The Shores of Tripoli

by James L. Haley

  “Sam, I am so sorry.”

  “He could have gone into town and stayed there,” he said, almost like he was protesting. “He could have written a letter explaining their business, and left the slaves there in the bottoms. They could show people the letter if they were questioned. But he didn’t.” He looked into Bliven’s eyes. “He didn’t want anyone molesting his people. He was not a cruel man.” He began to weep again. “I can’t bear for anyone to think he was a bad man.”

  “I do not think that. Certainly he was a good man, Sam.”

  Sam sipped his tea, very hot and sweet. “He was more than my father, really. My brothers are much older, they never had time for me. He was my friend and my teacher. There were not many neighbors, I had not many friends. I do not warm to people easily. I do not know what I shall do, knowing that he is gone.”

  “I also feel great tenderness for my father,” said Bliven softly. “You have met him, you know why. And I have no idea how I shall respond to this calamity, Sam, when it happens to me, and it almost surely must, one day. But there is one thing about your present disaster for which you must feel comforted.”

  Sam looked at him searchingly.

  Bliven wrapped his big, salt-roughened hand around Sam’s. “You must never, not ever, believe yourself friendless.”

  Sam Bandy’s body seized, a convulsion ruthlessly controlled, as tears poured from his eyes. Strange, thought Bliven, grief we can bear, it is comfort that overwhelms. In a moment Sam could speak, but he could not look up. “Indeed, I am not.”

  “We even had to swear it, did we not? What other two friends ever had to do that?”

  Sam smiled through his agony. “True. Wait, what was it you wanted to tell me, when you came bursting in here?”

  “Oh, it’s of no consequence, Clarity wrote me a quite devastating assessment of President Jefferson that was too funny. It will keep for another time.”

  Sam nodded. “Yes, I must write to my mother. She does not know where I am, and she sent her letter through the Navy Department to forward to me.” He smiled sadly. “She had the furniture sold in Savannah, she could not bear to look at it.”

  Bliven stood up. “I guess you will not feel like attending an opera tonight.”

  “Oh, no, I had forgotten. I can’t possibly. Can you tell—”

  “Leave it to me. It will be late when we return, but will you knock if you need me? Anything at all.”

  “I will, I thank you.”

  Bliven returned to his berth and closed the door behind him, shaking his head. What terrible detours Life can launch us upon. Our lives can change direction entirely, with no warning whatever. He could wash overboard in a storm; a gun could misfire and explode, he could lose his footing while aloft. His parents seemed healthy but who could really know? Clarity could take typhus. Suddenly it seemed a miracle that anyone ever reached old age.

  18.

  LIEUTENANT COMMANDANT

  August 1805

  He sat, and returned to Clarity’s letter. Ah, yes, she was discussing the intellectual malleability of Jefferson’s lackeys in the Congress.

  I have particularly in mind for this criticism his recent purchase, wholly illegal and unconstitutional, of French Louisiana from Bonaparte. Tell me, on what page of any national document does he find the authority to have done this?

  Nevertheless, he is reelected, and apparently with a greater popularity than in that terrible canvass of four years ago. Not I, nor many others hereabouts, have forgiven him the terrible calumnies that he caused to be published against Mr. President Adams at that time. We take some comfort, however, in learning that the unsavory printer whom Mr. Jefferson engaged to do that deed, has become disaffected from him, and turned his poisoned pen ’round upon Mr. Jefferson himself. One hears that the printer, as part of his payment for savaging Mr. Adams, desired the emolument of being made postmaster in Richmond. Mr. Jefferson, one supposes owing many political debts and favors in his native state, preferred another to the station. The printer therefore chose to take his revenge, and one reads everywhere now that Mr. Jefferson, who as we all know is long widowed and otherwise to be sympathized with, has for many years sought the favors of a slave on his plantation. Her name is Sally, and they seem to have several children together. The extraordinary thing is that Mr. Jefferson has not denied it, indeed he has made no reply whatever.

  From this I conclude two things. The first is that there must be some truth behind it, for otherwise Mr. Jefferson would surely have the man in court facing a libel action—except, now as I think about it, Mr. Jefferson was returned to the presidency with the warm support of the South, where such things are thought less of, or perhaps even approved of. He has made a clever turn, to be sure, increasing the value of his property with new slaves while at the same time satisfying his passions on this hapless woman. My second conclusion is that, as censurable as Mr. Jefferson’s conduct may be, it is a symptom of the illness, not the illness itself. If there were no slavery, such a relationship could not exist, except with the consent and affection of both parties.

  And now, can I not see you smiling—there she goes, you are saying, back on slavery again. I do confess the evil of it vexes me as much as when we spoke. Perhaps even more so, for there is a new development of which I must tell you—and at least you cannot criticize me for slighting you with a short letter.

  The learned Reverend, Mr. Beecher, now visits Litchfield nearly on a monthly basis. He is from New Haven, of course, so his own family connections could bring him back regularly from his church on Long Island. Of late he has become imbued with the spirit of abolition; he is afire with the wrongs of slavery, and is raising money to fight it. It has become known in the community that the Pierce sisters have increased their support for his efforts, and even my own father, who I need not tell you takes a less strict approach to such matter as drink, has subscribed donations to his church. So have many others of our acquaintance.

