Peter Wicked

by Broos Campbell

  He hesitated, brightened. “You will do it for us!” He backed away, trying to point the pistol at me on one side and Peebles on the other, and Peter between us.

  “We ain’t the only ones that heard the shot,” I said. I doubted it, but I had to say it for style. I took a step away from Peter and Peebles, off to my left. “There’s about thirty men that’s going to come down on your head in about a minute.”

  “All the more reason to be quick, then.” Corbeau reached the boat, pressing the back of his leg against the gunwale. “Come, we are in the hurry.”

  I kept sidling along to the left, my hands raised, palms to the fore. I didn’t know how quick or accurate he was, but I figured he could at least get his shot off before I could rush him. I eased in a little closer. “There’s that ‘we’ again,” I said. “Who’s ‘we’?”

  Peter stepped forward with his hand out. “Give me that pistol.”

  Corbeau smiled beautifully. The pistol pointed at Peter, but the barrel wavered and then drooped. “We should not wish the accident, eh, my friend? This Mr. Peebles has put the hole through my good coat already. I did not think he had it in him to shoot a fellow.”

  “He wouldn’t stop, sir,” said Peebles.

  Peter continued his advance, slowly, hand out.

  Blood was seeping red on red down the front of Corbeau’s vest and britches even as the color drained from his face. He felt behind him. He found the gunwale and sat on it.

  “But for why do you look so grim, my dear friend?” he said to Peter. “I have occasioned the means for our escape. We will continue our grand times, no?”

  “There’s nowhere to go,” said Peter. “It’s over.” He came slowly up to Corbeau and put his hand on the lock. His fingers closed over Corbeau’s, and then he eased the pistol out of his hand.

  “But I have let out the water,” said Corbeau. His lips quavered. “Now is for when you say how clever I was, to get them to stop to rewater.”

  Peter had sat down beside him. He uncocked the pistol and put an arm around Corbeau’s shoulders. “You are hurt. Let us attend to it.”

  Corbeau leaned into him. “You forgot to ask my parole, messieurs. I am the prisoner, whose duty it is to escape if he may.”

  “Of course, Iréné. Of course,” said Peter, patting him awkwardly.

  Peebles looked at Corbeau like he’d farted in church. “It isn’t right, sir,” he said.

  I took the pistol from Peter and gave it back to Peebles. “Yes, well, here comes Mr. Horne and his party with plenty of fresh water, and your boat’s crew wagging their tails behind them. It’d be a shame to waste this beautiful breeze. Let’s go home.”

  NINETEEN

  “Oh goodness no, madame,” said Citoyen-Lieutenant de vaisseau Iréné Hubert Bontecu St. Jean-Baptiste Corbeau to Mrs. Ebeneezer Bunce of George Town. Corbeau’s wound had turned out to be little more than a long streak of torn skin along his hip and side, and three weeks at sea and a fortnight in bed ashore had cured him as much as he’d ever be cured. The handsome Frenchman was in great demand in the Federal City as a cultured and exotic guest, a rare treat, a human hothouse vegetable, and was brightening up an otherwise bleak autumn day in the great oval reception room at the President’s House.

  “The pirates pitched their black colors into the sea when their capture was imminent, thinking they could escape prosecution that way,” he continued to Mrs. Bunce. “And later the first mate, the presumptuous M’sieur Crouch, attempted to fire the magazine, but La Flamme had left us so little powder that when he discharged his pistol into the powder keg”—he spread his hands in a helpless gesture—“there was only enough remaining to separate the face from the head and the hands from the wrists.” He gave her a little bow. “I beg Madame will pardon me if I am too descriptive.”

  “Oh! Oh dear! Such a life you sailors lead! How you thrill me,” gasped Mrs. Bunce, fanning herself and leaning on Corbeau’s right arm.

  “Yes,” said he. “And to think all this transpired long after the accords were signed at Mortefontaine. I am chagrined to discover we are at peace since the end of September.” He transferred her with admirable skill into the care of a startled army ensign.

  Captain Tingey’s adjutant, Lieutenant Crawley, had found me behind one of the pillars meanwhile in the cross hall I’d been hiding in. He was gray-faced and remote, and seemed to sag though he carried himself stiffly upright, which I suppose happens when you have a pistol ball lodged in your chest. “Someone should have a word with him, Graves,” he said. “We don’t want him airing our dirty laundry.”

