“I have never seen one,” he exclaimed. “They are the heart of our frigates. May I look?”
She was confused by his burst of enthusiasm, but before she could remark on it he was on his feet, trotting to the nearest one. “God in heaven,” he breathed as he laid his hands flat against it. Its umber brown trunk was five feet in diameter and began its arching spread fifteen feet above his head, shading an area more than a hundred feet across.
She rose and followed him, confused. “What on earth has gotten into you?”
“Magnificent. No wonder they can’t be sunk. Look, there is a limb that has fallen!” Indeed it had not just fallen, but lain there so long that the bark had peeled away, exposing the naked wood and its tiny, whorled grain. Bliven knelt and ran his hand across it. “Look at this, how each layer ties into the next. I’ve never—my God, no wonder.”
“I declare, Commander, you are frightening me a little. What is this about?”
The section of fallen limb was about seven feet long, and at its thickest was as large around as his thigh. He crouched, scooping his hands into the cool grass under it, and lifted but could not dislodge it. “Incredible,” he said. “I have never seen wood so heavy.”
“Of course it is.” Rebecca had joined him. “It makes the best fires in winter; it burns forever and the coals keep all night.”
“You should understand.” He straddled the limb and sat upon it. “The hulls of our frigates are built in three layers, white oak inside and out, with live oak in the middle. When we fought the Guerriere, her cannonballs either bounced off or stuck in the outer layer because they could not penetrate the live oak. Now I see why. God in heaven, I am glad to have seen such trees.”
“That,” she said, “is the prettiest compliment I have heard paid to South Carolina in a very long time.”
“And look up there.” He pointed suddenly into its canopy. “See the shape of the limbs, how they bend and twist? They are perfect to be fashioned into the knees and scantling and odd shapes you need in building a ship. There is almost no need to work them, it is as though nature made them exactly for what is needed.”
“Well, now, don’t you go getting a design on our trees, these are not for sale!”
“Ha! I appreciate your feeling. Did you know it takes more than a thousand of these trees to build one frigate?”
“Well, then, you surely won’t mind leaving a few for us. Why don’t we walk up to the house, Sam’s mother will be waiting to meet you.”
Mrs. Bandy was precisely what Bliven had expected—reserved, polite, gracious, bearing her burdens, her widowhood, and her anxiety over Sam, with such fortitude that others were pricked every moment by the weight of her cares. There was a distinct Southern character to the art of it. After dinner Mrs. Bandy led them to a kind of conservatory at the rear of the house, where they were served brandy.
Their house, he discovered, was quite simple in its design but cavernous in scale, which he also took for a Southern metaphor. Mrs. Bandy took up work on a cross-stitch as he kept the boys entertained with stories of the Enterprise and the Constitution, of the apes at Gibraltar and meeting the Sicilian king, of the recent chase by an entire British squadron, and their desperate fight with the Guerriere. And during this time, until he saw them up and held the covers for them to climb into the double bed that they shared, Bliven thought he would have given anything to have had such a brother to pass his childhood with. And as he came back downstairs he thought what a strange feeling, what a queer flavor of pain, to have been so lonely and not to have realized it until now.
Rebecca had Mose drive him back to Charleston, as Bliven witnessed the scenery reverse itself, from rugged to flat and fertile piedmont. He had Mose stop the carriage in front of the Bank of South Carolina, which he entered briefly before resuming his seat in the carriage. “Now, Mose, I didn’t mention this at the house, but I don’t know your rules down here, and I didn’t know whether this was proper. But just between us, I want you to have this.” He handed over a small cloth purse tied with a drawstring, obviously containing a quantity of coins.
“Oh, now, Masta Putnam! You got no call—”
“No arguing. Where I come from, when somebody goes out of his way to do more favors for you than his job calls for, it is customary to pay him a little something. People call it a tip. Now, I am guessing that some here might find it suspicious for a black man to possess a large coin.”
“Yes, suh, that’s true.”
“So I had it broken down into smaller coins that nobody will question.”
“Why, that is so good. Thank you, Masta Putnam. When I go back through the colored town, I’s gonna buy some sweeties fo’ my missus an’ chilluns.”
“You have a family!”
“Oh, yes, suh! I started late, but the old masta, he said if we had chilluns, he wouldn’ never sell them. So we have fo’.”
“That is wonderful, I am happy for you.”
“Well, them chilluns—mhm! They is a handful, but they keeps us laughin’.”
Back in the Charleston Navy Yard, the lieutenant in the receiving office fairly leapt out of his chair when Bliven entered. “Commander, at last! The most extraordinary things have happened. Please, come with me, we must show you some things.”
They strode quickly to the back of the building. “There in the harbor”—the lieutenant pointed—“you see two new vessels. The larger one is the Castor, an American privateer who came in the day after you left. There behind him—”
“Why, that is an American flag flying above a British jack. Is that his prize?”
“Exactly.” A captive schooner of perhaps ten guns lay in shame at his stern.
Bliven felt a surge of pride to see the name TEMPEST emblazoned in yellow beneath his stern windows. He had nearly to run to keep up with the lieutenant, up the gangplank, down the ladder all the way to the hold. “What do you think, Commander?”
