“This is not pleasing to hear, Mr. Farrell,” said Bliven, “but most useful, and I thank you for taking the trouble.”
Farrell made his respects with a touch to his hat in the British manner.
“By the way,” said Miller, “was that Cochrane making the sortie this morning?”
“It was, yes. He is bound for Peru to help them win their independence.”
“Really? Why? Of what interest is that here?”
“Chile, sir, is newly independent herself, and her government calculates that they will never be truly secure as long as the Spanish have a toe on the continent, leave alone next door. The Spanish in Peru find themselves in a vulnerable moment, so now is the time to strike, if strike they will.”
* * *
* * *
FROM VALPARAISO, BLIVEN determined to duplicate Porter’s route, nor’-nor’west to the Galápagos Islands, where perhaps they could take on some of those gigantic tortoises, which were said to make an estimable soup. The engraving of them in Porter’s journal piqued Bliven’s curiosity whether any such reptile could attain the size depicted in the book’s engraving. Indeed, throughout Porter’s journal his observations of natural history were dispassionate, written dryly, with only occasional hints of curiosity or amazement. But when he came to the Galápagos, he was almost lost for how to describe such desolate weirdness, such incongruity of creatures, and as the days passed Bliven thought he must die of sheer anticipation before the lookout finally called “Land ho!” down to the deck as they approached Santa María Island. Two hours later they entered the Isabela Channel, and while taking constant soundings slid by Santa Fe Island to starboard, seeing Santiago ahead of them, with the long, skinny spine of Isabela to port.
He knew to avoid the tortoises of Santiago Island, for Porter had noted their foul taste, giving him to speculate that despite their physical similarity to the tortoises of the other islands, they must be a distinct species. Instead, Bliven accompanied a victualing party when they found a suitable beach at Isabela’s pinched narrow waist, and what he saw ashore sent his mind into a spin.
He had known, distantly, of a growing argument between prelates of the Christian churches who claimed that God’s creation was now as it had always been, and a small but growing rump of scientists—people like Cuvier, who had unearthed a skeleton of a giant, flying creature in Bavaria; of Mary Anning, who was continuing to dig up huge, extinct reptiles on the south coast of England; and there was a whole coterie of dissidents who published scientific papers that hearkened all the way back to Xenophenes of Colophon, who realized two centuries before Aristotle, from the presence of fossil fish in the mountains, that they must once have been underwater. All of which pointed to the possibility that the earth was infinitely older and had undergone tumultuous, cataclysmic changes over a vast stretch of time.
But what to make of this place? Of desolate, volcanic shores washed in a cold ocean current; of tortoises with shells like cauldrons; of cormorants that could not fly; of laidly lizards with serrated backs sunning themselves seemingly from every rock. It was easy to believe that this was how the earth must have looked at an earlier time, as indeed Porter had speculated in his book.
It became apparent that the victualing party had miscalculated. They figured on the tortoises weighing perhaps two hundred pounds each—not up to half a ton. Such huge creatures could only be got out to the ship one or two at a time, not in a couple of trips, as they had imagined. Additional seamen were eager to go ashore and help, enchanted in the volcanic weirdness, while Bliven, Miller, Horner, and a platoon of marines scaled the island’s divide to have a look at its western side. They found the heights covered in thick scrub and cactus whose leaves consisted of thick waxy pads, which they discovered one of the tortoises eating.
“Captain!” called out young Lieutenant Horner. “Over here, sir!”
Bliven and Miller approached the sound of his voice, and found him in a shallow vale near the summit of the island’s divide. They realized that Horner had deployed his platoon into a line of flankers, which seemed like a pointless exercise until they found him standing over the remains of a campfire, its coals still hot beneath the dirt recently kicked over it.
Whoever it was, it was apparent that they had seen the Rappahannock approach and stood not, as Shakespeare wrote, upon the order of their going.
Bliven and Miller traded a knowing look. “Pirates, even here.” These islands pocked with hidden coves were well known as a haunt of the last remaining buccaneers. They hurried to the ridge and saw off the western shore a small barkentine just dropping her sails; the longboat in which men had made their escape was tied on and being towed, not taking time to hoist her up.
Miller rested his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Mediterranean, Caribbean, the south of Asia now. Damned pirates everywhere you look. The oceans seem to be lousy with them.”
Bliven nodded in agreement. “Well, this was their lucky day.”
“Shall you not pursue them, Captain?” asked Horner.
“No. It would take hours to get everyone back to the ship and beat around the island to the west side. We shall have to save them for a later day.”
In the evening, the pen that had formerly lodged the pigs, long since consumed, was now crowded with ungainly tortoises, walking its circuit, climbing each other’s backs.
Dominating the others was one that seemed a third larger than the rest, with wrinkled eyes that appeared as old as time. Bliven had ordered a bin filled with the cactus pads on which he had seen them feeding, and reached into it, being careful to avoid the spines, and held one in front of that largest tortoise. Showing no fear, the reptile cocked its head and studied the pad before opening its massive horny beak and biting a V-shaped slice out of it. Bliven looked up and saw Miller observing with amusement.
