washington Street, toward the central district. “Well, Putnam, what was it you wished to discuss with me?”
“Sir, my ship will soon be ready for fitting out, and to take on a crew. We cannot readily do that until we have a purser aboard, so I was wondering if you had found someone suitable.”
Even in the mid-November chill, Isaac Hull faultlessly lifted his bicorne to acknowledge the salutations of strangers who had so noted his passage. “You are not going to assault me with more of your reform ideas?”
“No, sir, on that front I am beaten, for the present.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Besides, I am counting my blessings that you did not take it into your head to saddle my ship with any of those damned metal water tanks.”
“Ha!” Hull cleared this throat. “I thought about it.”
“Considering the nature of the defect in my hull, it might never have been found beneath one of those things. I am certain that occurred to you.”
“Putnam, don’t abuse me or I will give you paddle wheels.”
They arrived and entered the Boston Exchange, busy in commerce at the height of the day. Turning toward the restaurant, Bliven noticed that the watercolors of the missionary couples painted by the celebrated Mr. Morse had been taken down.
They were shown to a table in a quiet corner. “What shall we do for a chaplain for your crew?” asked Hull. “Do you know anyone?”
“No, sir, I was rather hoping you would.”
“I see.” Hull looked up when the waiter appeared. “Roast duck, if you please, and some good ale until it comes. Now, these missionaries that your wife accompanied to the Sandwich Islands—they are of the Congregationalist bent, as I remember.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, given that they will be the first American presence in those islands, do you think perhaps it would be helpful to choose you a chaplain of the same strain?”
“Oh, God, no! In truth, sir, the leaders of my wife’s church are so strict and strident, I fear that they will make more enemies than converts, whether among the natives or among residents from other nations with a more conventional religious background.”
“Yes, I see your point.”
“Moreover, Commodore, I have been reading in Captain Porter’s journal of the Essex’s cruise in the Pacific—”
“Oh, damn! I forgot to ask if you had that book or if you would find it useful. Glad you’ve got it.”
“Yes, sir, a very helpful clerk in the bookstore put it in my hands. Porter wrote quite frankly—no, very frankly—of the seductive powers of the native women and the needs of a crew half a year or more at sea. I fear that a chaplain of the Congregationalist faith would find scant following as he preaches on the heavenly virtues of purity.”
“Ha! Yes, I see what you mean. Well, perhaps we could find you a nice Unitarian. Some of them can be rather open-minded.”
Bliven exploded in laughter as tankards of ale were set before them. “Oh, good God, would that not cause the mighty Reverend Beecher to drop dead as a stone? Oh, well, how about an Episcopalian: they don’t insist on very much.”
Hull nodded. “Yes, but I don’t know of any who are available. And these new Methodists are a bit extreme as well. Come, now, let us think on it. The regulations are so lax about chaplains, put the right coat on any man and give him a big dark book that looks somewhat like a Bible, he would pass muster as far as the Navy is concerned. Wait—how about just a simple Deist?”
Bliven was struck quiet. “Well, yes.” He considered their tenets. “They believe in God, and in Christian principles, but accept the different avenues that people find to Him. A Deist would serve very well. Do you know of any?”
“I know of two, actually. They have rather fallen from public favor among the more competitive creeds.” Hull raised his pewter tankard. “Leave it to me. Here’s to Deists!”
“And to God, however you find Him.”
“I am glad that is settled,” said Hull. “Now, Putnam, one thing more.”
“Sir?”
“Did you truly suppose that I might learn of some mishap that could even conceivably involve the safety of your wife and not send for you?”
Bliven blushed to learn that Hull had guessed his true business straightaway. “No, sir,” he answered meekly. “My steward had just this morning heard of it in the market but could discover no detailed information. Naturally, I—”
“Never mind, Captain. But be assured that I am as watchful for my officers’ well-being here as ever I was on a quarterdeck.”
“I am glad of it, sir. Thank you.”
7
Strange Shores
At the northern tip of Kohala, the usual trade wind had disappeared in the face of a strong westerly ripping through the Alenuihaha Channel. Captain Blanchard knew it would not last, and he judged it better to tarry at anchor in the lee of the landmass than to struggle their way through in a wind that blasted against them. On his previous visits he had known vessels to labor for four days in rollicking
wicked seas to beat a passage between islands when, on a favorable day, one would blow like a leaf straight to the destination.
