by James Haley
Once afoot in New Orleans, it took little time for him to be directed to the firm of McKinney and Williams, which when he entered he found in commotion.
“Mr. McKinney?”
“Captain Putnam! I am glad to see you again. I understand that you played your role most nobly in winning the freedom of Texas. Both the present and future generations will owe you thanks. I regret that you find me in great haste. How may I help you?”
“My steward, Lieutenant Ross.”
“Your servant, sir. It is good that you gentlemen found me, for in another three days’ time you should have walked into an empty warehouse.”
“You are not going out of business!”
“Certainly not, Captain! With Texas safe, thanks in no small part to you, we are relocating our main operation to Quintana, at the mouth of the Colorado, to be proximate to the line of settlement as it spreads to the west.”
“My steward and I find that our duty is accomplished, we need passage to get home, and we find ourselves in New Orleans with little more than the clothes on our backs. I am myself a man of some means, however, and if you can advance us the fare through to Cincinnati or, even better, Pittsburgh, I can draw on a bank there for the rest of the means to continue and remit your outlay back down to you.”
“Of course. This incipient Republic of Texas is already into me for over eighty thousand dollars, so adding your passage to Pittsburgh will not make a noticeable difference.”
“My word, Mr. McKinney, when I was ashore in Texas, I saw very little in the way of cash in circulation. Do you believe you can recover such an outlay?”
“No matter.” McKinney waved it off. “With an American population safe in an independent Texas, and with statehood sure to follow, I calculate on recouping my investment just in commerce to supply the growing population, over and above hoping for satisfaction from their government. Mr. Tomlinson!” McKinney shouted, drawing the attention of a man at the rear of the warehouse. He approached, very tall, with high, raw cheekbones and thinning blond hair. “Mr. Tomlinson, write a note, run it over yourself right away, to Captain Furlow of the steamboat Boadicea. Tell him to reserve passage for two officers who will board shortly. He may charge their passage to our account. Gentlemen, he will sail early in the morning, but I recommend you board at once, just dressed as you are, and avoid being too much seen between here and the wharf. Someone might recognize you.”
“Still an object of inquiry, am I?”
“Oh, God, Captain, you have no idea. Perhaps you are not aware, the vessel that you lightened of so many field guns, the Five Points, was insured by the Boston United Maritime Company. Of all the financial concerns in the North, none are more heavily invested in Mexico and its economy. Directly after your encounter, she put into New Orleans and reported you and the Gonzales as pirates and posted a five-thousand-dollar reward for your capture, either alive or for your dead body. At least four armed privateers went out after you. I shouldn’t be surprised if some are still hunting you.”
Bliven was seized with a curious notion. “Do you know, was one of them a steamship, two large guns, either eighteens or twenty-fours?”
“Yes, the Umbria. The Mexican consulate here had her armed and at sea within three days of the Five Points coming in.”
“Did she fly the Mexican flag?”
“Yes, she registered as a Mexican privateer, conformably to law. I heard that she carried a note from the Mexican consulate to put in at Cópano and take on a couple of heavy guns and soldiers to operate them. The other ships I could not say one way or another.”
“Then I would believe it likely that she, operating in conjunction with a Mexican naval schooner, were the vessels that destroyed my ship.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear it. Were any of your crew captured?”
“No. We managed to damage them both so heavily that they retired. We fought just off Velasco, and my crew made it to shore and were pulled in by a friendly crowd. It was her steam engine that made the difference. Her course was not limited by the wind, and she was able to outmaneuver us, rake our stern, and set us afire. It makes me believe, in future, that steam power will render sailing ships obsolete and useless in combat against them.” Bliven allowed himself a moment to assimilate all that he had been saying. “Well, Mr. McKinney, I am unsure whether to regret or celebrate my status as a wanted man. But I will say that I regret to hear of a Boston firm so financially engaged with a regime dedicated to repression and dictatorship.”
“Hardly the only one,” said McKinney. “The Eastern financiers have not been our friends. In fact, when General Austin and Wharton came through here raising money, he got a quarter of a million in New Orleans, somewhat less in Nashville, but Washington and New York, he hardly raised a half dime.”
“I am sorry not to be surprised. Back in my days as a young lieutenant, I was confronted with our economic hypocrisy once before.”
“Really?” In the face of such a story, McKinney seemed to forget his haste for a moment. “In what connection?”
“New Englanders are supposed to be so hostile to slavery. It was a great shock to discover how many of those slave ships operated to the profit of Boston owners.”
“Well.” McKinney said the word with a finality that signaled his time was exhausted. “I am sorry for the loss of your ship, but of course officially she was broken up and no longer existed anyway.”
12
Old Hickory
Washington, Dist. of Columbia
June 10, 1836
My Ever Dear Love,
It has cost me more anguish than you can imagine, that my lengthy cruise at sea, and the delicacy of my duties when on shore, have prevented my sending you even so much as a line to let you know that I am unharmed.