Bliven’s jaw slacked open. Planking laid to almost cover tons of iron kentledge, water casks stacked to the overhead decking, racks of twelve-pounder shot next to a small hatch into a dark compartment that must be for powder handling. Forward, more shelves held canvas sailcloth by the hundredweight, a bench with a fully equipped carpenter’s shop. “I am astonished. I am undone, how did this happen?”
“The ship that the Castor captured was fresh from Bermuda, come to prowl about Charleston harbor, and was freshly provisioned. Captain Dent requisitioned her stores and gave a draught to the Castor’s captain, who was satisfied with the reward. Come, the captain is in your cabin with your surgeon, who is newly arrived.”
“What? That is excellent.” They clattered at a trot up the ladder to the berth deck and into the cabin, where they interrupted Captain Dent, whose shouting they heard even before they entered.
“Commander,” said Dent, “I would like you to meet Dr. Gabriel, who will be surgeon’s mate on your ship. Doctor, this is Bliven Putnam, Master Commandant.”
Bliven advanced and shook hands, regarding the man, as short as Captain Hull, and barrel-chested, but not as fat. He had an olive complexion, curly black hair, and a prominent nose.
“Gabriel, an unusual name. Might you be of the Jewish faith?”
The stocky man drew himself up. “I am. I hope that will not present a problem.”
“Not in the least. I only inquire because I once served with a Jew, in the Barbary War. He was the bravest man I have ever known, only he was killed before I had a chance to tell him so. That is a regret I have borne ever since.”
“Oh. Heh! That is not the conversational direction I am accustomed to.”
“No, I gather not. Now, I may not always be able to avoid a fight on a Saturday,” Bliven said lightly. “If we get into one, you will have to do your work, Sabbath or no.”
“Well, performing medical miracles on the Sabbath would put me in rather heady company, wou
ld it not?”
They all laughed loudly, and Bliven found himself charmed. “He will do, Captain Dent. He will do very well. Tell me, Doctor, where did you study?”
“In Providence, Commander.”
“Ah! When I lately served in the Constitution, our surgeon was the great Dr. Cutbush. Do you know him?”
“After graduating, I worked a year in the Philadelphia Navy Yard, training under Dr. Cutbush. I know him very well.”
“Oh, excellent. Do you have his book? I have one if you lack it.”
“No, no, I have it in my trunk.”
“Tell me,” said Bliven, “when I entered you were discussing something in great animation. May I know what that was about?”
“Oh, for—” Dent shifted his weight. “Dr. Gabriel went to a local apothecary to obtain the supplies necessary for getting you to sea. He went with a draught on the United States Navy for the supplies, but the druggist would not receive it without a twenty percent depreciation. Poor Gabriel here had to come back here and get permission. He wants me to go down and present it in person.”
“What? Tell me, Doctor.” Bliven examined him closely. “Do you think he declined this payment because it was a draught on the Navy, or perhaps it had something to do with you being who you are?”
“Indeed, I do not know,” said Gabriel. “He did say he wanted some proof that I did represent the Navy on this business.”
“Let me ask you, did you inventory the medical supplies in the sick bay of the prize just brought in and subtract them from your list of what you need?”
“I did not think to, no.”
“Please do so at once. Reduce your wants by as much as you can, without endangering the well-being of the men. I will go with you back to the apothecary, and by God we will see what he thinks of Navy business with a uniform present.”
The whole way there Bliven tried to visualize Commodore Preble, and how he would have dealt with the coming meeting.
They entered the apothecary, which was as tidy and well stocked as any in New England, and found an owlish but plucky little proprietor behind the counter. “I asked for the commandant of your station to call on me and verify this draught,” he snapped to Gabriel. “Where is he?”
Bliven did not remove his bicorne. “Captain Dent has more pressing matters to require his attention than your pompous airs, sir. I am the commander of the vessel you have seen being fitted out, for which my surgeon, here, is tasked with laying in medical supplies. What in screeching hell do you mean to decline a draught from the United States Navy?”
His shot struck but did not disable. “It is not me, sir, it is the bank. They will only receive federal draughts at depreciation. I cannot bear that loss, the margin of my profit is too small.”
“Indeed? Well, I wonder how concerned you will be for your business if we all sail out of here and leave you to the British!”
The proprietor made no reply but gave no ground.
“Well, by valor of arms a prize has been brought into harbor, whose medical supplies have provided many of our needs. However, these items are still wanted, and I have brought Carolina bills to pay for them.” He handed over the new list and brandished the scrip. “Will you supply them, sir, or will you not?”
The druggist’s face fell. “There is not ten dollars in merchandise here.”
“Well,” said Bliven slowly, “if you had not been such a—that is, if you had accepted the original draught, you would have made your next several months’ profit, wouldn’t you? Well, that is a shame, but that is on your watch. Still, we will take these all the same.”
The druggist prepared a packet of the items and added the sum sourly. “This amounts to eight dollars and fifty cents.”
