I believe he felt his end coming, for he took care to tell me, that when I wrote to you, to remind you not to mourn him too deeply, that he was content to enjoy my company and cooking, but equally content to answer the great God whenever He should send for him.
Your good mother-in-law provided space for him in the Marsh burying ground, and in fact settled that we all shall sleep at last with her and her husband’s family, which I allow is a more honored place of rest for us than I would ever have expected. Reverend Beecher was not here to disapprove of this, for he has gone visiting to Ohio to spy out the chances of leading the new seminary at that place. Before he died, your father said that he hoped the good Reverend would encounter your uncle Rufus in the woods of Ohio, so that wherever he went to shout his hosannas, he would be nettled by Putnams—so you see, my angel, that he was saucy to the last.
Oh, how I shall miss him, but my Dear Son, you are not to worry about me. I am greatly saddened, but I am well looked after. Mr. Meriden manages the farm very well, the tavern and the livery both turn a small profit, although the times have been hard, and the prize money from your captures is safely stored—therefore I judge that in a little time I shall become one of those good-doing widow women who become so esteemed in a town.
Mrs. Marsh no longer leaves her house but she is not ill, and she joins me in sending love to dear Clarity. She said at our last visit that she had dreamt of her, teaching French and water colors to half-clothed native girls, but realized upon waking that this is likely not what occupies her!
Farewell, my dearest Bliv, may the Lord’s mercy continue me to see you again.
Your Loving Mother,
Doro. Putnam
BLIVEN PUTNAM, CAPT. USN
VIA AMERICAN AGENT, HONORURU
SANDWICH ISLANDS
Silently he rose and handed Clarity the letter. “I shall be back in a few moments.”
She read it carefully, and then from the door of the pili saw him sitting at the line where the grass met the beach. After several minutes she checked on the baby and walked out to him, and the moment she sat down he extended an arm around her and drew her close. She thought it better to let him speak first, and rested her head on his shoulder.
“He told me to mourn him only a little,” he said at last. “Do you know, I have spent my Navy life overhauling and fighting wicked men? It seems that I took it for granted that some men in the world are so deeply good.”
“You told me that you parted well. He knew how much you loved him.” She could almost feel the heat radiate from his face as his tears fell silently, and he nodded. “Well, dearest, you will have a lifetime to tell your son what a wonderful man he was.”
Bliven stood, pulled Clarity to her feet and kissed her, and they walked slowly back to the house. “You lost your father some years ago,” he said. “I have not known the feeling. It is a little like walking through a door and knowing you shall never go back and walk through it again.”
“Because we only get older, Bliv. We never get younger.”
11
Old Story, New Language
Only once did Bliven actually walk the lanes and closes of that district in Honoruru where seamen went for their pleasure, which lay inland from the warehouses of the trading merchants. He did not study closely the men ambling down the dirt streets, as he did not wish to know which of his men—or worse, his officers—might be making use of Erb’s two-dollar quondams. The few native women that he saw on the street were poorly clad, yet were still closely assayed by seamen with cash to spend, and he understood how Clarity’s servant must have come to get pregnant, and for how little money.
While there were a few traditional pili houses in this warren, most were built of sawn lumber, but their construction bore little merit. They were almost uniformly built so shabbily and so close upon one another that the whole section seemed to beg for the single match that would burn the entirety of it to the ground. A passing merchant officer, hale and swaggering in confident middle age, noted him casting his gaze curiously about and offered guidance if any were required.
“I thank you,” responded Bliven. “I am just idly rambling. However, I am curious on one point: Why are there no buildings of brick?”
“Ah, that is a point upon which I can gratify you. The clay in Hawaii is not suitable for making bricks. It is, however, marginally adaptable to make adobe. Those are the buildings you see of that smooth, plaster-looking material.”
Bliven pointed. “Such as that one? I have noticed that they are thicker at the bottom than at the top. Is that the style in which they are commonly built?”
“Not intentionally, but the climate here is not the best for adobe. It melts a little whenever it rains; thus you get these clots and clods about the bottom over time. And you will see readily that they require maintenance more or less continuously.”
“Yes.” He extended his hand. “I am Captain Putnam, United States sloop of war Rappahannock, now in harbor.”
“Captain Ward, whaler Cassandra, twenty-three months out of New Bedford. How do you do?” They shook hands cordially. “Is this your first look at these islands, then?”
“Indeed it is, but you sound as though you know your way around well enough.”
“I should hope I do. This is my fourth call here.”
“Then there are likely other points on which you can enlighten me, if you are so kindly disposed. Is there a place nearby where I can buy you a drink, Captain Ward? Have you the time?”
“Lord, yes! In this vicinity you are never more than twenty paces from such a place. Take my towline and we shall indulge our own private gala.” Ward led the way across the dirt street to a building of framed lumber twenty feet wide, with a plank door in its center.
“No windows?” noted Bliven.