  “I don’t have any dirty laundry, Crawley, but you go right ahead.”

  Though we were both lieutenants, he was far senior to me and had the ear of an influential captain; as he stared at me I began to think of how warm it was in the reception room, where a fire crackled on the hearth and the dignitaries was all crowded in together cheek to jowl, and how cold it was here in the hallway, with its uncarpeted floor and an icy draft from the unfinished big room down at the east end. But dog me if I would haul Crawley’s freight for him, I was thinking, when a waiter come along with yet another glass of sherry for Corbeau. I stepped out of my haven with a sigh.

  “Ahoy, waiter,” I said. “Shove off.” I gave him a ferocious look till he went away. I was about to haul my wind when Corbeau spotted me and held out his arms. “Ah, bonjour, citoyen-lieutenant,” I said, kind of pointing behind myself toward the hall. “I was just—”

  “The hero of Isla de Aves,” he announced, sweeping away my attempts to dodge his embrace. “I hear your commission is confirmed, and this beautiful shiny golden epaulet on your shoulder shall have a permanent home, perhaps one day to be joined by another on your other shoulder. Can it be I am the first to offer the congratulations? Such joy, then! Lieutenant Matthieu Graves: this is a name I will remember.” The sweet wine perfumed his breath, but something rotten lurked beneath it. He leaned close to whisper in French. “I will remember it, for one day I shall kill you for what you have done to La Flamme.” He kissed me on either cheek before he let me go.

  Mrs. Bunce was much too grand to acknowledge a mere lieutenant of the domestic variety, until the army ensign asked if I was the Lieutenant Graves, who had single-handedly destroyed a French 44 and a 22-gun ship-sloop with only a schooner and a handful of men.

  “Oh, is it true?” she asked, clapping her hands in expectation.

  “’Fraid not, ma’am,” I said. “La Flamme was a 28, the smallest type of frigate. I lured her onto a reef, or she would’ve took us for sure. The sloop was just a single-master of eight small guns, and of less weight of metal than ourselves,” but my protests were lost on her. She must have the pleasure, the privilege, of presenting the Hannibal of the Indies to her friends. Under a full press of bosom, she towed me around the crowded salon, pushing my acquaintance on Senator and Mrs. So-and-so and Major and Mrs. Something-or-other until the Hannibal of the Indies longed for a quiet room to lie in and a bottle of whiskey to press against his skull. I noticed she didn’t haul me over to the low stage where President Adams and his lady wife were nodding at their guests and allowing their hands to be kissed. My guess was she didn’t know them.

  “Allow me to get the lady some refreshment,” I said.

  “Nothing so strong as your grog, mind,” she said, smacking me coyly with her fan. “I know how you sailormen like to thrust an advantage, and here am I with my husband away.”

  I sent a waiter with a glass of sherry in her direction and slipped back into the hallway.

  Crawley tilted his head toward Corbeau, who had formed another clump of first-water somebodies around him. “You didn’t do such a good job of hushing him up,” he said.

  “I kind of liked what he was saying.”

  “Yes, well, just make sure he doesn’t spout off about the Breeze and Captain Mèche and—good lord, here comes the Secretary.” He slipped out to put a hand on Corbeau’s elbow. They put their heads together a moment, and then Craw
ley escorted him into the room next door where the cloaks were kept.

  Secretary of the Navy Benjamin Stoddert, in a rich blue velvet coat with silver buttons and a gleaming white neck-cloth that exactly matched the powder in his hair, strode across the entry hall, calling, “Mr. Graves! Mr. Graves, there.” He accepted my bow with a nod and edged me behind a column. His eyes were black, unreadable. “Again, my congratulations on a difficult task well done. Wish the loss could have been less, though a high butcher’s bill looks well in the papers. Can’t make bread without grinding wheat, I guess. Was that Tingey’s first I saw leaving just now with our French guest?” Before I could answer, he continued, “And if the chaff hasn’t been winnowed out, then it must be plucked from the bread before somebody breaks a tooth. We found most of the marooned Breezes where a certain acquaintance of ours said they’d be, and some of them none too happy to be rescued.” He allowed himself a brief smile. “Charlotte Amalie has its delights, I dare say. What do you think of the President’s House?”