“You know, Captain, it is said that these tortoises can live for a year without eating.”
“Yes, but have you considered how that might affect the flavor of the meat?”
“Ah, yes, you make a good point.”
“This large fellow here, though—I think that he is not for the table. I should like to take him home to show as a curiosity. Have the carpenter paint a white dot on his shell,” said Bliven. “He reminds me of someone. I think I will name him Beecher.”
“Aye, sir.”
From the Galápagos they stood west into the vast, empty Pacific—empty except for the New Englanders working the sperm whale grounds, encountering three to five every day for two weeks. And then it took three weeks more across the trackless deep, daily referencing their chronometer, before the green mountains of the Sandwich Islands rose over the horizon. The very sight of them, and the knowledge of what awaited him, made Bliven’s heart pound. Matching what they saw with what was shown on the chart, he reckoned that they had raised the islands at the north shore of the one called Molokai, which could not have been luckier, and he congratulated himself on his navigation, and avoiding having to spend days in coasting the islands that held no interest for him until he should raise Oahu.
By degrees slow and agonizing it grew larger until they found themselves almost in its shadow. “You may muster hands, Mr. Miller.”
It was a command that was almost obeyed already, for as Rappahannock cruised under easy sail toward the Kaiwi Channel, most of the crew who were not engaged in duties gathered at the port rail to stare at its cliffs, their beetling heights in shade, that vaulted from the sea and shot into the air for a vertical half mile. None had ever seen such a thing. When all the officers had joined him on the quarterdeck, Bliven advanced, steadying himself on the binnacle, surveying his crew crowded onto the weather deck.
“Men, we have been at sea for six months. You have performed your tasks admirably, and I am proud of you. Many adventures lie before us, but I am confident now that I can rely on you for anything that I may reasonably ask of you. But now I a
m going to ask something of you that may not be reasonable. Or rather not I, but your ship’s surgeon. Dr. Berend, will you address them?”
Berend was unaccustomed to public address, and squared himself self-consciously. He was unused to raising his voice, and was somewhat surprised to discover that he had no natural projection. “Now, men,” he began, “we have been together for some months, now. I have lanced your boils and trussed your ruptures; some of you I have raised your heads and given you broth when you were too sick to move. I think I may be believed when I tell you that I have your best interest at heart.
“Now, this afternoon, we will anchor in a port that is famous throughout the world for its women, who are said to have no equal in pleasing a man.”
The cheer that drowned him out was loud and lusty.
“But men, I must tell you, the English got here first, forty years ago, and spread their venereal diseases among these women, and now from the natives’ own amorous nature, hear me now, these are the most diseased islands on earth, and an almighty discouragement to venting your passions here.
“In Captain Cook’s time, those who became infected were doomed, but today there are medicines that can help.”
Berend was interrupted by a lusty cheer and more laughter.
“But hear me now as you love your life! The treatment of this disease will cause you such agony as you never imagined. When I must squirt a solution of mercury deep up your cock, the burning will be like a coal of fire shoved inside you, and it will not be a single treatment. It is required for months, sometimes for years. There is good reason for the adage that you can spend one night with Venus and the rest of your life with Mercury.
“And now therefore I warn you: if you are so weak of self-control that you succumb to your passions, and become afflicted with these diseases, I will treat you, and I will do what I can for you, but you will have none but yourself to blame, and I will not feel sorry for you.”
“May we ask a question, Doctor?”
He could not see who asked it, but it did not matter. “You may.”
“Mr. Erb has passed the word among us that he has quondams to sell to us. Is that not a sure solution to the problem?”
Bliven skewered Erb with a glare. “You never spoke to me of this.”
“No, Captain, I did not.” He shrugged. “Nor did I tell you of every hat and shoe. Why would that have been necessary?”
“Dr. Berend, are the quondams a sure proof against disease?” Bliven asked.
“No. They help, but their efficacy is not certain.”
“Explain it to them, then!”
Berend raised his hands. “Men, listen to me carefully. Here is the truth about the quondams. They can come off, and you will be infected. They can break, and you will be infected. A woman’s juices can come in around its edges, and you will be infected. Further, if you buy one, do not accept it, and pay for it, until you blow it up with your breath and see if it leaks. If it has holes in it, and this often happens because of the chemicals used to treat and soften them, you will be infected. If you buy one and it contains your issue without leaking, wash it well, and use it again, but always test it before you use it. You must understand, your life depends upon this.”
Bliven was as angry as he could ever remember. “Mr. Miller, dismiss the men. Mr. Erb, for how much money are you selling the quondams?”
“Two dollars, Captain.”
“What! Where will a common seaman find two dollars after he has paid you for his common slops?”
“They will have some money, after you pay them when we drop anchor and give them shore leave.”
“Dr. Berend, come here. For every seaman who reports to you with a venereal disease, despite his having used a quondam, you will charge Mr. Erb two dollars, which you will refund to the man in question.”
