CHAPTER 7.
Blodget’s Hotel
Washington City
30 December 1812
Miss Emma Greenhow
Spanish Farm, New Hampshire
My dear Miss Greenhow:
I hope you will not be offended by my long silence. As you have no doubt heard, on the 25th of October we captured a fine British frigate after a short action. They fought bravely, but fortune and skill were with us, and we triumphed. The losses among our brave lads were mercifully light.
I was assigned the task of rerigging the enemy frigate and bringing her safely into a friendly port, which job accomplished I was sent posthaste to Washington to deliver dispatches. This afternoon I dined with the President and his Lady, who were both quite gracious, and solicited my opinion on naval matters. These they listened to, and I flatter myself that I may have contributed in some small measure to the enhancement of the naval Cause among the political denizens of this Capital. They are surprisingly informal at the Presidential Palace; any citizen may interrupt the President to shake his hand or offer advice, and quite often this Impertinence is rewarded with dinner. Mrs. Madison is often obliged to play hostess to two score uninvited guests!
I beg you will forgive the lack of correspondence brought about by my activities, I know I have not had time to write a word, or draw a free breath, since the Macedonian was sighted. I hope to be able to take the honor of addressing you more correspondence in the future.
Since my arrival in this City, I have been much in the company of the Secretary of the Navy, Mr. Paul Hamilton, whose gallant son I had the honor of commanding in the battle, and with whom I journeyed to the City. Mr. Hamilton is a good-hearted fellow, and his behavior to me has been all kindness, but I think he is not a very well organized man, and the Navy suffers thereby; I also suspect his effectiveness is hampered by his deteriorating relationship with the Secretary of War, and possibly by his own habits of inebriety.
I have also spent time in the company of Captains Isaac Hull and Charles Stewart, whose compliments and benevolences I hope one day to deserve. It is entirely unfortunate that Captain Hull’s victory over the Guerrière was so marred by the disgrace of his uncle at Detroit. He is much down in spirits, tho’ I hope his forthcoming marriage— he was engaged just weeks ago in Philadelphia to Miss Ann Hart— will serve to brighten his life. I think that the war can but serve to brighten considerably the matrimonial prospects of Naval officers, probably at the expense of their Army colleagues!
As for Captain Stewart, he has been given command of the Constellation, a lucky old ship, and spends much time at the Navy Yard preparing her for sea. I have no doubt that you will hear more of Captain Stewart before this war ends.
I am myself assured of promotion, as it is the custom of the service to promote the first officers of successful captains, both as a compliment to the captain and to spread his success, as it were, upon the waters. The bill for my promotion is to be laid before Congress during the next term, and in the meantime I am given the acting rank of Master-Commandant. It is not the promotion to full Captain, such as the one they gave lucky Charles Morris, but the lack of pay is probably attenuated by the chance of a command, which is more likely to come to a junior Master-Commandant than to a junior Captain. Even that likelihood, in all honesty, seems slim enough. Commanders have already been assigned to all the available ships, even the ones now building, but I shall continue loitering about the lobby of the Navy Department, and making a nuisance of myself, until Mr. Hamilton finds me a ship somewhere. Perhaps even now one of our cruisers is bringing a Prize into port, which it may be my honor to command.
I am sure you have been bored by this naval gossip. I would attempt to fertilize this missive with a compost of the latest anecdotes of Washington society, but the truth is that I have not been in this City long enough to absorb any, and I am already overdue for a reception at the Hamiltons’. I will write more thoroughly when the requirements of Duty are not so pressing. In the meantime I leave you with this titbit: the Turkish fashion seems once more in vogue, with Mrs. Madison affecting turbans, crescents, gold chains, and shawls. Please forgive the gap between this and my last letter, and commend me dutifully to your Father.
