Chesapeake

  “On deck. Rutak, he lead the way. Don’t never forget his name. Bravest man I ever knowed. You here on earth because of Rutak.”

  The boys saw the people of Patamoke streaming aboard, and said wistfully, “Wish we could go.”

  “No way you go aboard that ship,” Cudjo said, and he took the boys to Eden, “I want them in the house,” he said. “Ever’body just keep quiet ain’t nothin’ gonna happen.”

  The gala at Devon was one that the families would talk about for years. The French officers were resplendent in their gold uniforms and glistening swords; Paul and Susan were fastidious as hosts, conversing with the visitors in French, then translating for their Choptank guests. Susan was so exhilarated that she dispensed entirely with her wheelchair, walking proudly to her place at the head of the table, assisted only by her husband’s arm. Old Tiberius, past eighty now, officiated with an elegance that few French major-domos could have equaled, and extravagant toasts were proposed to the grandeur of France.

  “Maryland is of the South?” Captain de Villiers inquired.

  “All who matter.”

  “And if—well, if trouble comes?”

  “Every man in this room ... Ask my son Mark. He runs the plantations now.”

  Mark Steed was forty-three, as handsome in his subdued way as the attractive captain was in his. “We’d follow the lead of South Carolina, all of us.”

  When the others nodded, De Villiers pointed out, “Yes, but you’re men of substance. What of the general populace?”

  Paul Steed, with his traditional capacity to ignore the middle majority—those stubborn Methodists who had warned that they would abide with the Union—promised the captain, “In all Patamoke, ninety-five percent would rush to fight with the South—for freedom.”

  The talk was good, and one course followed another, passed on silver trays by slaves wearing white gloves. At one point Captain de Villiers asked, “If I were obligated to advise my uncle in the Ministry, how could I explain the superior strength of the South?”

  “The gallantry of its men,” Paul Steed replied. “You are dining with gentlemen, Captain, and these men abide by their word. If they go to war against the North, it will be to the death.”

  The captain raised his glass for the final toast: “To the gentlemen of the South!”

  His dinner with the Paxmores was less congenial. Once old George had explained how the ship had been built, and had taken the officers into the hold to show them the devices he had used to avoid cutting into the keel, there were no light topics to discuss. Captain de Villiers had the distinct impression that Quakers, whom he had never encountered before, paid little attention to light topics. Indeed, the evening dragged, until he cleared his throat and asked, “If things deteriorate ... I mean, if war comes—”

  Rachel Starbuck Paxmore, now a prim and lovely woman in her forties, interrupted, “We would support the North, unflinchingly.”

  “But the generality?”

  “I believe that more than half would join us. The good Methodists love our Union.”

  “At Devon, I was told otherwise.”

  “At Devon, dreams prevail. Do not be misled by dreams.”

  “But the business leaders, even those without slaves, they agreed.”

  “That’s why a war would be so terrible. Dreams fighting against reality.”

  “If war should break out, could the North force the South to remain in the Union?”

  “We pray it will not come to that,” Bartley said.

  “And so do we all,” De Villiers responded. He was relieved when the evening ended, but as the determined Paxmores walked to the gangway, and he saw the trimness with which they carried their austere bodies, he felt that he might have had good conversation with these people if he had chanced to strike the proper notes: But with men who don’t drink and women who don’t flirt, what can one do?

  At the railing he asked, “You’ll be back tomorrow?” and Rachel replied, “No, but it was gracious of thee to ask.”

  The third night posed a difficult problem for the Steeds. It was one thing for them to invite the French officers to Devon for festivities; it was quite another to sail into Patamoke and publicly board the vessel which had once been so intricately intertwined with their lives. Susan’s notorious love affair had culminated there; from the decks of the Ariel, Paul had been tossed into the harbor with most of the populace of Patamoke looking on.

  With the delicacy that had governed their lives since the accident on the widow’s walk, Paul refrained from raising the question as to whether it would be proper to attend the final dinner, but Susan felt no such restraint. “Paul, I’d love to see that ship again.”