“Oh God, no. Glass here is far too dear to have to replace after every brawl. Seamen come to these places to get drunk, get in a fight, and screw. The order in which these are accomplished is of no consequence, but little establishments such as this provide relief at least to the first two needs.” Inside there were a dozen small tables, and beyond them a rear door to an outdoor area, to which Ward pointed. “Let us sit ourselves in the lanai. I crave fresh air.”
On their way through Ward acknowledged the proprietor behind his counter, a ruddy, closely whiskered Englishman in an apron. “Good day to you, Francis,” he hailed. “A whiskey for me, and for this gentleman . . . ?”
“Do you have wine?” asked Bliven.
“Bless you, yes, sir, we have wine.”
“Wine, then.” They passed through and seated themselves beneath a thatched arbor. The bartender emerged with a full glass in each hand without benefit of a tray. Bliven thanked him and took the glass from his hand, and sampled it. The liquid was reddish purple and looked like wine, and it rather smelled like wine, but the taste ate through his tongue like acid. “Jesus God in heaven!”
“Sir?” Francis looked at him. “Is it not to your liking?”
Bliven sucked in deep breaths. “Oh, it will do nicely,” he said, “but where in the world did you acquire such a distinguished vintage?”
“From Mr. Marín, sir, the Spaniard, by special warrant gardener and vintner to the king.”
Bliven’s face went slack. “The king drinks this?”
“No, sir, the king is more a brandy man, as I understand. That will be a dollar for the two of you.”
Bliven fished the coin out of a pocket, handed it over, and nodded to dismiss him, and when he was gone looked at Ward in something like shock.
“Do not feel badly, Captain,” the whaling master said. “I understand that he keeps a funnel beneath the bar, and returns to the bottle the portions that men leave in their glasses.”
“I have had bad wine before, but this is truly epic.”
“I have seen men drink it and live.”
“Then they have astonishing constitutions! I would say, there is one point on which you could help me. Can you point me to the American consular agent? I believe his name is Mr. Jones.”
“You have come to the right place, then.” Ward leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs in enjoyment of having a fellow captain to talk to. “Mr. John Coffin Jones, Junior. Like you, he is new to the islands, but unlike you he comes to this district with far different matters in his mind. He is a randy little switch of a boy, twenty-three or -four, maybe, nice looking, devil-may-care, loaded with money. Went to sea as a cabin boy, lives to fuck; you will see him with a different native girl every day. He has been here a few weeks now, so he must have settled into his consular duties in some way.”
“Where is his office?”
“They have not gotten around to naming streets here yet, but if you inquire after him at the Marshall and Wildes warehouse, they can direct you. His father is a partner in that firm, and you will see they have the largest warehouse in the waterfront. All the chiefs owe them money.”
“Truly? How so?”
“Well, as you must know, the competition among the trading companies is very fierce to get their hands on sandalwood to sell in China. That company was the first into the field, and they locked up much of the market by giving the chiefs fortunes in money and lavish furnishings—”
“Yes, I have seen some of their furnishings.”
“—on the promise that they would deliver sandalwood in the future, and deliver it only to Marshall and Wildes, you see? Then, as it turned out, there is not so much sandalwood in the forests as was previously supposed, which has left the chiefs in a scramble for how to pay their debts, and the interest.”
“Interest? I have heard before of charging them interest. What in flaming hell do natives know about interest?”
Ward waved it off impatiently. “Well, if they do not understand it, they should not have made a bargain on that basis, should they? At least, that is the position of the younger Mr. Jones. When he is not spreading his seed about the waterfront, he is showing the account books to the chiefs and asking how they are going to make good on what they owe. And then, if they cannot pay it he will probably be willing to take an equivalent value in their land.”
“Is all this not in some conflict with his duties to represent the interest and goodwill of the United States?”
Ward’s face went blank with honesty. “Oh, yes, I daresay it is. But his father is very well connected. There was some politics involved, I imagine. But what about you, Captain Putnam? What brings you and a big sloop of war to this part of the globe?”
“I was ordered to Malaya to announce our presence in the Malacca Strait, to let the pirates there know to leave our ships alone. So here I am provisioning, and looking in on that shipload of American missionaries that arrived here last year.”
“Ah, yes, the missionaries!” Ward took a draw at his whiskey, seeming from the face he made to almost relish its badness. “Bless their souls, there are plenty of seamen who do not want them here, let me tell you. And your young Mr. Jones is first in that line. Never misses a chance to speak against them to the king and the chiefs.”
“I was not aware that many people got a chance to speak to the king.”
Ward’s speech slowed. “Hm! I detect that you know more than you have let on. Well, I will tell you, if you don’t know already, the king is a drunkard and a lecher, so those who are most responsible for the government—”
“And that would be the queen mother and the prime minister, Mr. Pitt?”
“Stepmother, but yes, exactly. They keep the king happy, usually out fishing, where he can’t cause any harm.”
“The queen and Mr. Pitt, and at least some faction of the chiefs, seem to have welcomed the missionaries, and have become Christians, is that not so?”
