Reflections in the Wake

by James Spurr

  “Thank you for sharing,” Captain Lee offered sincerely. After some little small talk while walking along a narrow canal and across a delicate arched bridge, she ducked down a narrow alley barely wide enough for two, then led him left beneath another arched opening cut through a solid brick wall and entered into a beautiful courtyard and garden.

  She announced, “Home, of sorts, at least for a short while. Thank you, Captain, for accompanying me.”

  Captain Lee replied with some formality, “Thank you, Marie LaPoine, for your troubles in delivering the letters. I have no idea why they have been shipped to me…” then, after hesitating, “But I find myself alone in a charming city which you seem to know well. Would you walk with me tomorrow and explain more of what I have been admiring alone, but I am certain with very little appreciation for its significance?”

  She nodded, smiled and offered, “I will be your guide. Mid day?”

  Captain Lee stared at the satchel as the crew rowed back to John Adams. Duties required his attention as he took the deck, but later, as his attendant laid out supper in his great cabin, a Mediterranean sunset flooding the woodwork with soft orange light, he opened the flap of the satchel and selected a piece of correspondence at random.

  The letter was from a Captain Lee.

  But not from him; not from Captain James Lee.

  Rather the letter was from his father, Captain William Lee, written to Bemose, his father’s common law wife, during the late war which had raged through the Great Lakes.

  The letter held his attention until the cabin was too dark to allow him to read it yet again; his clerk’s requests to light the lamps ignored. His father, Captain William Lee, had written about people, naming names not mentioned for years, though he, Captain James Lee, admitted such thoughts and memories were very near the surface of his consciousness each day.

  Captain James Lee sat in his cabin, in the dark, his dinner well past cold. A third glass of wine seemed to relax his defenses, and his loneliness and despair at his situation of late paled by comparison to the

  depression into which he sank that evening.

  His father had written about them all.

  But his father, Captain William Lee, was dead. And Captain Perry was dead. And that British bastard, his father’s enemy, Lieutenant James Fleet, R.N., was dead. So many were dead; who played on the world stage that fateful day, which forever defined him and a few others who survived, as “Perry’s men.”

  * * *

  Captain Lee was punctual, arriving in a fresh shirt and well tied stock, brushed coat and polished boots, ceremonial sword hanging at his side.

  James regarded Marie as one admired fluid motion and perfect grace; her walk, her gestures, the way her limbs and muscles struck perfectly natural yet striking poses. Marie’s expressions combined with light and shadow to add character, no beauty, to a city bathed in soft glows of subtle red, yellow, patches of green and terra cotta. But aside from an emerald green scarf, made the most of with her every movement, he noted the same dress as the day before.

  And while his appearance suggested to her preparation and respect, his mood was suppressed and formal; or so she thought.

  Soon, however, after a discussion of architecture and arches, through which James was most polite as he feigned interest, he laughed. Finally, Marie thought, and at such silliness. A waterman delivering vegetables was being harshly scolded by an elderly grocer twice his age and half his size. He became so flustered he lost his balance in his narrow craft, as though the grocer’s wagging finger was a cat’o’nine tails. The hapless waterman fell into the canal with a great splash, to the cheers and jeers of the market patrons.

  Initially concerned for the man, Marie teased, “Captain Lee, is that how you would react should I fall by the board from your ship?”

  He shot back, not missing a beat. “Marie, please call me James, and I would within an instant, I am certain, lose half my crew to a spontaneous rescue attempt!”

  She warmed to the compliment, delivered so easily. She confessed, “I rather thought my tour was losing your interest.”

  James considered the true reason for his less than jovial mood: the long night spent reading still another letter, this time from Bemose to his uncle, Oliver Williams. But instead he offered, “What would hold my interest, Marie, is a story. Tell me why a young woman from France travels to Italy to deliver letters for a woman to a man, neither of whom she has ever met.”

  Marie walked on a bit, over still another small bridge, and offered, “The question assumes, I suppose, I should have more pressing matters vying for my time. The truth is that I do not.”