“Very well.” Bliven withdrew a ten-dollar South Carolina note and handed it over.
The druggist took it with thanks, and at once produced one dollar and fifty cents, also in state scrip.
Bliven made no move to receive it. “Have you no silver?”
“What!”
“I am so sorry, the Navy discounts state paper twenty percent. If I accept this as payment, I will have to ask another thirty cents.”
“What!”
Somewhere in his travels Bliven had heard of puffers, a fish that when threatened inflates to several times its normal size until it becomes a tight, round, spiky, inedible ball; the druggist now put him in mind of them. Bliven relented and he took the dollar fifty in paper. “Oh, never mind, the amount is so trivial. Good day to you, sir.”
Dr. Gabriel did not speak until they were halfway back to the Navy Yard. “Mr. Putnam, in my time I have paid good money to attend famous theatres and not seen so fine a performance. I am in some awe.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I confess, I found that satisfying.”
CHARLESTON HARBOR
23RD OCTOBER, 1812
My Dearest Love,
We are this date making preparation to sail upon the morning’s tide, therefore I avail myself of the chance to write you, for I know not when I shall next be proximate to a postal dispatch. Our orders are to stand to the South, even so far as equatorial waters, and even beyond, to interdict British shipping in a locale where they believe their vessels safe, and have thus deployed few warships to protect them. Captain Dent is of the opinion that other ships, the Hornet and even the Constitution herself, will be sent to that region, so we shall not be entirely alone in that desolate part of the world.
As badly as I miss your company, I confess I am glad you are not here, for Charleston is a place that would not please you. It is a city of no fewer than twenty-five thousand persons, the largest in the country south of Philadelphia. The shops have every thing for sale that you could find in Boston. But, O! A more ignorant and suspicious set of people I never saw, excepting perhaps in the Egyptian desert. Federal money is despised even more than the currencies of other states, and only the bills of local banks are wanted. Federal coin is accepted, for the value of its silver is not to be denied, but those who accept it act as though they are doing something that is vaguely disloyal, or immoral.
Being here has brought me to a right understanding of some things. For instance, I know now why, when our federal Constitution was adopted, the South Carolinians insisted that their slave population be counted, for census purposes, at three-fifths of a white person. The white people hereabouts would never accord a black the dignity of being counted as a whole person, but not to count them at all—noting that there are far more blacks here than whites—would have left them showing such a small population that they might not have even qualified for statehood!
Despite this concession, Carolinians feel only the most tenuous connection to their sister states, and if anything view the federal government as little less than a hostile power. They view the outlawing of the African slave trade four years ago as a personal affront, the most shocking betrayal, and a dagger aimed at their commercial heart. With its advent, they seem to have abandoned any expectation of harmony or satisfaction in the Union of States. It seems settled in their own minds that they shall go their own way, avoiding conflict with the federal authority when they can and defying it when put to the test.
And what is this way of life that they defend so ardently, that they turn their backs on the rest of the states? You would be amazed, my love, that of a modestly prosperous merchant class there are almost none. The great preponderance of the wealth is controlled by a very few families—I was told fewer than a hundred in the whole state, who also own the vast majority of the slaves.
In justice it must be stated that in some ways, as in the Embargo Act, this state’s well-being has been plowed under by federal policy with little more consideration than we would plow under last year’s straw. Yet her own view of the public good is so pinched and so primitive that she damages her credibility in the eyes of the more enlightened reaches of the country. Public educa
tion such as we know it in New England is almost unknown here. Our Sam’s children are schooled at home by their mother, and by a tutor who calls regularly. Rebecca tells me that the notion that all should be taxed for the education of all children is anathema. The most wealthy send their children to private academies. Support for educating the poor would be viewed as dangerous to the existing social order, for it would give ambition to the poor and deprive the rich of a large pool of cheap labor and tradesmen. This thinking has become so entrenched and accepted that even the slaves in their cabins make free to mock those they have started calling “poor white trash.” At least two great ironies arise from this. The first is that the teachers who tutor the children of the wealthy are, themselves, accorded little respect and are treated little better than servants. The second is that as new lands are opened in the west, in Tennessee or Kentucky, or Louisiana, the poor move away to do better for themselves, and this loss of white population, in many places ten percent or even more, has made worse the racial imbalance that afflicts those who remain.
All told, I can safely say that if at this moment an angel of Providence were to appear before me and say, “Behold, you shall never see Charleston again,” I would leap from my chair and kiss her for joy. (The foregoing assumes, of course, that angels can be kissed, which based upon my own earthly experience I believe must be true, for you have never seemed to raise objection to being so approached.)
And so, my love, farewell. My intention is to sail from here and do my duty, whate’er befall. If I come home victorious, may it be for the good of the country, but whatever the disposition of battle, do I but come home to you again, I shall have reason for contentment.
Yr. true husband,
Bliven Putnam
Master Comdt., USN
Mrs. Clarity Putnam
New Putnam Farm
So. Road
Litchfield, Connectcut
8
Two Sailors, One Sea
The Tempest--Commander Putnam and Mr. Madison's War Page 21