  Bliven lay the letter down to allow himself a few moments’ disgust about Reverend Beecher. The man should become a poultry farmer; he surely did seem to be proving his skill at plucking prime chickens. He took up the letter again.

  On Sunday last he preached a sermon overflowing with conviction, on the sure error of those at the South who believe that slavery is sanctioned because it exists in the Bible, and because St. Paul advises the slaves of his day to meekly obey their masters.

  His countenance is goodly as well as godly, indeed one might call him handsome, as you will remember. This does not bear upon his intellect, but I believe that the average layman will hear a message better from a comely person than from a homely one. He is only nine and twenty years old, which I think a fine age to preach convictions. He is old enough and educated to know many truths, and young enough to preach them with passion—and when he preaches he seems to be on fire. His skill in speaking is such that I am grateful he is in the service of God and not politics, for he could convince anyone of the rightness of his beliefs. I know that you and he did not warm to each other upon first meeting. I pray that you and he will become friends, if only for my sake.

  Bliven stopped reading, disquieted for a moment, and then cast down altogether. Had he a rival, in only the second letter he received from her? Why was he nine and twenty, and no mention of his being married? If he had a wife, surely Clarity would have written of her. As his gloom deepened he finally realized what was happening with him—that if his feelings for her were no deeper than infatuation, he would not care, one way or the other. But he realized how much she had come to mean to him.

  He admonished himself to leave this off, but dwelt on it in spite of himself. Clarity was educated, not just in the school subjects but in the graces that formed a large part of Miss Pierce’s success at turning out young ladies ready to enter society. Clarity would never have praised this Beecher fellow if she thought her words would kindle jealousy. Therefore it
was clear that, either her regard for the man was harmless, or things between them had changed. Perhaps, like the young lawyers from South Carolina, she also looked on him after all as the drayman’s son, invited to a party out of kindness, but surely not cut from their cloth. It made him feel sad and small—and confirmed that if this was to be his luck with women, then he chose well a life at sea.

  Oh, the time! Bliven realized he must attend the commodore, and get ashore for the opera. He quickly donned a clean shirt, then his waistcoat, coat, and sword, and regarded as much of himself as he could see by angling his sight down in the tiny mirror. Preble had given the other junior officers leave to explore their own amusements, and they had taken the cutter. He sought out the bosun’s mate to select four rowers and prepare to lower the jolly boat before rapping on the commodore’s cabin.

  “Enter,” called Preble.

  Bliven made his quick salute. “The men are getting the jolly boat ready, sir.”

  “Very well. Where is Mr. Bandy?”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard. The post brought him a letter from home; his father has died. He’s taking it rather hard and wants to be alone for a while.”

  “Oh?” Preble gave a sharp look outside into the wardroom, where he could see the closed door to Sam’s cabin. “Damn. Damn, there is no good time for news like that. Is he all right?”

  “He will be. He just needs to get over the shock.”

  “Should I speak to him?”

  “That is most kind, sir, but I think not. Truly, I believe he wishes to recover himself before seeing anyone.”

  “Poor boy. Damned hard luck. Well, we had best be off.” Up on the quarterdeck they swung over the taffrail and into the boat, whose rowers were already seated, holding their oars vertical. Once they hit the water Bliven took the tiller. At only sixteen feet long the jolly boat took a slapping from the chop in the bay, but they were not noticeably wet by the time they made out Constitution’s cutter tied up at the quay.

  They found Consul Barton and his wife awaiting them in a carriage. “Boys”—Preble turned to the four oarsmen—“you may enjoy yourselves, but be moderate. When we return, I do not want to find you drunk, or beaten up, or in custody. Do you understand?”

  There was a low chorus of agreement. “Well, go find your mates from the cutter and try to keep out of trouble.”

  David Barton descended from the carriage to greet them; they removed their bicornes as they stepped up into it, leaving Barton a moment’s embarrassment in discerning how to pull up his own large bulk, eased when the driver dismounted and helped him.

  “Commodore,” Susan greeted Preble.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Mr. Putnam, how nice to see you. Where is your friend Mr. Bandy?”

  “He sends his regrets, ma’am,” said Bliven. “The mail brought him the most dreadful news that he has lost his father. He is most terribly stricken, and begs to be excused.”

  “Oh!” The pain on Susan Barton’s face seemed quite genuine. “I am heartily sorry to hear it. I shall have Rafaela prepare a supper basket for him and leave it in the hall. When we return from the opera, will you take it out to him?”

  “Yes, gladly, how very kind.”

  Susan tapped the driver on the back. “Luigi, did you hear? Once you leave us at the theater, go back to the consulate and see to it, then come back and wait for us.”

  “Molto bene, signora.” The two horses walked on with a light tap of the reins on their backs.

  “The theater has a supper room,” said Barton. “Consul Barnes and his daughter are already there to meet the king. We will stop in there first to make our courtesies. Now, I would not load up a large plate, as we will go straight on to our box. The king, you know, is very modern and will want to shake hands, so take care not to be holding a plate if he does.”