  “Tell me of your home; your family,’ James suggested.

  “My family is… largely gone and our ancestral home was seized during the terror and war years.” Her voice nearly cracked at the thought, though James suspected the memory must be, by that time, rather distant.

  She continued, “I sometimes think my uncle, Father Armand LaPointe who departed for Canada to convert the savage natives, was the lucky one to have avoided the losses we suffered under Napoleon.” She shook her head and scoffed, “Liberty, fraternity… what else was it, yes, equality… just a license to unleash jealousy, strip property, ignore culture, refuse education and steal the wealth from those who not only created the same but allowed others to rise to it all and improve themselves while so doing.” James did not necessarily agree with her last sentiment suggesting the aristocracy encouraged opportunity, but did not interrupt.

  She then spoke quietly, with a deep bitterness, staring down a narrow canal and clearly recalling the pain. “An entire generation of good men and women condemned for realizing their God given talent.” Marie admitted, “The Revolutionary slogans all sounded good and when I was very young, it was at first exciting. But as for mine, an educated family with property, the one slogan they never thought to shout while before the blade was ’Justice’!”

  She glanced at James, seeing shock, as she had expected, but also his expression was sympathetic and caring.

  “We heard of the travesty, of course,” he explained quietly. “But I was in North America at the time. I never witnessed…”

  Marie continued, “My parents were killed and our lands confiscated when I was very young. Many of my male cousins said goodbye to me as they marched off to Moscow with the Grand Armee, half a million strong. None returned. I imagine them frozen and unburied. They were not patriots, just as I am no heroine for delivering a satchel of letters. They marched because they were hungry; I came to Venice because there was nothing for me in Genoa, nor in so many other cities in which I scratch for a living.”

  James was stunned; while deploring the effects of war and having seen it first hand on a smaller scale and for a short time throughout his homeland, he had no idea how twenty years of war in Europe impacted the young and innocent. He had for much of those same years lived alongside the Great Lakes, where nature was bountiful, opportunity abundant and his years at sea, while he considered them service, now seemed as self indulgent isolation. He asked, “How did, or do you, make it, without any permanent home?”

  Marie laughed, “Same as you! We learn a trade and hope that it serves, do we not? For my part, I have opened bakeries in many villages and small towns and if not for a fire in Avignon, would likely not have made my way to Genoa.”

  Marie’s comment about his profession struck all too close to deep thoughts tugging at him for some months. James welcomed a change of subject, “Baked goods, oh, that would set us up right! Have you eaten yet today?” He gestured to a bakery across the campi, crowded with rather poor Venetians attending to laundry, chores, drawing water from a common cistern, hanging casually from and conversing through open windows, surprised to see a Naval Officer in their midst. They had walked aimlessly for some time and now he asked as they followed the scent of fresh baked bread, “Marie, do you know where we are?”

  “Vaguely,” she shrugged, “or at least how to find the Rialto. You wil
l like that,” her eyes were smiling as they connected with his, “after we share some bread and cheese.”

  While tearing the bread, James noted a flag in a window, dark red and gold trimmed with a winged lion. He asked Marie, gesturing, “A local banner, perhaps?”

  Marie smiled and explained, “The winged lion is the symbol of St. Mark.”

  James interjected, “The apostle, author of the gospel?”

  “The same,” Marie confirmed.

  James, thinking of geography, was curious. “What is the connection?”

  Marie explained, “Hundreds of years ago, locals traveling in the Muslim east are supposed to have smuggled his relics back to Christendom, here in Venice, and kept at the cathedral. St. Mark thus became the patron saint of Venice and the flag in the window is the flag of the old Venetian Republic.” Her tone suggested regret.

  “We are in port for the purpose of allowing one of our diplomats to improve ties with the Austrians, both here and at Dubrovnik,” James remarked, “but I confess I sense no legitimacy in their claim to rule. I would have been far more excited to have been greeted by the Doge or his emissaries, or the Ragussan’s in Dubrovnik.”