From the tip of the island he retreated six miles and anchored in Waipio Bay, intending to introduce the missionaries to the islands with this sight of the valley, flat as a floor, winding like a labyrinth back into the interior between jungle-sloped mountains a thousand feet high that intersected like herring bones more and more distant until they rose to five times that height and disappeared into a pearl-colored mist. From the top of a rearing plateau, a waterfall shot itself into thin air and fell the full height to thunder on the black lava rocks of the shore.
The Thaddeus hove to, furled her sails, and dropped her anchor, with the entire company surrounding Blanchard at the wheel on the poop deck. Muriel Albright made her way to the rail facing the beach, one hand grasping it and the other holding Clarity’s hand. “Look at this place,” she whispered. “Oh, never did I imagine it to be so beautiful.” They all watched the sun set behind the mountains before adjourning to the great cabin for a rich supper of fish, sweet potatoes, boiled kalo leaves, and fruit that the queen had sent aboard in welcome. Hopu used that evening to call a final lesson after the dishes were cleared. The missionaries scurried to their compartments and returned with their notebooks and pencils.
“Few more important words,” Hopu said. “Sorry, don’t know days of week. My country, we not need days of week. ‘Time to go catch fish.’ Why, because Tuesday? No, because hungry! Don’t need days of week.”
Even the dour but beautiful Bingham began to shake from mirth.
He grew serious. “But you bring word of God, and God say, ‘Worship on Sabat.’” He winced at his mispronunciation and repeated the last word, emphasizing the final diphthong to the point of making a face, sticking his tongue far beyond his teeth. “I mean, Sabaththth.” He panted, feigning exhaustion. “My language, we have no sound for ththth. Thththank goodness!” Sated with the fresh feast, the missionaries roared in laughter. “We like end words with nice little vowel. So we say, ‘Sabati.’ You say now.”
They echoed, “Sabati,” and wrote it down.
“Very good. Now, God say, ‘Keep Sabati holy.’ Word for ‘holy’ is lani. Mean sacred, also mean royal, because king is sacred. You say lani.”
“Lani.”
“Very good. Holy Sabati, sabati lani. You say.”
“Sabati lani.”
He opened a book he had brought, and held up a lily he had pressed the previous Easter. “Flower. Say lei.”
“Lei,” they repeated, and wrote in their notebooks.
“Easter lily is sacred flower. Sacred flower, lei lani. You say.”
“Lei lani.”
“Very good.”
The evening sped by. “Such good pupils,” said Hopu at last. “Thank you. Many months now you listen to me. Mahalo nui loa.” He looked around quizzically. “Of course, you had no escape, either. Well, never mind. Now, have treat for you. Captain Blanchard, please to send for cook.” From the heavy pine sideboard Hopu extracted pewter bowls, returned to the head of the table, and set one short stack before Clarity at his right and another before Bingham at his left. “Now, in my country, we have very important food. Most important food. When plenty other food, we still like it; when nothing else, we depend on it, maybe all we have. My friends, Kanui and Tamoree and Honoree, we have not eaten it for many years, but I make free to show cook how is done. So we wait one more moment.”
Blanchard returned, holding by two towels a small kettle with a ladle visible above its top and setting it before Hopu. At once he began ladling into the bowls a thick lavender-colored porridge. “We call it poi. You say poi.”
“Poi,” they chorused.
“Nobody begin yet!” He continued portioning the gruel into the bowls until all were served. “Now, when we ashore, queen will have feast for you. What is word for feast?”
“Luau!”
“Very good. There will be many bowls of poi. Important that you like it. If you not like it, say you like it! God will forgive your little lie. Now, let us begin.” As they ate they reached a consensus that it did not taste bad, it merely did not have much taste at all; and given that it was the island staple, they concluded that when among themselves it would serve best as a kind of sauce over the other dishes, whether meat or vegetable.
Daniel Chamberlain rolled it around in his mouth to assess its texture. “What is it prepared from, Thomas? Is it gathered or grown in a garden?”
“Ah, is good question from brother Daniel, our farmer. Kalo, you boil leaves and eat like spinach, and poi is made from roots; grind up and boil. Almost everybody have garden of kalo.”
Chamberlain nodded his thanks; Bingham had excused himself so discreetly that few noticed he was gone until he returned and remained standing. “Brother Thomas, will you rise?”
