This remarkable lady strode across the room with no shyness and extended her hand to full arm’s length. “Commodore Barron, welcome, how delightful to see you again.”
“Ma’am, the pleasure is ours. May I present—”
“Lieutenant Commandant Putnam,” she interrupted. “Am I correct? I am so pleased, I was told you would be coming.” She extended her hand to him and took his with a grip perfectly balanced between heartiness and femininity.
“Lieutenant,” said Barron, “may I present Mrs. President Madison?”
Bliven had the presence of mind to bow even as he took her hand. “A great honor, ma’am.” He wished with all his might that Clarity were with him. He was certain that she and the Mrs. President would have become instant friends, and more than that, Clarity would have taken the lesson of how proper and pleasing it was for women to be so at ease in the company of men. At home most of her society was in Lyman Beecher’s church, where women were supposed to fold up like daylilies when men held the floor.
“And Captain Hull, ma’am,” added Barron.
She took his hand also. “Captain Hull, I believe we have only met once. You are most welcome. Please, gentlemen, pray be seated, and tell me all the Navy news. Commodore?”
“Well, ma’am,” said Barron, “perhaps you have heard that Captain Hull is shortly to have command of the Constitution.”
“I have indeed heard,” she said. “Congratulations, Captain.”
“Thank you, ma’am. She is a fine ship, and I shall try to be worthy of her.”
“Oh, that appointment is well made,” said Bliven. “She is a great ship, a splendid ship, and you will do her full justice, I doubt not.”
“Thank you, Putnam. You served in her at Tripoli, did you not?”
“I had that honor, yes, sir, before being sent ashore with General Eaton at Alexandria.”
“You were close to Commodore Preble, were you not?” asked Barron.
“I was, sir, yes. I was his aide for some time,” Bliven answered.
“Damn shame when he passed away. He was much too young. Ulcer finally got him, did it not?”
“Yes, sir.” Bliven had not thought of him in a while; it hardly seemed four years since he died. “Well, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that Congress struck a gold medal for him. And he was offered the Navy Department, but of course he was too ill to accept.”
The room had just fallen silent at his memory when the tall mahogany door to the hall clicked open and the liveried usher reappeared. “Gentlemen, the President will see you now.”
Dolley Madison was the first to stand. “Thank you, Titus, I will show them up myself. Gentlemen, if you please?”
She led them through the cross-hall to a flight of stairs that seemed interminable. Bliven found himself curious to count the steps, but it occurred to him too late for they were already halfway up. On the second floor they turned left from the stairs; the hall ended at another door, which opened as they were ten feet from it, and two somberly suited gentlemen emerged. “Commodore Barron,” said the first one.
“Mr. Secretary,” Barron answered, as they shook hands, “you know Captain Hull, and may I introduce Lieutenant Commandant Putnam? Mr. Putnam, this is our Secretary of the Navy, Mr. Hamilton.”
“Mr. Putnam”—Hamilton took his hand—“I am pleased to meet you. We have heard very good things about you.”
Bliven had no time to wonder at this before being introduced to the other, much older, man. “This is Mr. Smith,” said Hamilton, “our Secretary of State. We will visit again soon, Robert.”
“Right,” said Smith. “Good day to you.” The elder gentleman nodded and walked toward the stairs, in deep and evident thought.
“Gentlemen,” said Secretary Hamilton, “if you will come with me?”
Hamilton led them into a large study brightly lit by the morning sun. They beheld the President framed by the central arch of a Palladian window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “Mr. President, Commodore Barron, Captain Hull, Lieutenant Commandant Putnam.”
James Madison advanced two steps and gestured to a row of armchairs. “I pray you all, be seated.” Bliven was shocked at the sight of him. Having already met Mrs. Madison, he had assumed that the President would be taller than she. Instead he beheld a tiny bird of a man, trim-waisted, certainly less than a hundred pounds. He could not stand more than five-feet-three without the heels of his shoes. He was past sixty, and as he settled behind his desk looked like a wrinkled little bewigged child, or changeling, poaching a perch in the President’s chair.