Your friend,
Favian Markham
Favian blew carefully to dry the ink on the letter, reread it carefully, and hoped he had reached the bland, formal, essentially tepid standard considered suitable for an unmarried man addressing an unmarried woman not his sister. His difficulty of composition was complicated by his suspicion that Emma’s letters were occasionally read, with paternal regard for the proprieties, by her father. The Honorable Nicholas Greenhow’s manifestly clear intention had all along been to prevent any form of intimacy, even by post, until Lieutenant Markham had become rich, or until Emma’s eye had been attracted by another, wealthier, prospect.
Favian, whose letter had not been cut short by a visit to the Hamiltons’ but rather by a complete failure of suitable invention— a lack that, he felt, had all too clearly been demonstrated by that absurd composting metaphor in the final paragraph— and he began to wonder, not for the first time, about the outrageous lack of reality demanded by this correspondence. It seemed as if any important message had to be diluted to the point of flat insipidity, if not eradicated altogether, before it was considered suitable to include in a letter to a woman with whom, damn it, he’d had a lifelong friendship and currently a certain unspoken understanding. The battle that Favian remembered— the roaring guns, gushing smoke, the thunder, cheers, and flames— was reduced to a nonrecognizable pap; the job of rerigging the prize had been edited to half a sentence; and as for the scenes of horror on board the Macedonian, they were best swept under the rug altogether.
The respectfully newsy part of the letter was intended to convey the following main points to Miss Greenhow and to Greenhow père: that Favian had achieved promotion; that he was moving now in high Washington circles, from which he might expect certain favors; and that, therefore, Lieutenant Markham was perhaps to be taken a bit more seriously in the department of matrimony. Favian thought that this ulterior object was perhaps too obvious in his observations regarding Isaac Hull’s marriage, and how war was improving the prospects of the Navy, but he’d let it pass.
Favian had considered mentioning his prize money, and that perhaps it was time to buy a house in New Hampshire, but canceled the remark as being too obvious. State Assemblyman Nicholas Greenhow had not risen to his present position of respectability and influence by not being able to read between the lines of a communication: No doubt the thought of prize money would enter his mind without Favian’s mentioning it. Greenhow had owned shares of privateers during the Revolution, including some of the Markham ships, and no doubt knew what a lieutenant’s share of prize money was worth.
But hang it anyway! This business of writing to a father while ostensibly writing to the daughter, and of forcing oneself to carefully prune away any of the thorny branches of reality that might be considered unsuitable for a young lady of gentle upbringing, was unaccountably tedious.
At least Favian had been able to approach the truth in a letter he’d written to his father. “The scene on board the British ship was unimaginably horrible,” he’d written, “and I now understand your reluctance to describe Bristol following Malachi’s victory, where the slaughter had been as great. One hundred-four of Macedonian’s total complement of 301 were made casualty— over a third!— and over forty died. The battle was fought mostly at long bowls, and so the injuries were principally inflicted by round shot, which created horrible mutilations. Yet somehow I managed to work through these scenes of horror, and sometimes I wonder if I have not become a monster, able to inflict such destruction and then exist calmly for some weeks amid the results of my handiwork.”
But that was to Jehu Markham, who had warred at sea in his time and could be expected to understand. Miss Emma Greenhow had rarely journeyed farther from Spanish Farm than Boston, and her acquaintance with death would have been made at staid Calvinist funerals, with corpses provided by heart failure or apoplexy, and not the work of roundshot or cutlass. There would be no point in disturbing the delicate unreality in which genteel women were expected to live. Favian suspected that if his world intruded upon hers, it would be his world, not hers, that would be banished from her thoughts.
There was a knock on his door, and he called for whoever it was to enter while he folded, sealed, and addressed the letter. Archibald Hamilton entered, with an invitation for a gathering at his parents’ place, thus producing in fact what Favian had invented for the purposes of closing his letter. Favian accepted, donned his undress uniform and blue trousers, and, after dropping his letters at the Post Office Department, which shared the hotel, followed Hamilton to the waiting carriage.