“I understand your feeling, Captain”—Berend smiled sadly—“but I fear you would be exceeding the regulations.”
“Then take it up with the Department of the Navy, Doctor. They are the ones who declined to issue quondams to you for free, as I remember. So, Mr. Erb, I suggest you take it upon yourself to remove their wrappings and inspect them for defects before you sell them.” Bliven turned on his heel and stalked forward to the ladder and went down.
“Tell me something, Doctor,” said Erb.
“What is it?”
“If a man bought and wore two quondams, would that not increase his safety?”
Berend hated it, but it was true. “It would.” The sure circumstance was that a seaman would hand over four dollars—a princely sum to him—for two quondams, put them both on at the critical moment, and be so dismayed at feeling nothing through the two layers of pig’s intestine that he would take them off and indulge without them.
The commotion had taken so much time that when Bliven emerged in a fresh uniform they had raised Koko Head on their starboard bow, and it was almost time to make the turn around Diamond Hill. The Honoruru anchorage was not hard to find, for they had only to follow a New Bedford whaler, the Abigail, through the reef and into the harbor. It was curious—there was no fort to salute—and though there were enough houses visible to discern the presence of a town, they appeared like so many haystacks. Indeed, he was not certain that they were houses, and it was a relief when people began walking down to the shore, a mix of white and native. He studied them through his glass, his heart pounding, until he spied a tight gathering of the little grass houses with a clot of three black-clad white men and four women standing before them, and he saw her, a telescope to her eye, pointing with excitement.
Bliven decided that he and Miller should go ashore first. The captain’s gig was not large enough to ferry all the officers to the single low wooden pier that extended out from the beach. He knew these were the missionaries, but they were Congregationalists and his chaplain was a mere Deist, and that might prove an unneeded distraction.
Six seamen pulled at their sweeps, at the tiller a helmsman, who reached out at a piling at the end of the pier and made them fast. Bliven hardly heard his own footfalls on the hollow-sounding planks, for he saw her at the end of the grass just beyond the remarkably narrow beach.
“Oh, dearest,” she tried to shout, but her voice came out as barely a breath. “I so prayed that it was you. I had Reverend Bingham come out with his field glass to see, and when he smiled and handed it to me, I knew. I read the name of the ship and saw you on the deck.” She sobbed, but just once. “Oh, thank God, you are here and safe.”
He heard all this as he approached her, but for all her spoken greeting, and as Bliven rushed forward to seize her, he froze at the sight of her carrying a baby in her arms. “What in the world?”
She was beaming. “Captain Putnam, may I present to you your son?”
10
Honoruru
What! What?”
Clarity pulled the cotton kerchief that shielded him from the ferocity of the sun from his face to display him, but did not hand him over, for she had never once seen Bliven hold a baby.
“When?” He touched the infant lightly and ran his finger down his cheek.
“Born nine months to the very day from our last night together in Boston. Like his father, he likes to be punctual.”
“Are you all right?”
“Perfectly.”
“Is he well? Is he strong?”
“He is a little ox.”
“Oh, my love, my angel!” He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her, leaning across the baby but careful not to press him. “What is his name?”
She cradled the baby in one arm and threaded her free hand into the crook of his arm. “Come, let us return to the shade. I must tell you, I resolved from the first that if we had a boy, you would name him, and if it was a girl, I would name her. Up until this moment his name has been Baby. Therefore, sir, the privilege is yours. How shall we cal
l him?”
“Oh! Well! How would it be, Benjamin, for my father, and Samuel, for my friend?”
“I think it will serve very well.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the mission station, so we can collect the others, and then to the queen’s house.”
“Just up there?”
“Yes. As soon as the queen heard it was an American warship, she assembled the court. I recall that you met the king of Naples once, so this should not overwhelm you.”
“I shall gather my courage, my love. Oh, I am so sorry, I would like for you to meet my first lieutenant, Michael Miller.”
Miller touched his hat. “A great pleasure, ma’am.”
“How do you do, Lieutenant?”
“Mr. Miller,” said Bliven, “we did not expect to be presented immediately upon our arrival. If you please, go back out to the ship, fetch Rippel and Jackson, and Dr. Berend and the chaplain. Be sure to bring the gifts.”
Miller saluted and returned to the pier at a trot.
She led him to a row of grass houses, where waiting outside were the Binghams, the Chamberlains, Muriel Albright, and the Loomises. He was quickly introduced, after which Bliven pointed to the beginning of an ambitious construction: a cellar dug, stakes driven into the ground with string stretched between them, sills and joists laid for a foundation, and a great stack of lumber covered by a canvas sail.
“What is this?” Bliven asked.
“Well may you ask!” huffed Clarity. “We left Boston with all the materials needed to reassemble a house big enough for the group of us, but no one asked whether anyone knew how to put it back together! We have been relying on visiting ships’ carpenters to get us this far.”
Bliven looked over at Bingham, who shrugged. “We are better evangelists than carpenters, it seems.”
The Devil in Paradise--Captain Putnam in Hawaii Page 24