Bliven nodded sadly. “What a heavy blow for him.”
“I did not go angling to take his command.”
“No, sir.”
“But I would be telling a lie if I said I am sorry to have it.”
“Captain, allow me to say that whatever my thoughts were in the past, when I came aboard yesterday, and saw you fighting this ship without even a wheel to steer her—my God, that was the finest piece of ship handling I have ever witnessed.”
Bainbridge extended his hand. “Thank you, Commander. Will this put to rest any past between us?”
Bliven took his hand. “With all my heart, sir.”
“A good night to you, then.”
Bliven stood back and saluted. “Good night, sir.”
The Constitution flew swiftly home, departing São Salvador on January 6, 1813, after landing her prisoners and resupplying, and tying up at the Long Wharf in Boston on February 27. The most difficult farewell for Bliven was from Cutbush, with whom he had renewed a fast friendship. “Are you staying with the ship, then?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Cutbush emphatically. “Having sailed in this majestic vessel again, I have come to regard her as almost indestructible, but the men are not. We owe them the best care that can be got, and for the time being, that would seem to be me.”
“So say I,” agreed Bliven, “and everyone I know.”
“Ha! My thanks. And what about you? What is next for you?”
Bliven shrugged. “I confess, I have not an idea in the world. Probably nothing until there is an inquiry into how I lost the Tempest. If I am found at fault, I will be at the Navy’s mercy.”
“Ha! Well, rash action is a cashiering offense, cowardice is the capital offense. Whatever happens, at least we know you won’t be shot. Ha!”
“Hm! No, at least I won’t be shot.”
Cutbush caught the note of sadness in Bliven’s voice and responded to it. “May I tell you a great secret?”
“Of course.”
“Say nothing to anyone or I will be ruined.”
“You have my word.”
Cutbush leaned forward. “My conclusion,” he near-whispered, “after long observation and experience, is that the celebrated naval commanders—the ones for whom gold medals are struck and who are given triumphal parades—are either mad, or else go mad. My young friend, I would be very happy to learn one day that you never went mad.”
Bliven smiled wryly at the deftness of his touch, to give advice without giving advice. It recalled to him Cutbush’s fondness for Galen, and that ancient Roman’s steadfast belief that madness could be defeated through conversation with wise elders. “After a time, who knows? Maybe they’ll send me back out to the Atlantic if they can find me a ship, or I hear they are assembling a squadron on Lake Ontario, maybe they will send me there. Things are heating up in the Mediterranean again. Algiers is on their third little king since the war and he is not happy with how things were left. Or, there are still pirates in the Caribbean, albeit they are lying low now owing to the greater war. I may turn up anywhere, but I hope I do get some time at home first.”
When they shook hands Cutbush took his tightly and laid his left hand over Bliven’s. “Mr. Putnam, life is uncertain. We do not know whether we shall meet again in this life.”
Bliven smiled. “You said that to me once before.”
“So I did,” Cutbush admitted. “It is how I say good-bye. I have found it always best to suspend friendships in a tidy fashion. You are still young, have you ever lost anyone close to you?”
Bliven shook his head. “Acquaintances killed in battle, but none of my immediate family, nor closest friends; my wife’s father was the nearest.”
“Well, I have, and when you do you will discover that once they are gone, gone, too, will be the opportunity to assure them that they meant something to you. I hope we do meet again, but if we do not I want to leave it with you how much I have enjoyed knowing you.”
Bliven was taken aback by such openness, such frankness, indeed he thought he knew no other who was capable of it, but it warmed him and made him feel that he was in the presence of an extraordinary man. “Doctor,” he said, “I have a suspicion that you have just told me something quite profound, and that it will bear pondering over in quiet moments. We New Englanders are reticent with our emotions; perhaps it is the cold climate we live in. But here in your quiet sick bay I will confess that I feel precisely the same about you. If we do not meet again, be assured I will never forget you.” He smiled suddenly and broadly. “Nor the lemon in your tea, nor your fondness for ancient physicians. And besides”—he traced a line across his lower belly—“I will always have a certain scar, and a silver coin, to remember you by.”
“Good-bye,” Cutbush said and laughed heartily, and Bliven knew that was partly because he was amused and partly because that was the way people should part, in case it should be their last parting.
Good-bye echoed in his mind as he walked slowly back to the wardroom. Yes, there was an art to saying good-bye that he had never mastered, and now it had been taught him.
11
Home
Back in Boston the Constitution was besieged by crowds who came to admire her, and Bliven prowled the Navy Yard’s receiving office for two days, after which the commandant conceded that he would have no orders until it was decided how to proceed over the loss of the Tempest. With permission for a leave safely folded in his pocket, he loaded his trunks and sea bag onto the stagecoach for Providence and thence along the familiar coastal post road.
Four other passengers affected not to be studying him, but Bliven often caught them in sidewise glances; evidently they were perplexed at his constant, faint, enigmatic smile. “No doubt,” said one lady at last, “you are smiling because you are going home after a long absence.”