  “Drafty and unfinished, sir. And the people got me flummoxed. I don’t know what I’m allowed to say, so mostly I’ve just been keeping my mouth shut.”

  “Good. I was told you were intelligent.” He pressed down on my shoulder with one hand, as if to impress me with the weight he could bring to bear, and swiveled his head around as if to see was anybody looking. In a lower voice he said, “Now, there is one more matter, another delicate matter. I refer to a certain commodity that our former comrade was said to have on board the, ah, the vessel in question. You made no mention of its whereabouts in your report.”

  “But I did, sir. I said I recovered some of it from Captain Browbury and the rest of it weren’t in the Breeze. Does Corbeau know anything about it?”

  “He claims not to. But we are not interested in where it isn’t. Speculate on where it is, please.”

  “I’d guess it’s buried in a certain island or got burned up in La Flamme, sir. Ain’t no one asked the survivors?”

  “If it had been transferred to La Flamme, I think he would have said so out of spite.”

  “Peter Wickett isn’t a spiteful sort, sir. Cranky, yes, but hardly—”

  “I was referring to Mr. Corbeau. In the meanwhile, Columbia will rescue what she can from the island.” He let his eyes roam over the company. “Our man . . . well, this is very embarrassing, y’understand, but our man said nothing while he was in your care?”

  “Mr. Wickett ain’t exactly talkative, sir. We had a falling out after the Rattle-Snake sunk. He wrote some letters, though, which Peebles passed along to me.”

  “Where are these letters?”

  “Probably in the Columbia’s mail bag, sir.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You gave them to Commodore Gaswell?”

  “First chance I got, yes sir.”

  “You made copies of these letters?”

  “I sure didn’t, sir. They were private letters.”

  “Yes, of course. Certainly a gentleman would not read another gentleman’s letters, except maybe by accident.”

  “If he did, he wouldn’t remember what he read.”

  “No, of course not. And he wouldn’t notice to whom they were sent, either, I suppose?”

  “I doubt he’d give it a second thought, sir, beyond noting that they were navy men of the first rate. One of ’em was you, as I recall.”

  “And one of them was you, I suspect. What did he say?”

  “Nothing I didn’t already know, sir. He laid out the events as they transpired. The fight in the Bight of Léogâne, I mean, sir. Mr. P. Hoyden Blair has got a wild burr up his—” The Secretary looked like he was about to be displeased with my language, and I finished, “He got a strong dislike for the both of us, sir. I imagine Mr. Wickett just wants as many officers to know the truth of it as possible.”

  He cocked an eye at me. “As many officers as possible?”

  “I misspoke, sir. It’s only a select few.”

  “But unless I know which are the select few, a fair and impartial trial is impossible. He’s muddied the waters.”

  “I got faith that my fellow officers can tell humbuggery when they see it, sir. And honor, too.”

  “Honor, certainly. But will the public know it?” Stoddert was fast in stays. He tacked so fast I couldn’t keep up with him. “We received word from Paris, as you may know by now, bringing news that accords have been signed. That will mean a reduction in the navy, of course. Congress reconvenes next Monday. I should like to remember you favorably.”

  “I’d like that too, sir.”

  “Then pray call on me. Monday would be good; tomorrow would be better. Good day, sir.”

  It wasn’t only perhaps-not-so-friendless lieutenants who worried about their jobs, I realized as I bowed to him. The results of the presidential election couldn’t be guessed at for weeks yet, and wouldn’t be announced till February, but Stoddert, a staunch Federalist, might not survive a change in the Executive.

  A Negro footman met the Secretary in the north entry hall, opposite the reception room, and helped him into his cloak. He saw Stoddert to the door, nodded at something he said, and glanced toward me. Then he came over to me with a look like he was about to do me a big favor.

  “Mr. Graves, sir?” he said. “Come with me, please.” He said something to an important-looking chap, who twitched my neck-cloth around and muttered in my ear, “Do not turn your back and do not linger.”

  The important-looking chap led me over to the low stage at the far end of the room where the Adamses were doling out bows. “Lieutenant Graves, who destroyed the French frigate La Flamme,” he intoned as I sidled past the platform. Mr. Adams’s expression changed from fixed pleasantness to mild interest as I made my leg.