  “The queen is Austrian,” said Susan. “She’s very fond of Mozart, so she will be there. She may speak to you to be courteous, but you mustn’t speak to her unless she addresses you first.”

  “I have heard of operas,” said Bliven, “but never attended one. What are we going to hear?”

  “Ha!” laughed Barton. “The king is very proud of himself. He remembered that the theater did a production last year of The Abduction from the Seraglio. He thought it would be peculiarly appropriate, considering your late adventure in spiriting the Barneses out of Algiers, to command a repeat performance.”

  They settled into their box, and such music Bliven had never heard before. The rollicking overture, with its triangle and cymbals meant to effect a “Turkish” sound, its halting modulation in a minor key during which the mind’s eye easily conjured an intruder, tiptoeing down a dark and dangerous corridor, its headlong rush to the safety of a double bar—all might well have been played to accompany his sortie into Algiers.

  He spoke not a word of Italian, and even if he had the singing was so ornamented he could have followed none of it, but the plot was so transparent there was no need of language. All that he need do was enjoy his first exposure to such ravishing, pure music.

  Susan reached over and tapped Bliven’s arm with her fan. “I am so sorry to trouble you, but Miss Barnes is not feeling well. Could we possibly impose on you to take her back to the consulate?”

  “Yes, certainly,” he whispered. Of course, he must betray nothing of his grief at having this experience cut short. “But would her father not prefer to do it himself?”

  “He would, but we need him to stay; the king may wish to speak to him later.”

  Bliven looked across the box at Rebecca, gowned in pale blue silk, her hair fashionably done up but looking wan and labored for all that. A moment’s eye contact with Susan and he rose and crossed over to her. “Miss Barnes, would you like me to take you back?”

  “Oh, would you? That would be most kind.”

  As they exited the box Bliven glanced over his shoulder, across to the royal box, and saw the king conducting the orchestra from his chair with evident delight, and the queen affecting not to notice, but clearly embarrassed. He judged that she had discussed such gauche behavior with him before, with no good effect. His and Rebecca’s absence would not be noticed.

  Once Rebecca was safely in the carriage, the fresh air seemed to revive her. “So, Lieutenant, once again you rescue me from a difficult situation.”

  Bliven smiled, mindful of her perfume. “Well, you seem rather better situated than when we first became acquainted.”

  She was quiet as they passed down the street to the consulate. When they stopped he helped her down and escorted her inside.

  “Will you see me up?” she asked.

  He hesitated, wondering at the necessity of that, but quickly acquiesced rather than make her feel awkward.

  “You know, since I’ve been here, it’s been hard not to think back, on Algiers, and the women that I lived with in the, well, harem.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you know that Arab women are often married by the age of twelve?”

  “Indeed?”

  “Most of them are grandmothers at twenty-five.”

  “It is a different way of living, without question.”

  “Do you know, the women bathe, every day?”

  Bliven felt himself shying away from such an intimate subject. “Perhaps it is the climate.”

  “No, not at all.” They reached the door of her chamber, which she opened, and led him inside by the hand. “They hold themselves in readiness for their men, if one of them should come and, well, desire her.” She rubbed a hand idly at the bustline of her dress. “Oh, this is getting us nowhere.” She drew close to him, pulled his head down, and kissed him, fully and sweetly, after which she lay her hands flat against his chest. “Do you know what to do? I can show you, if you need.”

  His heart pounded, his search for words fruitless until he found refuge in the stupid p
latitudes of gentlemanly conduct. “I can make you no promises!” he blurted.

  Rebecca drew back. “Nor I you. But we have been through much these past months, in our own ways. Have we not each seen the uncertainties of life? You or I could take a fever and die tomorrow, or your ship sink. We have this place and this moment, and I want to know what love is while I am young. Don’t you?”

  He let her remove his coat, and then his waistcoat and shirt; he held her, wanting to reciprocate, but after a brief search realized he had no idea how her elaborate gown came off. “Let me,” she said. “It gets complicated.”

  She pulled the rustling dress over her head as he removed his shoes, and in a moment they embraced bare-chested. She unfastened his breeches, even as he thought, of all incongruous thoughts to have, how much he disliked these uniforms and preferred the new and easier style of trousers.

  When there was nothing more to remove she swept her hands down the breadth of his chest to his waist. “I have never seen a man before.”

  He swallowed. “Then how do you know so well what to do?”

  She laughed quietly. “In truth? There are some novels. They are banned, but some of them are smuggled into the country. They are very clear on how it all works.”

  They lay on her bed, awkwardly, for it was a bed for one, and once uncorseted she proved larger than he anticipated. He kissed her throat as he stroked her breasts; they were large, as formable under his hands as udders, which he found did not kindle passion. Still, he knew to kiss and caress them. He inhaled deeply; the lieutenants whose coarse talk he had heard about women prepared him for odors unfamiliar and earthy, but there were none. They were dear and gentle with each other, and explored everything that was new to them.

  When it was over and they had rested a few moments in each other’s arms, Rebecca ran her fingers through the faint, downlike hair that was beginning to show on his chest. He opened his eyes as she said, “I don’t want you to worry about this.”