  “Would it be proper?”

  “Paul!” Placing her hand gently on his arm, she laughed. “We’ve been highly proper these last thirty-seven years and I doubt if there’s a person in Patamoke ... No,” she said defiantly, “I don’t give a damn if everyone in Patamoke remembers us and the Ariel! I want to see that ship.”

  So toward noon of the last day they packed their finest clothes in valises and boarded the Steed sloop, and yard by yard as the little boat moved down the creek and into the river, Paul could see his wife’s animation increasing. She was like a schoolgirl slipping away to her first assignation. “Paul! I’m sure it’s right for us to be going. It was a ship that meant much to us, and I’m an old woman now and I desire to tie down the past.”

  She was a finely tuned person, Paul thought, resilient, lively, a cherished companion. Their passage up the river was an epithalamium, a restatement of the abiding love that had marked the later years of their lives, and when the Ariel became visible, each was able to view what had happened on it as an incident, important but by no means overwhelming.

  The state dinner did not begin well. The wind died and mosquitoes attacked ferociously, but Captain de Villiers had come prepared. As soon as the planter guests were aboard, he ordered the crew to hoist anchor and move the Ariel out into the middle of the river, where the number of insects dropped sharply. Then he announced, “Good news, ladies. Our French chemists have perfected a miracle. They call it essence de citronelle. You will love the smell of its oranges and lemons, but the mosquitoes won’t.” And he directed his staff to spray the area where the guests would sit, and the evening became a gallant affair, the last of its kind these planters would know for many years. The ladies were beautiful, and behaved as if their slaves would be tending them forever; the men spoke well of their adversaries at the North and told De Villiers, “We must all pray that common sense prevails.” And the moon shone on the Choptank in full-rimmed splendor.

  But the man who gained most from this last evening was not seen by either the guests or the crew. He was standing onshore, in the darkness provided by a tree, watching the ship he had known so well. When he had first marched to it in chains, the gangplank had been on that side. He had spent his learning days chained to the bulwark on this side. His first pen belowdecks must have been back there. The second, where he plotted with Rutak, had been below that.

  There was the hold from which he had stormed with Luta ... When he thought of her, always in chains until her dead body was cut loose, he could think no more. Only his eyes continued the memory. Over that railing he had thrown her into the sea. He had to sit down. His head sank so low he could no longer see the ship.

  After a long time he looked aft, to the tiller he had mastered and the compass whose secrets he had unraveled. How tremendous those days had been, sailing north. He rose to his feet in great excitement and imagined the sails being raised at his command: Rutak! The ropes! And up the topmost sails had gone, and he had sailed that ship.

  Transfixed by the beauty of his vessel, he stayed in the shadows, tending it until the anchor was raised. He watched as it made its way back to the wharf, and he named each guest who departed down the gangway. Then the night fell silent, except for the half-hours when the bells sounded. How well he knew them! In the darkest hours, chained to the b
ottom of the ship, he had followed the bells; their stately rhythm had governed his life.

  Midnight struck, and two and four, and the ship lay sleeping at the wharf. He watched as the summer sun began to rise, back up the Choptank, throwing its rays deeper and deeper into the river. Voices drifted softly across the water, and soon townspeople began to gather along the shore to watch their ship depart.

  Lafe Turlock came to remind his myriad grandchildren that once this ship had belonged to them, and the anchor was raised for the last time, and Captain de Villiers appeared on deck, and slowly the beautiful corvette entered the river and sailed away. But the man who had once really owned this ship, by right of capture, remained in the shadows, watching till the tips of the masts vanished from sight.

  Captain de Villiers left Patamoke with the opinions of everyone who would be involved in the forthcoming struggle—except the slaves and the freed blacks. It had never occurred to him that he might have sought their judgment, too.