  “Ah, Mr. Gray,” said he, “I recall the action very well. It was a pleasure to sign your commission yesterday, Mr. Gray; I remember it distinctly. Good luck to you, sir.” While I was thinking about what should accompany my “Thank you, your Excellency,” and whether I should tell him he’d gotten my name wrong or I should just change it, I got nudged aside and Mr. Adams was inclining the presidential periwig to the next guest in line.

  “Good on you, sir,” said Lady Adams.

  I had an impression of pink cheeks, though whether from paint or from vigorous pinching, I couldn’t say, and iron hair, and eyes as dark and inscrutable as the Secretary’s, and then I found myself ushered into the cloakroom. I took my beautiful new fore-and-aft hat out from under my arm and settled it onto my head, reclaimed my greatcoat, stepped grandly out the south door, and tripped over my sword on the way down the steps.

  My progress was halted when I banged into a gentleman in mourning clothes, who was waiting while a footman handed his lady out of a carriage. “I beg pardon, sir,” says I, picking the gentleman up. “No harm, I—Why, Mr. Towson, how d’ye do?”

  “I was well a moment ago, Mr. Graves,” he said, yanking his arm away from me.

  “A right pleasure to see you, sir. And you, ma’am,” I said, doffing my hat and making a deep leg to Mrs. Towson.

  “We read of your exploits, sir,” said she. By God, that woman could smile.

  “And I’m terribly sorry about Dick,” I said. “I didn’t know until after he’d sailed that he’d tried to get me appointed to the Insurgent. I sent a note as soon as I heard they was sank. I hope you got it.” I turned to Mr. Towson and gave him a more formal bow than what I’d gave him already. “The expediencies of the service, sir, kept me from sending a longer letter to express my sorrow at the time, and I dropped anchor at Alexandria just the other day. I beg you forgive me.”

  Towson stepped back like I’d smacked him. “Forgive you! After what you did to my daughter, I oughtn’t even be speaking to you. On whom should my friend call, sir?”

  “Whom—? Ah . . . wh-wh-what,” I stuttered cleverly.

  Mrs. Towson put her hand on his arm. “Now, Elver.”

  “‘Now, Elver’ nothing, woman. I’m calling him out, and I do
n’t appreciate you—”

  “See here, Mr. Towson,” I cut in, “I don’t know what Arabella told you. Well, I mean, it’s obvious what she told—”

  He shook his finger under my nose. “You’ll never have the pleasure of hearing him call you ‘papa.’ I have said enough, you damned puppy. Allow me, madam, to pass,” he said to his wife, and motioned for the footman to put the steps back beneath the carriage door.

  “For shame, Elver,” she said. “The gentleman had no doing in that matter. Look how the people stare.” They weren’t staring, her husband having had the sense to keep his voice down, but he took the hint and closed his mouth. “You know this noble boy would never shoot you,” she continued, “much as you deserve it, and I’ll not let you shoot him. It wasn’t he who ruined Arabella. You can thank your despicable Roby Douglass for that.”

  “At least he’ll marry her.”

  “They were destined for each other. Alight, sir—take the carriage—go. I have things to discuss with the gentleman.”

  After her husband had slammed the door and the carriage had splashed away through the mire, her expression softened. “He forgets what it is to be young. I will remind him, one of these evenings. How fine you look.” She lifted the edge of my cloak to reveal my single epaulet, gleaming golden even in Washington’s bleak light. “You have regained your lieutenancy. It hasn’t turned to ash in your mouth, I hope?”

  “No, ma’am, I like it fine.”

  “Oh, what dreadful ordeals you must have endured! That scar on your cheek is most heroic.” She fluttered her fingers over the plaster hiding the raw stitches that pulled my lip askew. “But I am sure you are weary of ladies swooning over you. Will you take me someplace dry and tell me all about it?”

  I’d been lucky enough to secure a room to myself in a pleasantly obscure frame building near the water in GeorgeTown. The neighborhood was safely unfashionable; but it was a good two miles away from the President’s House, there was not a carriage to be had, and Mrs. Towson’s skirts were soaked by the time we reached it.