Hopu looked in surprise at his three fellow islanders and pushed himself up from the table.
“Thomas, for five months now you have taught us beyond value about your language and your life, the life of the islands. No one asked you to do this; you have undertaken it out of your own goodness, and above even that, you have made our lessons more enjoyable than any theater. We know that you have done this for your love of the Lord, but the Bible tells us that the servant is worth the wage of his hire. Therefore, with the consent of this company, we have made up a purse of money.” He handed Hopu a small cotton sack closed with a drawstring.
“Is heavy.” Hopu tried to laugh through a deluge of emotion.
“We hope that this will help you reestablish your life back here in your home.”
“Thank you. Thank you so very much. My heart is too full; please excuse me.”
The company sat approving of Bingham’s action and its effect on Hopu, when Tamoree spoke suddenly. “Reverend Bingham, forgive my speaking.”
“Yes, Brother George?”
“I speak as I begin to remember what it is like, to be a prince among my people. What you have done was in the best way of what we call ho o pono. That means, to settle with honor to make good account. You did not know that, but I guess that to act well in a dealing has words in any language.”
Bingham bowed his head, moved. “Thank you, George. What you have said means a great deal to us. And now, may I suggest that we retire to prayers and rest?”
* * *
* * *
“THAT WAS RATHER nice, wasn’t it?” asked Muriel Albright as she slipped beneath her covers.
“Yes, but . . .” Clarity had begun to remove her shoes but instead left them on. “I’m just going to take a walk around the deck and see if Thomas is still out there. I am a little worried about him. He seemed quite overtaken.”
The rear door of the great cabin opened onto the very stern, by the wheel, and finding no one there she walked forward on the starboard side, down onto the well deck, past the hatch, and then up to the fo’c’sle. Right above where the bowsprit was inserted to its footing she found Hopu, curled up and weeping copiously. “Why, Thomas!”
He started up as though kicked, reclining on his hip, supporting himself on one arm as his other hand brushed the hair out of his face. “Mrs. Putnam! What are you—I am sorry, you should not see me like this.”
“Nonsense.” She knelt by him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Can you tell me what is wrong?”
“Is too hard, is too many things.”
“Well, I’m afraid now you must try.” She sat down close by him.
“Is not the gift of money,” he said.
“No, it was generous, but not that generous.”
“Is not the five months on the ship. Is not even the two years in mission school, but is all ten years since we came to America. In ten years, this is first time anyone speak to me as if I worth something.”
The incoming small swell rocked the ship rhythmically and g
ently. “But, Thomas, has anyone ever been mean or cruel to you?”
“No, no! People always kind, everybody kind, but everybody kind in way of charity, kind to lost little hungry boy. Always I try to earn keep. I become funny little black man who makes good jokes. They pat me on head and say, ‘What nice little ignorant black man. See, we can train him to love the Lord.’ I—we all—work hard to learn, but we not belong, and we must not have feelings. Feelings not allowed.”
“Thomas, what do you mean? You are not allowed feelings?”
“Do you not see? Beecher, Bingham, preach, preach, preach that all men equal before God, but little black men from Hawaii should not feel anger, should not feel sad, should not love, at least not like they do. We are young men, we have feelings of all young men, for young women. But that is not permitted. Cannot see or speak or touch young women. Not good enough to touch white women. And now I am so happy to be home, happy to be where people not better than me. So it made me cry.”
She replaced her hand on his shoulder. “Thomas,” she said quietly, “what I am going to say may surprise you.”
He looked into her eyes, no longer caring that she saw tears streaking his cheeks.
“Thomas, I cannot defend everything about your life in America. Dr. Dwight, and Reverend Beecher, and Mills, and the others—I believe they are good men, as are Mr. Bingham and Mr. Thurston. But there are limits to their understanding, just as there are limits to what all men can understand. They never meant for you to feel that you are inferior.”
“Henry felt these things, too. Opukaha’ia loved you. Did you even know that?”
Without thinking she drew back. “No! No, he never said anything.”
“Yes, he did. He told Mr. Beecher that he loved you and was punished.”
“Oh, poor Henry. Poor sweet, innocent Henry.” At last she understood why Beecher had so consistently warned her against too warm a friendship with him.
The Devil in Paradise--Captain Putnam in Hawaii Page 16