He answered, “Indeed yes, ma’am.” The truth was, however, that he was comparing the long, deep rolling of the ship at sea to this unpredictable lurching and jerking of their interminably slow coach and concluding that the former suited him better, or would, were he not homeward bound.
In New Haven he oversaw the driver in depositing his baggage at the station porch, and he entered to make the transfer.
“Why, it is Mr. Putnam!” Strait’s voice cried from behind his ticket counter. He raised a gate and advanced, his hand extended. “It is so very fine to see you, Mr. Putnam. How are you?”
“I thank you, Mr. Strait, I am well. How are my parents, have you seen them?”
“Yes, often! They are very well indeed. I expect you know your father suffered a small apoplexy some months ago, but he is remarkably recovered. He often holds court in your tavern, registering his political opinions. He is becoming quite the sage.” He laughed suddenly. “Or irritant, depending on your point of view!”
“Yes, he relishes both. And my wife?”
“Come, let me prepare your ticket. I see her less often, but she stays quite busy about the town. She helps your parents and her mother, and she has taken a most keen interest in church affairs. I deliver some parcel or other to her most every week. You are homeward bound, I gather?”
“Yes, just as fast as I can get there.”
“May I say?” Strait was suddenly almost shy. “We understand from your family that you have been in the Constitution. We have all read of your victories. Most thrilling!”
Yes, Bliven thought, apparently you have not read of my defeat, and the men I suffered to be killed. “That is very kind of you, thank you.”
“Here we are.” Strait handed him a token and Bliven fished in his pocket and handed over three silver dollars. “We will be leaving in about an hour, do make yourself comfortable.”
The late afternoon was dry but gray and cold, when the coach proceeded up the South Road into Litchfield. Gazing out the coach window, Bliven’s eyes met his father’s when he was
yet fifty yards from stopping, giving him a full view of Benjamin getting to his feet. Both halting and with energy, pushing up from the bench with one arm while pulling himself up on a crutch with the other.
“Oh!” was all the older man could say as they drew near. “Oh!” Bliven wondered even as he embraced him how many more homecomings there could be. One would be a blessing, two a miracle.
“Father, why are you sitting out on such a dreary day? You will catch your death. Surely to be indoors by the fire would be more congenial.”
“Well”—Benjamin drew back but held on to Bliven’s forearms—“I have two reasons, to be truthful. The first is I knew, ask me not how but I knew, that one day very soon the coach would toss you off, so I sit out and watch the stage pass because I wanted to be the first to greet you. The second is”—he leaned forward intimately—“I sit out because the house is possessed.”
“What?”
“Truly! There is an imp who wreaks about unrestrained. It is about so high”—he held a hand out, palm down, about three feet off the ground—“it noses into everything, and it is a font of riddles and unanswerable questions. Before the Throne, it was sent to torment me.”
In a terror Bliven wondered if his father had suffered a third apoplexy that had damaged his mind, and the letter warning him of it had never reached him. “Father, what on earth are you—” Before he could finish, the front door flew upon. “Mother!”
She raced down the steps, cleaning her hands on her apron, although more from habit than need, for she had just washed. “My boy, my darling!” They hugged tight and kissed on both cheeks.
He held her back and regarded her. “Mother, you look wonderful.”
She patted his shoulders. “Your homecoming is well timed, my son. We are having a fine fat goose for supper. Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous.”
“Commander?” Bliven spun around at the address to see Mr. Strait levering one of his trunks off the edge of the coach. In his younger years Strait would have fetched it down and deposited it at the door himself, but now he felt well enough acquitted to merely hand it down, followed by his sea bag and the two further trunks.
Bliven took the sea bag and balanced it on his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Strait. When you get to the tavern please help yourself to a tankard of cider, with our compliments.” He spun around awkwardly, for the sea bag was heavy. “The tavern is still ours, I trust?”
“Oh, my, yes,” his father assured him. “Its commerce sustains us most admirably.”
“Well, then, good day to you, Mr. Strait. Again, my thanks.” They mounted the steps, leaving the trunks outside for the moment. “Is Mr. Peters still running it?”
“Indeed, he is. Mind, we did almost lose him, once. He got it in his mind to go study law from the celebrated Mr. Reeve.”
“Great heavens! Tapping Reeve is still holding school?”
“He is.”
“Lord, he must be older than granite by now.”
The elder Putnam stopped short. “He may well be, but that is not a criticism that I would level at anyone anymore. But young Mr. Peters did not find old Mr. Reeve’s law school to his liking. Many do not, you know, but have not the courage to walk away. He appeared most loath to return home and have his people think him a failure. I put it to him that he might wish to stay on a while longer as he considers his future. He has his board and lodging at the tavern, and he labors honestly, for the most part.”
“For the most part?”
“Oh, I suspect he helps himself to an extra dollar here and there, but I do not complain for in fairness he works harder for what we pay him than may be entirely just.”
The coach rumbled slowly on, and his mother held the door as he hefted the sea bag inside and set it down. “I am glad to hear it goes well, but if we have been taking advantage of him we must square our account. Where is Clarity? Is she about?”
“She is in your room,” she said. “I expect she did not hear the coach.”