“Oh, yes, but there you have uttered the important word: ‘faction.’ Now, it seems to me that these Hawaiians have a more spiritual bent than other primitive peoples I have encountered. For them to believe in something lies deep in their nature. When Kahumanu and her side suppressed the old religion several months ago, there was nothing with which to replace it. Your missionaries arrived just in time to fill that void. But the queen does not punish those who still respect the old gods. In this she is quite modern, but it has allowed that other faction to grow, which resents the new god being foreign.”
“Interesting. I have never heard of another case where people put aside their religion with nothing to take its place.”
“Nor I,” Ward agreed, “and your missionaries came along at the critical moment.”
Bliven stood. “Well, I must see if I can track down Mr. Jones. I thank you for your time, and I hope we meet again.”
Ward kept his seat and toasted him with his remaining whiskey. “Fair sailing to you, Captain Putnam.”
“By the way, you have been plying these waters for many years: Have you made the acquaintance of a Captain Saeger, schooner Fair Trader?”
“I have. In fact I found him anchored at Lahaina Roads not two weeks ago; he had taken on a full hold of sandalwood for Canton. He seemed quite eager at the prospect but was in no hurry to leave. He was spreading money merrily around the dives, at least the ones that were still open, for the missionaries there have influenced the high chief to close down the whorehouses. He was not happy about that.”
“You saw him in Lahaina two weeks ago?”
“I did.”
“Well, now, that is good hearing. His trail grows warmer! Tell me about him.”
“Don’t know him well, but then, I don’t think anyone does. His vessel is a fine big tops’l schooner, quick as the dickens. Motley crew, though. Why do you ask?”
“I am bound for Malaya to inquire into pirates that attacked him a few years ago. I understand he has a hard reputation.”
Ward let his head fall from side to side. “Well, yes and no. He is a hard man, to be sure, but it is a hard life trying to trade sandalwood when the big companies have bought off most of the chiefs. Of course, it would help if he didn’t hate natives so much.”
Bliven sat again, at the edge of his chair. “What has he got against them?”
“Oh, not just Hawaiians, mind; he hates all dark little people. He used to have two ships, the Fair Trader and a smaller vessel captained by his son. He was killed years ago by Boogis pirates in the Indies. They got it in their heads that he had some gold hidden somewhere on his ship, and they tortured him—cut off his fingers one joint at a time, and worse. It was Saeger who found the body, and I think that turned his mind over into somebody else. Don’t know what he was like before.”
“I see. You are schooling me, Captain Ward. I confess I have never heard of the . . . was it Boogis pirates? I have fought buccaneers in the Caribbean and Tripoli corsairs in the Mediterranean—”
Ward’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, that is where I know your name! Now I really am glad to have met you. If you are Malaya-bound, you will encounter them. What course do you propose to get there?”
“At present I am thinking of Canton first, then down the coast of Indo-China to Singapore.”
“Safe and sensible. But if you want to learn about the Boogis, you will bear south of the Philippines, through the Sulu Sea and along the Borneo coast. All those little islands you see with houses built on stilts out over the water, those are Boogis of one kind or another, different tribes, but they are all sea people. Watch out for them, though: they are a heartless lot.”
Bliven rose again and offered his hand. “I am in your debt, Captain, and I thank you again.”
* * *
* * *
IN THAT BUSINESS section west of the missionaries’ compound and the royal enclosure, Bliven found a few sound buildings of lava or coral blocks, but most again of framed lumber so closely built together that they hazarded fire. Closest to the waterfron
t were a rank of warehouses, giving way to mercantiles and hotels farther away. The firm of Marshall and Wildes he easily found; in fact, he would have seen it from where his ship lay anchored, but it faced a street running away from the beach. He found young Jones working at a large table whose papers appeared organized, with a writing desk behind him with its pigeonholes labeled and with folded papers sorted among them.
It was a better impression than Bliven expected to receive after what Ward had told him, but the young man appeared efficient at his duty—whether to his firm or his country was another matter, and the question of what women and how many he rogered in his spare time was his own affair. However, it was impossible not to imagine the slew of diseases surely now stewing beneath his dark blue trousers and picture him writhing in the tortures of mercury on his visits to the doctor, if he sought treatment. Bliven placed letters into the post, condolence to his mother, encouragement to Sam, and a brief account of his arrival and pending departure to Hull, with the assurance of a full report upon his return.
From the business district he made his way back to the east, down the beach path to Clarity’s pili, which he found empty and, for want of a door, standing open. He found by the fire some tea in the kettle left from breakfast, and moved a chair outside to take his ease until she returned. When he saw her coming along the path, she seemed light of heart, carrying the baby, wearing not a dress but a tapa skirt wrapped around the bottom of a trimmed cotton blouse, carrying a kind of knapsack over her shoulder. As soon as she saw him, her countenance brightened even more, and he rose and embraced her before they sat together.
The Devil in Paradise--Captain Putnam in Hawaii Page 27