The pleasant supper with the Hamiltons did not prevent Favian from walking to the Navy Department the next day to pay his respects to the secretary and to remind him officially, by his presence in the office, that the new master commandant had no appointment. Favian, as he entered the Navy Department’s foyer, and scraped mud from his boots with a metal blade bolted to the floor for the purpose, had no expectation of seeing anyone other than Hamilton, some clerks, and perhaps Archibald Hamilton pressed into temporary duty to relieve the pressure of the usual backwater of paperwork threatening to inundate the department. It was therefore with considerable surprise that Favian saw an old service friend— perhaps his only service friend— waiting in the lobby, his feet stretched out and ankles crossed.
Lieutenant William Burrows supported the National Intelligencer on his knee, and was dressed, as usual, in ordinary clothes— it had always been difficult to get him into uniform, and when he was not in civilian clothes, he was as often as not wearing the tarred hat, embroidered jacket, and ragged trousers of a common seaman. A dour clerk, who was replacing Charles Goldsborough, the head clerk famous for his hospitality to sailors, while the latter was on holiday, glared at them both over the rims of his spectacles.
Burrows looked up from his paper. “Hullo, Markham,” he growled. It was plain from his attitude that he seemed to consider Favian’s entrance a resented intrusion. “I’ve been reading about you. I suppose you think you’ve made a great splash in the world.”
“What water barrel did they drag you from?” Favian retaliated. “And how did they persuade you to dress like a human being?”
“This?” Burrows plucked at his jacket. “’Twas placed topside in my dunnage. Don’t know who put it there.”
Burrows went back to his paper as Favian reported to the clerk, who sent his card in to Hamilton. Favian turned, walked across the lobby again in silence, and sat in the chair next to Burrows. Burrows folded his paper elaborately, then stuffed it into his coat.
“I suppose I shall have to thank you for my exchange,” Burrows said. “I have spent the last few months as a guest of the Royal Navy.”
“Indeed?” Favian said, his tone implying that the fact was of little concern.
“They captured our boat on its return from the Indies. Washington had the effrontery to declare war on them and not tell us. A scandal. Shall bring the matter up in Congress.”
The clerk glared over the rims of his spectacles, then busied himself once more with his papers.
“I’ve been paroled,” Burrows said. “There are so many British officers in our hands, and so few of us in theirs, that I shall be officially exchanged very soon. Probably with one of the Macedonian’s crew. So I thank—” His discourse was interrupted by a mammoth yawn. “—thank you for it.”
“I suppose, sir, that you are welcome.”
The clerk suddenly stood, snatched up a bundle of papers and his pen, and quit the room, leaving a splattered trail of ink behind him. Burrows raised an eyebrow. The clerk was apparently unwilling to abide the obscure and probably (in his mind) impertinent dialogue. It was clerks, not naval officers, who were supposed to speak in secret languages unknown to others; naval gentlemen were supposed to be silent, speak when spoken to, keep to their quarterdecks as much as possible, and exhibit proper deference when begging for an assignment.
“The fellow seems upset,” Burrows remarked. “Can it be one of us, I wonder?”
“You might try bathing one day, and see if he acts any differently.”
Favian, from the corner of his eye, caught a glimmer of amusement in Burrows’s eye; and suddenly he was laughing helplessly, mirth roaring up from him without conscious volition, while Burrows looked at him with an absolutely immobile face that was at once vaguely curious, vaguely disapproving, and yet somehow strangely comical.
“I wonder, sir, that you do not see a doctor,” said Burrows. “May I recommend a Dr. Keith, who, if memory serves, was once great help to my aunt— that would be Aunt Dotty— who suffered, like you, from fits.”
Favian recovered his breath and then was assaulted violently by a bout of hiccoughs.
“Aunt Dotty, if memory does not fail me, was later done in by a Mr. Hound from Timmonsville, a drummer I believe, who we later discovered to be the Florence County Hatchet Fiend. It was a great shock. I fear Dr. Keith’s prescription may not serve, sir. You appear to be in need of something stronger. Permit me to thump you on the back.”
Burrows’s thumps almost knocked Favian to the floor, but they served both to eradicate his hiccoughs and to awaken his wit.
“I am sorry about your Aunt Dotty, sir,” he said. “Tell me: Do many in your family exhibit symptoms of— ah— lunacy— hmmm?’’