“So, you are the famous Lieutenant Commandant Putnam.”
“Yes, sir.”
Madison leaned his head back and to the side, and tightened his lip with a dreamy look, almost visibly changing from the President to the aging revolutionary, the author of The Federalist Papers, turning over his memories. “You are related to Israel Putnam, of Massachusetts, as I understand.”
“My great-uncle, yes, sir.”
Madison rubbed a finger across his lips. Bliven half expected a reminiscence, a war story of Madison’s highly regarded colleague. “Good stock” was all he said.
“We are happy to believe so, yes, sir.”
Madison came back to the present and looked very sour for a moment. “Gentlemen, I will come straight to the point. For some long time we have been requesting the British to rescind their Orders in Council, which they claim gives them the right to stop and seize our ships, impound our cargoes unless we pay their tolls, and enslave our sailors. Mr. Smith has just informed me that our latest remonstrance has been rebuffed with even less consideration than usual. Gentlemen, I am after three years being cornered into a war that I have tried and tried to avert.” Madison thought for a moment. “If we’re going to get into a shooting war with the British, we’re going to need men like Israel Putnam again. Smart. Brave. Resourceful. Do I remember that you were in the Barbary War, Lieutenant Commandant?”
“As a midshipman, Mr. President,” interjected Barron, “Mr. Putnam was commended for gallantry when the Enterprise captured the Tripoli, and was promoted thereafter. He also accompanied General Eaton through Libya and commanded the artillery at the capture of Derna.”
Madison smiled broadly. “Bombarded them with ramrods, yes, I remember now.”
They all laughed. God, thought Bliven, will I never live that down? Those damned Greeks.
Barron continued, “He was cited again for gallantry in liberating American captives from the Dey’s fortress in Algiers.”
“Ah,” said Madison, “yes, that was well done. But Eaton. Dear me, he raised quite a commotion when he got home, because we did not continue the war to utter conquest. Probably the sharpest thorn in my side when I was Secretary of State. How did you find serving with him, Mr. Putnam?”
Bliven found himself glad to offer some vindication, although it felt odd for one of such modest rank to be included in this moment. “He was fair and just to all he came in contact with, so far as my observation extended. His valor at Derna was exemplary; he led the assault and was wounded. He did feel humiliated at our betrayal of Hamet Pasha.”
Madison held up his hands. “He was not without reason, but it couldn’t be helped. We had to make peace because the Sicilians were about to cut off our ammunition and recall their ships.”
“Yes, sir.” Bliven nodded. “That is what I have since learned. They were afraid that Napoleon was going to come back at them again.”
“Well.” Madison pressed his hands together. “And I know you had rather a lively time down in the Indies since then. How have you found being laid up on furlough?”
Bliven smiled with a faint blanch, glancing nervously at Barron, unsure what was the most politic answer. “Sir, if there were action, I would prefer to be at sea of course. But, there is no action for the present.”
“Well, there may be soon enough.” Madison rose from his chair and walked over again to the great Palladian window that looked up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol. As he did so, the officers rose together in courtesy. Looking down at him accentuated what a spare, tiny man Madison was.
Madison turned at the rustle of uniforms and saw the officers standing. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he sighed. He strode over and returned to his desk. “Pray, sit, sit, sit,” he said, and they arranged themselves again.
Once seated, Madison peered at Bliven impassively for what seemed an eternity.
Eventually Bliven wilted and could stand it no longer. “Mr. President,” he ventured, struck even as he said them that those were two words that he never imagined he would utter in his lifetime, “I am finding myself in heady company. I have the profoundest respect for all here, in position and responsibility. But I am a junior officer from a past war who was furloughed home to plow. Forgive me, but, why am I here?”
“Because I wanted to have a look at you,” said the President. “Putnam, we will shortly have, down in Charleston, a new, let us say, acquisition, a prize that we are refitting as a sloop-of-war.”