  When the dinner guests disembarked, two remained behind. Captain de Villiers insisted that Paul and Susan Steed spend the night in his cabin. “I will deposit you on Devon Island, then head for France.” So these two went once more to that cabin which had been the scene of their scandal.

  “It seems so long ago,” Susan said as the door closed. “But our lives have not been wasted.”

  Paul could think of no appropriate response, but he was so restless that he did not yet wish to retire. “I was so proud when you said you wouldn’t need the chair tonight.”

  “I would not want to come aboard this ship ...” Her voice trailed off.

  “I thought the conversation on these two nights ... No wonder my ancestors preferred France.”

  “You’re just anti-British, Paul. Always have been.”

  “There’s something in the way a Frenchman wears a uniform ...”

  Susan sank down upon the bed she had once known so well and stared at the cabin door. “The terror this ship has known.” She reflected on this, then said, “It just occurred to me, Paul. I didn’t see Cudjo or Eden on the wharf.”

  “Probably didn’t even know it was in the harbor.”

  “Do you suppose he really did capture it? And kill ...”

  “Somebody did.”

  “Would a gang of uneducated black slaves be able ...”

  “They sailed it, didn’t they?”

  “I suppose you were aware that Captain de Villiers was probing us?”

  “His government wants to know. A hundred years ago France made all the difference on the Chesapeake. It may do so again.” He thought about this for some moments, then added, “I think we planters got our points across.”

  “He spoke as if war were inevitable.”

  “I think it can be avoided. If only we could muzzle agitators like the Paxmores.”

  “I wonder what they told him? You know, he saw them separately, last night.”

  “From something he dropped, I judge they bored him to death. They don’t drink, you know.”

  Susan could not sleep, and in the darkest part of the night she walked by herself to the door, opened it slightly and looked out toward the spot where one of the men said that Captain Matt had been overpowered. She wanted very much to go out and touch the planking, but she was dressed only in her shift and deemed it best not to startle the night watch.

  “What you doing, Sue?”

  “Paul, as soon as they drop us at Devon tomorrow I want your help on one thing. Have Eden and the boys take me up to the roof. I want to see this ship go down the bay.”

  “That’s reasonable,” Paul said, and Susan came back to bed and they fell asleep.

  In the morning they sent a boy to fetch Eden; she could ride back to the island with them. She boarded the ship with pride, surveying everything so that she could later report to her husband, and when the French captain bade farewell to the Steeds at Devon, she marked his behavior. He noticed this and gallantly helped her onto the wharf, but in an instant she was gone. Her mistress had given firm orders during the passage: “As soon as we touch land I want you to instruct the boys to carry me to the roof.”

  She was there when the Ariel passed down the channel and into the bay. It was not the ship of old; she could not decipher what changes had been made in the sails, but it was still a vessel that ventured upon the great oceans, and its slow passage down the bay excited her as nothing had done in years.

  “What grace,” she said. But as it disappeared behind a distant headland a powerful new ship came north on its way to Baltimore, and she was transfixed by its majesty. It was one of the four-masted clippers used in the China trade. It had been built in New Bedford, and carried twice as much sail as any ship ever built on the Choptank.

  “Look at it!” she gasped as it moved resolutely up the bay, and when Eden wanted her to leave the roof, she insisted upon staying. “Look at this tremendous ship, Eden!” They stood side by side for nearly an hour, and as they watched, the breeze fell, whereupon the sailors hoisted what Choptank people knew as “the light airs,” those ballooning stunsails attached to the ends of the spars; when they were added to the full complement already aloft, they gave the ship an appearance of being decorated with lace, floating in an indiscernible wind.

  “It’s so lovely,” Susan said. “And so very big.”

  “They builds ’em up North,” Eden said.

  The four-master disappeared too, and Susan said, “You may call the boys now,” and when, exhausted, she was tucked into the big bed, Eden feared that she might never rise from it again, and tears welled in her eyes.

  “What is it, Eden?” the frail old lady asked. When no answer came, she said, “To see a ship like that ... Two ships like that ... It’s enough for a lifetime.”