Favian’s ten-year friendship with Burrows had been handicapped, as far as Favian was concerned, by Burrows’s ability to send Favian into unpredictable fits of laughter, while Favian had never been able to elicit as much as an involuntary smile from Burrows. Perhaps the reason for this was that Burrows’s style was Favian’s own carried to an exaggerated degree. Favian was known for being correct, aloof, scrupulously polite, technically accomplished, an ironist at home in most situations simply because of the measured distance with which he observed them. Burrows was all these things, but more so, and carried to such an exaggerated degree that he seemed almost a parody, not only of himself but of Favian. Where Favian was reserved, Burrows was completely misanthropic; where Favian made the technical details of his profession a specialty, Burrows made them an obsession; where Favian secretly distrusted the code by which he lived, and bad never given himself entirely to the Navy, Burrows made no secret of his dislike for the officer’s role, and his love for the fo’c’sle over the quarterdeck. In sartorial matters they differed: Favian dressed well, whether in uniform or not; but Burrows, even when he could be persuaded to don his uniform, looked like a scarecrow insufficiently stuffed with straw, his bony wrists winking from his cuffs, and locks of hair resembling dark wood shavings straggling from beneath his hat. Even when dressed as a common sailor, he looked unkempt alongside other sailors, few of whom had never been known as men of fashion.
Lieutenant William Burrows was Favian’s only service friend; they had struck up an unlikely fellowship as midshipmen aboard the Constitution at Tripoli and cemented it under gunfire. He knew Burrows as an aloof, blunt, morose eccentric, and a man obsessed. Burrows, Favian suspected, hated the Navy as much as Favian did, but he was also in thrall to it— to Burrows, the Navy was like a demanding mistress whom he could not live without, even if she made him unhappy. Burrows’s advancement, like Favian’s, bad been held up for political reasons: his father, the first commandant of the Marine Corps, had quarreled with Jefferson’s secretary of the navy, Robert Smith. Convinced he would never be promoted by the service to which he had dedicated his life, Burrows had resolved to break with his obsession; he had taken a long furlough and voyaged to Canton as a merchant skipper. War had broken out while he was absent, and the first he knew of it was when the Thomas Penrose was brought under British guns.
And now, paroled— on his honor not to fight the British— and awaiting exchange, he waited in the secretary’s office, apparently ready to resume his long, frustrating affair with the Navy. Favian was delighted to see him, but also concerned for his friend: Would Burrows find his requests for assignment again denied, and again wear a path in the floor of the Navy Department as he was shuffled, like a sheet of paper, from office to office, until he once again left in disgust, hoping to regain his self-respect in some other capacity?
“He’ll see you both now.” The clerk had returned, and spoke in tones that implied that he could not understand why Paul Hamilton did not have them ejected from the premises by the Marines.
Favian brushed a streak of mud from his trousers and walked with Burrows to Hamilton’s office.
Hamilton rose affably from his chair, shook their hands, bade them sit. “I have some fine North Carolina whiskey, gentlemen,” Hamilton beamed. “I hope you will take a glass.”
“It’s a little early for me, thank you, sir,” Favian said. It was a few minutes after nine in the morning, and gauging from Hamilton’s breath, the North Carolina whiskey jug had already been breached. “Not for me, sir,” Burrows said, blunt as usual. The Secretary cheerfully poured a glass for himself and offered his guests a seat.
“Mr. Burrows, I am happy to meet you again,” he said. “I have been reviewing your record.”
Burrows’s answer was an uncivil grunt; he was not a vocal man among those he did not know well. Hamilton peered at him oddly and then continued.
“Mr. Markham, I have a certain amount of good news for you, although it is tempered by qualifications. In short, I have a command for you, but it is a command which you may wish to decline.”
Favian felt his blood race— purely an instinct, he knew, driven into him by years of hearing the special, awed way young officers inflected the words “a command,” as if it were the equivalent of the Holy Grail (which, for officers at least, it probably was). But Favian hooded his excitement and answered cautiously.