Bliven’s eyes widened, as Madison continued rubbing his lips before pointing at him suddenly. “I am curious, Mr. Putnam, perhaps you can tell me the truth of it. I have heard that your distinguished forebear General Putnam, in his youth, slew the last wolf known to live in Connecticut. Is that true?”
“Yes, Mr. President, it is true. The beast had been taking livestock, and my great-uncle tracked it to its lair, which was a small cave in a hillside. He crawled in after it, a torch in one hand and a musket in the other. The others with him had tied ropes around his feet, should they have to pull him out. They heard the most fearful snarling and snapping, and finally they heard the gun discharge, and they waited several minutes before it was my great-uncle who emerged alive, dragging the wolf out behind him. The cave is now something of a local landmark.”
“Ha! Never had a lick of sense, that one,” harrumphed Madison, though his admiration was evident. “I wish we had known that back then. Perhaps in the war we should have called him the Old Wolf instead of Old Put.” Their laughter echoed in the large room. “He was old enough to have been my father; I was hero-struck right through. Have you any memory of him?”
“Bare memory of him, sir. I was three when he died. Others of my family have said that he foretold I should be the greatest of my family, but I only remember bouncing on his knee.”
“Well,” continued Madison, “the story you relate is substantially as I heard it. Our new ship in Charleston we are going to call the Tempest. The United States Ship Tempest. What do you think of that?”
“It sounds like she could fight, sir,” he answered, daring to let his hopes rise.
“They tell me she’s a Jamaica-man, she’s built of cedar. Belowdecks she probably smells like a coat closet.”
“Doesn’t matter, sir. Jamaica-built ships are known for their resiliency. It is the resin in the wood, you see? It doesn’t splinter as readily as oak, and it—”
Madison waved off the explanation. “Yes, yes, that is all very well. I have you in mind to command her.” Madison saw Hamilton shoot a dubious look at Barron. “Now, some in my administration believe that you are too junior for such a command, and that you have been too long ashore between your cruises. And they believe that we mustn’t damage the morale of older officers who feel themselves more deserving.” There were at least twenty men in the service to whom such a pointed observation could apply, and they all knew it. “But look, I must put it to you plainly. The pressure to declare war on Great Britain is becoming more than I can resist any longer. I cannot be pestered with complaints of who thinks he deserves a command. Against the odds we face, I must have men who can fight! Men who I have confidence can fight. Preble advanced you for a command even while you were at home on your farm; Commodore Dale also, as he confirms in recent correspondence, attests that you are a man for action.”
“Oh?” said Bliven. “I have lost touch with Commodore Dale. Where is he?” It pleased him beyond expression that Dale should remember him so.
Madison chewed angrily for a moment. “He is in Philadelphia, running an . . . insurance company. I would much rather he were here in this room and still in uniform.”
“Well, as you know, sir,” said Secretary Hamilton, “he was never one to forgive an insult. I have asked him twice, but he won’t come back.”
“Prickly damned porcupine of a man,” said Madison. “But look here, Putnam, with those two holding you forward, I have a mind to put you in a place where you can show us what you can do. Well, what do you say? Do you want to come back?”
Bliven beheld all eyes on him. “Oh, sir, you have no idea.”
Madison erupted in a volcanic laugh so out of character that every man of them started. “Well, by heaven, that is how we will have it. But now we come down to the hardest facts of it. Just within the past month alone, the British have taken another seventeen American merchant vessels; we cannot ascertain the whereabouts of many of their crews.”
Madison nodded at Hamilton, who handed a memo to Barron, who handed it to Hull, who started to return it to Hamilton, but Bliven reached for it. “May I?”
No one forbade him, and he read quickly down the list of captured merchantmen—two-thirds down his blood froze as he saw the curt listing, “Brig Althea, Charleston, Captain Bandy.”
“Oh my God. Mr. President, do you know anything of this ship, the Althea? Captain Bandy was in the Navy and we served together in the Mediterranean.” He began breathing harder and could not stop it. “He wrote me a letter from Boston only a couple of weeks ago. How can we know so soon that the ship was taken? Do we know what has happened to him?”