  When South Carolina proved its willingness to fight the North by bombarding the federal positions at Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor, a thrill swept the plantations of the Eastern Shore and responsible men assumed that Maryland would quickly join the rebellion in defense of freedom. As Paul Steed told the other planters, “The governor’s from a town not far from Little Choptank. His heart’s in the right place.” So Patamoke waited for the declaration of war.

  It did not come. The slave-owning counties realized that their destiny lay with the South, but the greater bulk of Maryland lay close to Pennsylvania and had been corrupted by northern sentiment. Then, too, since the capital at Washington was completely surrounded by Virginia and Maryland, it was imperative to the northern cause that Maryland at least remain in the Union; incredible pressures were exerted, especially by the new President, Lincoln, and it looked as if the state would be torn apart.

  This did not happen. Through vacillations, which Paul Steed watched with dismay, Maryland inclined first this way, then that, and in the end wound up on the northern side.

  That is, the official posture was with the North, and a regiment from the Eastern Shore even fought in blue, “to their everlasting disgrace,” Steed said, but honest plantation owners and their supporters sided with the South, as did the marsh folk. For emotionally, Maryland was a southern state, always had been; its traditions, sympathies and economic interests lay south.

  Therefore, when northern regiments were formed, partisans of the South retaliated by surreptitiously shipping volunteers into Virginia, where they proudly enlisted in the southern armies, and it was on a mission of this sort that Colonel Rupert Janney started out from the Rappahannock to consult with his distant cousin, Paul Steed, up the bay.

  He sailed furtively, on his own vessel of one hundred and ten tons, because federal gunboats had already begun to patrol the Chesapeake, and it was assumed that many of the major battles in the forthcoming war would be fought there. With his map cocked on his knee, he directed his captain how to find the Choptank and negotiate the channel into Devon Creek. As soon as the gangplank was down, he leaped ashore in full uniform, crying, “Where’s Steed?”

  Colonel Janney was a handsome man, some forty-five years old,
slim, clean-shaven, gracious of manner. “I’m really in the cavalry, Paul. Like my forebears before me. I was named, you know, after Prince Rupert, your ancestor and mine. He never wavered and I’m sure you won’t, either.”

  Janney was an intense man, inspirited by the looming battles. “I’m serving with a man named Jeb Stuart, the Prince Rupert of our day. He knows horses, Paul. And tactics. We shall cut the Yankees to ribbons and be off before they know we were there.”

  It was difficult to keep Colonel Janney pinned down to one topic; he had read Steed’s book of letters and his important pamphlet on the economics of slave ownership. “I’ve been proud to call you cousin. You see things so clearly. Imagine a renegade like Helper arguing that slaves are a financial detriment, when you and I know that our plantations ... Is it true that you own nearly a thousand slaves? Incredible.” He paced the large dining room, then asked abruptly, “What’ll you do now ... this big house and all ... Susan gone?”

  “My son Mark ...”

  “He’s the one I came to see.”

  “You want to take Mark with you?” Paul asked the question without betraying the emotion it caused.

  “He’s the type we seek. If gentlemen don’t lead, the rabble won’t follow.”

  “I’m sure Mark will want to aid the cause of freedom.”

  “Exactly. Paul, what you said in your book ... That was a damned good book, Paul. Summed things up rather neatly, I thought. You and I are fighting for human freedom. It’s all in the balance—the good life, the decent management ... When can I see Mark?”

  “He’ll be in the office.”

  “He wasn’t when I landed.”

  “Probably checking the slave row.”

  “You’ve got to watch ’em.” He strode about the room, then came to rest with his second important question: “How many effectives you think I can take back with me?”

  “You mean from this region?”

  “Exactly. I hear you have some great riflemen over here. I want ’em all.” He spoke with such enthusiasm and had such energy that Paul wondered how he could have allowed his plantation to remain in a state of disrepair.