  Marie appreciated his statement, nodded at finding a common connection in their politics. “Napoleon did more than ruin France. All of these older legitimate kingdoms are struggling with interlopers destroying national identity and old customs.”

  They completed their dinner, then continued with their stroll. As they passed some store fronts, James asked, “These elaborate masks are so interesting. Are they for parties or special occasions?” He stopped to admire one in azure blue with elaborate scarves and feathers, which with a gown would have supplied a complete disguise.

  Marie smiled and affirmed, “You see, a perfect example of our politics!”

  James did not understand. Marie grabbed his arm, pulled him inside the shop and showed him a wide and beautiful variety of such masks, each very different but all festive. She explained, “Venice had for hundreds of years a prolonged carnival each year, perhaps overdone, true, but now banned by the Austrians.”

  “But why?” protested James.

  Marie conceded, “Well, for some time, the behavior from so many in the city, relying upon anonymity while totally disguised, was very bad and there was, in the end, an increase in crimes and safety concerns. Yet, despite the excess, it was very much a part of the Venetian culture and a remnant of its former greatness. But alas, now the masks may only be displayed as art, but without the carnival celebration.”

  James was torn. As a military man, he understood the need for discipline and laws, but understood Maria’s point about new rulers deliberately attempting to obliterate the culture and history of the vanquished.

  They returned to the street, turned a corner and instantly smiled. The Rialto bridge, a beautiful, ancient structure with half of its width in the middle covered with elaborate arches, the outboard sides open to the air, spanned the Grand Canal. They bounded up the steps to the approach and enjoyed the view from the apex. The view from the Rialto emphasized the height of Venetian commerce and brought to mind the wealth and power of a truly ancient, although now former, Republic.

  James observed, “Despite the ravages of Napoleon, the fall of the Republic he toppled, and the latest gang of ‘nobles’ pretending to benevolently govern from afar, the greatness of this city, her people and culture shines through.”

  She smiled, nodded and appreciated not just his comment, but the way he conveyed such sentiments. Marie was impressed.

  For a moment, James was swept away by the thoughts invoked by his guide. He forgot the deep doubt he harbored as to his own place in the politics of nations and deeds of men, made all the worse it seemed, at least so far, by a satchel full of letters awaiting him in his cabin.

  * * *

  Two days later the yawl boat approached the larboard entry port. Captain Lee never witnessed a smarter approach. He suspected Jensen favored his passenger and was doing his best to impress. Whistles called the greeting and Marie, having accepted a Captain’s handwritten invitation, climbed up the side of John Adams. Captain Lee impressed to have not needed to rig the chair, as with many ladies. Marie needed no hoisting; she was capable and independent.

  Having a woman aboard was a very rare if not a singular occasion, and Marie quickly sensed it. James conducted a tour of his ship, her first man o’ war flying the stars and stripes. She was impressed with the cleanliness, overall condition and demeanor of the crew in so many little respects as they undoubtedly could not have guessed her noticing. But Marie was observant of details, expressions, tones, posture and a host of other indications of mood, attitude and well being. The crew caused her no concern; James, their Captain, she could not yet fathom.

  His pride in ship and crew, his capability and qualities of leadership were evident. And again, after some time, she brought out the lighter side of what first seemed a suppressed spirit.

  When shown where the powder was stored, deep in the bowels of the frigate, she could not help but kneel, pull aside the felt curtain and crawl through the purposefully small entry, seeming to giggle through her small adventure. Her enthusiasm surprised James, if not her unladylike conduct, but it also caused him to smile and as the felt blanket fell back in place behind her, now in the copper lined powder magazine, she let out a cry at the realization it was pitch black and she, without light, was surrounded by high explosives. James was slightly concerned, as she had acted so impetuously she had not removed her shoes; a strict safety requirement so as to avoid the possibility of sparks. But he had noticed her shoes were entirely of leather with no metal in the soles.