“I am sorry for your alarm,” said Hamilton. “Some of the crew with protection papers were put ashore in Bermuda. As it happened, a Swedish vessel passed through immediately thereafter, heading for Baltimore, and brought them home. Damned lucky, they might have been stuck there for months. Bandy was taken onto a British frigate as a pressed sailor. We don’t know what one, but they have him out there somewhere.”
“Oh my God,” he almost whispered. “Oh, Sam.”
“Forgive me, Mr. President,” said Hull, “but—seizing ships, enslaving crews, stealing cargoes—are these not the reasons, the very reasons, for which we went to war against the Barbary pirates?”
“They are.” Madison swelled in his chair. “But war was feasible then, with them. The Barbary pirates did not deploy, as the British do”—he grabbed and surveyed a small swatch of paper—“one hundred and twelve ships of the line, one hundred and forty-five frigates, and something over three hundred sloops, schooners, gunboats, and bomb scows, plus transports and armed merchantmen, to an aggregate total of one thousand and sixty ships. Gentlemen, forgive me, but what do you propose we do against a thousand and sixty ships?”
“Mr. President,” said Secretary Hamilton, “let us remember that only a portion of those ships can be directed against us. The British have a global empire to defend—the Pacific, the Indian Ocean, the Mediterranean, the African coast. Now, the French do not have nearly so many ships, let us say a third of the British Navy, but enough to tie down the majority of their strength in other theatres.”
“Until the British defeat the French,” said Hull. “Then our goose will be cooked quick enough.”
Madison looked darkly at Hamilton. “That is true. What about that?”
“Mr. President, I believe that our greatest ally is the ruinous expense that it will cost the British to prosecute a war against us. We need not defeat them entirely, we need only defeat them enough times that an opposition grows in Parliament to force a settlement.”
“And our second ally,” said Barron, “is the superiority of our ships, which can still take theirs two to one. And we can recover many of ou
r merchant losses by practicing the same predation upon theirs. If Parliament can’t force an end to such a war, Lloyd’s of London would soon enough, I’ll warrant.”
Laughter rippled around the room. “And then,” said Madison, “our Army commanders think very favorably upon an invasion of the Canadas before the British have a chance to reinforce those garrisons. If that goes well at all, it will enhance our bargaining position formidably. My mind is not set completely at rest. But I feel better than I did an hour ago, at least about the English. But now we come to the problems closer to home, and the first one is finding Mr. Putnam a crew. Let us ring for tea.” He yanked twice on a velvet cord suspended behind his desk. “But first—” He fished through his cluttered desk to extract a large document filled with copperplate script, and blanks filled in with heavier ink. Quickly he dipped a quill in a crystal inkwell and applied his signature, small, studious, crabbed, and precise, to the bottom of the paper. “Mr. Putnam, you will sail in the rank of master commandant. Commodore Barron will hand you orders before you go home to arrange your affairs.”
The door opened suddenly and the liveried Negro reappeared. “Titus,” said the President, “we will take tea in the oval drawing room. Ask Mrs. Madison to join us, if you please.”
“Very good, Mr. President.”
Madison stood. “Very well, gentlemen, now you can stand up.” He came from behind his desk, and in a very practiced way handed Bliven his commission with his left hand while extending his right. “Congratulations, Commander.”
They passed down the central corridor until they turned into a room with an oval bay window mirroring the shape of the one beneath it where they had met Mrs. Madison. Bliven reflected that he had passed from one interim rank, which served a need but no one knew exactly how to address him, to another. Officially he would be master commandant, roughly equivalent to the Royal Navy’s master and commander, ostensibly entitled to command a larger ship than a lieutenant commandant. That was an awkwardly long rank to be addressed by; informally he could be called Commander, although not everyone would, as that fashion had not firmly taken, and the men on his own ship would address him as Captain. No bad thing—he smiled to himself—to be prepared to answer to any rank that sounded appropriately dignified.
The Tempest--Commander Putnam and Mr. Madison's War Page 6