Benjamin added with a note of caution, “Beware, she is with the imp.”
He passed quickly through the keeping room, rapped three times, and opened the door. “I have heard that a sailor’s wife lives here. Where is she?”
“Bliven!” she exclaimed, and flew out of her chair toward him. “Oh, my love!” They kissed tightly and he was stricken with his madness that he could ever leave such an embrace, the feel, the taste, the softness of lips, the scent of powder and perfume, his gratitude for her and for her need of him. “Safe home,” she sighed, “safe home, oh, God be praised!” He thought again of those African lizards that change color, and thought he now understood how they could do it so quickly.
Bliven beheld the tiny form perched on a chair at the side of her writing desk, and realized that his father had not gone mad. “And who is this?” he asked.
Clarity held out her hand toward her. “Harriet, come here, darling, I would like for you to meet my husband, Mr. Putnam. Commander, may I present Miss Harriet Beecher?”
The child hopped off her chair and approached him, and he realized that, yes, there was no mistaking whose child this was. She bore the reverend’s same downturning mouth and sliding eyes. She held out the sides of her skirt and dropped into a curtsey. “How do you do, Commander?” she said gravely. “I have heard so much about you.”
Bliven would have been astonished at such correct behavior from a child of eight, let alone this small, and wondered what manner of changeling this was and whether his father might have been right. Still, he bowed gravely. “Mistress Beecher, the pleasure is mine.” He held out his seaman’s hand, and Harriet let her tiny hand disappear into it.
“Harriet,” said Clarity, “would you like to go feed our chickens now?”
“Oh, yes,” she said eagerly. “I would like to. But I know it is really because you wish to be alone with the commander.”
Clarity scooted her gently toward the door. “Ask Mother Putnam to put some corn in your pail for you.”
As she reached the door Harriet turned suddenly. “It was very nice to meet you, Commander Putnam.”
“Mistress Beecher”—he bowed again—“may I look forward to our better acquaintance?”
“Oh, yes, but please, you may call me Harriet, for I am but four years old.”
She disappeared and shut the door behind her, leaving him to ask, “Was that a human child?”
Clarity laughed softly as she nestled as deep in his arms as she could mold herself. “Yes, she is precocious. She is a delight to teach.”
He noted the word teach and shelved it to investigate later. “Poor child,” he said.
“What do you mean, ‘Poor child’? She has the greatest abilities of any girl her age that was ever seen.”
He shrugged lightly. “Is it not bad enough that Beecher’s sons should grow up to look like him, but this poor little girl, too?”
Clarity stood back suddenly, her eyes boring into his. “Harriet does not know that she is not pretty.” She studied him for a reaction. “And I will lay waste the man who tells her.”
His broad smile reconciled her and she drew close again. “Allay your fears, my love. She shall never hear it from me. But do I gather she is something of an inconvenience to my father?”
She pulled back again. “Oh, he has started on ‘the imp’ again? Pooh! Don’t you believe it. Wait a few seconds and you shall see.” She led him within a few steps of their back window that looked out upon the hen yard, from where they could watch discreetly. Through the sheer curtains Harriet skipped into view, followed a moment later by Benjamin on his crutches, her pail of corn suspended from the fingers of one hand. The dozen chickens knew what their presence signified and came running on outstretched legs from all directions; Benjamin gave her the pail and she cast the corn about like a sower, her peals of laughter audible through the windowpanes.
&nb
sp; Bliven and Clarity could not hear what they were saying, but it was apparent that they were avidly engaged. “Well, upon my word,” breathed Bliven, “will you look at that?”
Clarity stood with her back to him, squeezing her hands on his arms as he wrapped them about her. “She has given him a new interest in life, you see? When nothing else could. He was declining, and that has been arrested.”
“I am so happy to see it.” With small steps and his arms still holding her he backed toward their bed; with one hand he braced two pillows against the headboard, lay down, and she cuddled against him. “But she is here for schooling? Surely Beecher can afford a governess to look after that growing tribe of his.”
“Four older brothers,” she allowed, “but they have little in common with her.”
“Does she not have two older sisters as well?”
“Catharine and Mary,” she refreshed his memory. “They must look after their mother. Mrs. Beecher is not well.” She shrugged. “Mrs. Beecher is never well. And Harriet, with her nature, is under foot. They do not appreciate her prescience or her abilities. They put her aside and tell her to play, but to her learning is play.”
“If Mrs. Beecher is unwell,” he growled, “perhaps the reverend could give her a rest from popping out children like so many corn muffins.”
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “they are being fruitful and multiplying.” Her eyes met his in a meaningful way.
“Oh, I see. Shall I understand, then, in looking after Harriet, you are practicing for our own children?”
She rested her head on his chest. “God may yet bless us.”
He rolled her on her back and kissed her deeply. “And is it not written somewhere,” he asked, “that God helps those who help themselves?”
He kissed her throat and could feel her breath turning shallow. “I am certain I have heard it,” she said, “but I do not believe it is in the Holy Scriptures.”
The Tempest--Commander Putnam and Mr. Madison's War Page 31