I send you these tidings now, with the additional news that I am just returned to the capital city, and I do not anticipate being detained here more than a few days’ time, after which I shall find the first coach—bound for home. And let me tell you, the horses have not yet been foaled that could carry me there fast enough!
I do not know whether the following will be good news or bad, that I am released to come directly home, which is good, but the malarial fever that first took hold of me in the Caribbean has once again made its presence known. Let me hasten to assure you that I am under the most expert care, for upon arriving in this city I reported to the hospital in the Navy Yard, where I will rest for a short time before resuming my journey. I am nothing like dangerously ill to any degree, but my vigor is sufficiently affected that I am permitted to come home and recover, before being interviewed on the subject of my duty just completed. Do not be overly concerned, my love, but it would be a good thing to contact our valued Dr. Allison in Worcester for a quantity of his quinina, as I fear that a good portion of the tea that I shall consume during the summer will be spoiled with its bitter, though beneficial, physick.
This missive comes with the love of
Your husband,
Bliven Putnam, Capt. USN
Mrs. Clarity Putnam
Putnam Farm, South Road
Litchfield, Connecticut
The coach kept its pace as it entered the southern environs of Litchfield. Old Mr. Strait from the former days would have known to slow and stop at his house, but as it was, Bliven kept a watch from his seat at the familiar landmarks as they rolled by, marking the presence of a few new houses farther away from the center of town than his own. Spring was still soft and green, early-planted flower beds were now coming into the height of their bloom, and he was not unaware that in his best uniform of deep blue, brilliant white, and gold lace and epaulets, he showed very fine against June’s emerald landscape.
He noted a familiar bend in the road and looked ahead, then knocked on the rear of the driver’s seat. “The house just ahead on the right, Coachman, if you will please to let me
off.” The driver reined in the team and handed him his portmanteau as soon as he touched ground. “I thank you for your kind attention, and you must take this for your extra trouble.” He pressed a silver dollar more than the fare into his hand.
He no sooner turned around than the door opened and Clarity stood in it wearing a dress of deep garnet red and black plaid, its throat closed with a gold brooch. She descended the single step to the grade and entered his open arms. “Oh, God be thanked,” she said into his shirt. She looked up at him and they kissed.
“Dear Lord, how I have missed you, my love.” He rested his chin on the top of her hair.
They stood still, swaying gently, before it occurred to Clarity that unlike their former days when she felt swept up in his embrace, now it was he who was in some degree leaning on her. It was a subtle difference, but one that communicated a change in their positions. “What is your pleasure, dearest? Are you hungry? Do you wish to lie down?”
“I believe I will lie down presently. But now, walk around the house with me. I wish to remind myself that I am home.”
They walked leisurely, arm in arm, around the side and to the rear of their house. “You are traveling alone, dearest? Where is your Mr. Ross?”
“He is coming by a different route, as he wished to visit relatives whom he had not seen in some long time. He will be along later in the summer and will send word of exactly when. Where are the boys?”
“Still in their schools. I have written them of your imminent arrival, and they will hasten home at the end of their terms.”
“They are well?”
“They are splendid; you will be so proud of them.”
At the rear of the house he found the near yard planted in flower beds, with the addition of an arbor with a bench beneath it. “Will you look at this!” he said with a soft exclamation. “Oh, but I do approve. Let us see it.” They entered the arbor, where she eased him down to sit on the bench. “Why, is this not much like the arbor at the Misses Pierce’s old school, where we first met?”
Clarity laughed with a note of triumph. “I win.”
“How do you mean?”
“I wagered a dollar with Mr. Meriden that would be the first thing you said. And, dearest”—she held his hand tightly—“this is not similar to it. This is the very arbor where we had our first conversation.”
“What?”
“Yes, I am afraid the dear old Female Academy has closed and the property been sold. I made an offer to obtain the rose arbor, which was dismantled and rebuilt here. Are you pleased?”
“It is brilliant.” He gaze shot suddenly to the bases of its pillars. “If I know you, you had the rosebushes dug up and transplanted as well.”
“The very ones.”
Bliven shook his head. “You are a marvel of the age. How is Freddy? Did he get everything planted this spring?”
“Oh, this will surprise you. Mr. Meriden is recently married.”
“No! Well, it was high time. He is not going to leave us, is he?”
“That occurred to me. He mentioned nothing about wanting to leave, but for his wedding present I gifted him a few acres next to our own. I know that you enjoy his association beyond his being our employee, and I thought I would give him some incentive to stay with us. And, yes, the planting was done, with some improvements, as he will show you when you are feeling up to it.”
He put an arm around her and pulled her close. “Oh, this is wonderful. Promise me, my love, you will never permit me to leave again.”
Clarity laughed lowly. “Would that were within my power. Come, let us go in and make you comfortable. I will make us some tea.”
“Oh, that reminds me, I have a surprise for you.” He set down his bag and withdrew and opened a small wooden box. “A new tea that I am certain you have not had before. What do you think?”
She sniffed it carefully at first, then fully. “Oh, my, yes! Where did you get it?”
“New Orleans. I thought you would like it.”