  “Marie,” he called out, “Do not move, a light will be available in an instant.”

  “James,” she offered contritely, but he suspected not entirely sincerely, “I fear I acted with just a bit of over enthusiasm.” They both laughed, on opposite sides of the bulkhead and blanket. But as a nearby crew member lit the special lantern, dedicated for such purpose, the Captain of the U.S.S. John Adams wished, for but an instant before pulling himself back to the situation at hand, that he was with Marie, in the dark, assuring her with his presence rather than by mere instruction.

  The lantern was slid into its dedicated box, on the opposite side of the powder magazine and built into the bulkhead, so that its light shone through a glass enclosure, illuminating the magazine while keeping the flame and fuel entirely on the safe side, away from the powder. Marie exclaimed, “Oh, how clever!”

  To which, James replied, taking her hand and assisting her back through the small entry and felt blanket curtain, “Yes, the trademark of sailors!”

  She laughed and he smiled and she registered his good nature with her slight misbehavior and unexpected complications, knowing full well and feeling rather special that he would likely have not been so patient or tolerant with any of his crew or other visitor.

  As they took the deck, a beautiful sunset unfolding, Captain Lee was looking to the east, along with everyone it seemed on board and she found herself the only person looking west. Thinking it most odd, she noted his gaze and followed it to find it was set upon another ship, very similar to John Adams, approaching slowly in the light wind. She stood close to his side and he growled, “A British frigate.” She then noted the Union Jack, largely limp, at the peak of the gaff.

  An officer approached and offered Captain Lee his long glass. He did not so much as look at the man, holding his gaze upon the only other armed vessel in the canal. He merely replied, “I can see well enough.” His tone was hard, his voice cold.

  Marie was surprised at the chill sent down her spine. She detected the look of concern on the part of the other officer and his apprehensive glance exchanged with the crew standing near the rail.

  As the British intruder, at least upon their good humor, if not Venice itself, let go the anchor, one of its guns erupted with instantaneous smoke and flame from its larboard bow. It was a blank charge of course, a cu
stomary salute. Marie knew the two nations had been at peace for more than ten years.

  A gun team aboard John Adams, she then noticed, had been busy for evidently some minutes as the British frigate approached. They stood by their gun, port still closed, not yet run out, watching their captain and waiting.

  The officer, who Marie recalled upon their brief introduction, was serving as First, softly intoned, “Captain, a reply?” His voice seemed to almost plead, not merely remind.

  No reminder was necessary; no plea effective.

  Captain Lee just stared. His counterpart, not so distant, could be clearly seen to extend his long glass and train it upon him. Marie knew she was likely well within the field of the British instrument and she felt very self conscious.

  Captain Lee was thinking. He thought about how the British salute was not, he would wager, a full charge… it sounded to him to be a half hearted effort. Was it a purposeful slight? He thought about how many of the British crew had not stood motionless for the salute, but were going about their tasks as they completed their maneuver and prepared the ship for an evening at anchor, showing little regard for the customary gesture of mutual respect. He thought about his service with then Master Commandant Perry, the day so many guns had roared back in ‘13, he thought about the H.M.S. Leopard, U.S.S. Chesapeake affair back in ’11, which he witnessed on his first voyage at sea. He thought about Lieutenant James Fleet, R.N. and the distress caused his father. He thought about the few letters he had read from the satchel.

  Marie was thinking only about the set of his gaze, the look in his eyes, the tension in his jaw and wondering what possible reasons were behind them. She was also aware that all other officers and crew abourd John Adams were regarding their Captain as on the brink of causing an international incident.

  Seconds passed, feeling like minutes.

  Finally, Captain Lee nodded ever so slightly, and said softly, “Aye.”

  Mr. Cosgrove, First Officer, instantly raised and lowered his arm. The gun crew popped open the port more smartly than one could ever have asked in battle, hauled on the tackles with urgency and the Gun Captain called out, “Give Fire” just as the carriage stopped rolling.