In the keeping room she lifted a paper from the dining table and folded it to show the story. “And here is a surprise for you, dearest, if you have not heard it. It has led the news of late. Texas seems to have won its independence from Mexico. Your friend Mr. Bandy will be pleased.”
Bliven took the paper and examined it closely. “Well, for heaven’s sake! What do you know about that?” He returned it to her. “You know, I think I will just go refresh myself after all.” He entered their apartment behind the keeping room, but as he closed the door he felt an unexpected wash of emotion swell over him. The secrecy of his mission was paramount, and he thought he could deceive Clarity, and what throttled him now was the injustice to her. After thirty years together, could she not tell when he was concealing something from her? Would she question him on it, or would she wait for him to confide in her when it was safe to do so? It was incomplete, and unfair, but he was powerless to alter things at the moment.
* * *
* * *
That summer of 1836 was a halcyon time. Their sons returned, Ben from Yale and Luke from his preparatory academy, both strapping but so very different. Ben took a full part in running the farm, and Luke evinced such an ardor for study that he virtually camped in the library. Bliven and Clarity provided him an allowance, to acquaint himself with the bookshops in Hartford and Providence, and even Boston, and to add to the library the latest significant volumes of history and geography and the sciences. It was from Luke’s own observation, without prompting, to question why Litchfield had no bookshop of its own, and thus from the age of sixteen found what he took to be his calling in life.
As Bliven learned, the addition to the farm was a large field, almost but not quite contiguous with its main block, which was planted to wheat. There would be more than enough for themselves, with the remainder ground on shares at the mill to sell as they wished.
Dr. Allison called from Worcester every couple of weeks, monitoring Bliven’s recovery until he could declare that the malarial fever had passed. However, this time it was not without leaving some shade of itself behind, as Bliven, even when he felt well, saw in his visage in the mirror a certain darkness beneath his eyes, a certain hollowness in his cheeks, which if they were visible to him must be noticeable to others. Clarity noted it, for as they lay late in bed one morning, she ran her finger down his cheek. “Dearest, do not be cross with me, but you will have noticed as well as I that this round of sickness has been different from those before.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Do you believe there is anything to be done about it?”
“Done about it?” He traced his finger down the curve of her cheek. “My love, I shall do exactly what I have done before. The summer is nearly done, and autumn is coming on. I shall let the farm heal me. I shall pick and crush apples, and carry pumpkins and parsnips into the root cellar. When I am up to it, I shall help Ben mend fences.”
She tapped her open hand on his chest. “That’s the spirit.” She had seen it all her life, that those who kept to their beds and coddled an illness so often wasted away there. It was those who got up and doing—she thought of her mother—those whose vigor returned by activity, and, more than that, from the enjoyment of activity—who made old bones.
As winter came on they judged his regimen a success, for Bliven seemed his old self again, strong, vital, alert. In another recollection of their earlier days, Clarity acquired a pianoforte for the parlor, upon which she renewed her acquaintance with music when the house was otherwise empty and there was no one to annoy with her practice. They entertained, as neighbors and old friends of her family recognized in her what they had once seen in her mother, a connection to the town’s earliest history. The boys attracted friends, who often as not were importuned to stay for supper. Bliven recognized it as a meaningful step for himself when he had two new dress uniforms tailored, and indulged himself in the rec
ognition of being a celebrated naval figure, but was not anxious to be recalled to sea.
The season culminated in a Christmas of hospitality, of food and singing, of gifts given and received, of mulled wine with close friends by the fire. The day after Christmas was cold but brilliant, and Bliven and Clarity decided to bundle up and partake of the sunshine with a stroll into the town center. The packed snow crunched beneath their feet as at length they came within sight of the Beechers’ old house, high and grim, now occupied by a reclusive tenant of whom little was known. “Many a day and evening you passed in that house,” he said to her, even as he marked the door to Beecher’s former study, where he had sought refuge, the one time that Beecher had actually been useful to him, when he was so haunted by things he had seen in the War of 1812.
“Dearest, may I confess something to you?” She looked up into his eyes. “This has been the Christmas of which I have dreamed.”
He pulled his head back in disbelief. “What? When you were a girl, as I remember, you did not believe in Christmas.”
Clarity looked away and shrieked, shaking in laughter. “Oh, do not remind me!”
“You held it to be a heathen ritual.”
“Yes, that is true. Well, I suppose a long enough acquaintance with Reverend Beecher has taught me a few things about what doctrines are essential and what is merely pompous.”
He squeezed her shoulders closer to his side. “Speaking of old Beecher, what news have you heard from the wilds of Ohio?”
“Oh, my dearest, you don’t know!” She pulled back and faced him, holding both his hands. “His seminary has splintered as though hit by one of your twenty-four-pound balls.”
“You don’t mean it!”
“It seems that the students and some of the faculty demanded that there be a series of debates on the subject of slavery versus abolition. Such a series of debates were indeed held, and tempers ran so high that the pro-slavery faction in Ohio threatened violence against the school and its teachers. Beecher sought to tamp down the flames and calm the feelings—”