“In what way, sir?”
“It’s the old Experiment schooner, Mr. Markham,” Hamilton said. “She’s been converted to a brig and given new guns. She’s been laid up for some years, but is being recommissioned and should be in the water in a month’s time. It’s normally a lieutenant’s command, you know. You may feel it is beneath your station. I would not blame you if you were to decline.”
Near-palpable calculations flickered through Favian’s mind. Experiment was not a good command. He should have had a sloop of war, or at least one of the larger eighteen-gun brig sloops. But assignments to these had already been made; he would have to wait for someone to die or fall ill or resign, or for Congress to vote money for new boats; it could mean waiting on shore for years. In the Experiment he’d at least have a chance for prize money, perhaps even for glory. Then again, the fast twelve-gun schooners, now converted to brigs, were said to have lost many of their excellent sailing qualities, and the chances for their capture were high. The Nautilus and the Vixen, both in the Experiment’s class, had been lost to the enemy so far, both overhauled by greatly superior enemy forces and compelled to surrender.
Yet it was— it was a command! The hushed, awed, respectful tone with which the phrase was uttered by junior officers had been given years in which to impregnate him with its wishful meaning. He was not immune, despite his cynicism and bitterness, to the myths of the Navy, or to a prolonged exposure to the single hope that, as a midshipman and lieutenant, he had heard so fervently expressed by his peers. A command...! A chance at last to exercise the skill and talents he’d developed ... a chance to sail his own ship upon the seas, independent of the shore, to pick and choose the place of his own landfall, and survive by his own native cunning, free from interference by his superiors. How many of his fellows would envy him the chance, he wondered, and give all they possessed for the opportunity of commanding as much as a rotten old hooker of a scow in wartime? There were many, he knew.
Besides, Experiment was a lucky boat. Under David Porter she’d fought an epic day-long battle against Haitian pickaroons in January 1800, resulting in heavy casualties for the piratical forces of “General” Hyacinthe Rigaud; and later, under Charles Stewart, she’d captured the French privateer Deux Amis, and also the Amphitheatre, a British privateer captured by mistake and released afterward with apologies. She was almost as lucky as Enterprise, her sister.
There was also the matter of the Markham family. Almost the entire wealth of the various Markham branches had originally been won on the sea, as often as not in combat. It had been the legend of Malachi Markham, whose constant defiance of the odds during the Revolution had met with such spectacular success, that had inspired the sixteen-year-old Favian to join the Navy in the first place. Could Favian place his name alongside those of preceding generations? Would his own career be as successful as that of his father, Jehu, his uncles Josiah and Malachi, his grandfather Adaiah, who had commanded privateers against the French and died in combat with pirates off Formosa? Would Favian, in short, prove himself worthy of his ancestors?
If he turned down the command he would never know. Of the many thoughts flickering through his mind in the brief instant before he gave his answer, the most palpable was that of a long line of Markhams, some ghostly, some flesh and blood, watching him with cold, demanding eyes, their hands clasping the hilts of swords taken from other generations of defeated foes.
“I cannot,” Hamilton was saying, “fault you for not accepting. It is no stain on your honor. There will be no stigma attached to you if you decline.”
The devil there won’t, Favian thought. He knew the service better than that.
“I am honored to accept, sir,” he said. Hamilton smiled.
“I shall have the orders drawn this afternoon. I am pleased to have under my supervision men of spirit and patriotism such as yourself— Captain Markham.”
It felt good, he had to admit it. Masters of Navy vessels were called captain whether they officially had the rank or not; and though Favian was a master commandant with a lieutenant’s command, he was nevertheless captain of the United States brig of war Experiment, and would be until he was given another assignment or Experiment was blown out from under him. There was a giddy sensation that came as Hamilton pronounced the word. Captain: The word had such a sweet sound.
But, Favian wondered cynically, would there have been talk of “spirit” if he had declined? Would Hamilton or his successors have ever offered Favian another command, knowing he had once turned one down?
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I hope I shall prove worthy of your trust.”
“Congratulations, Favian,” Burrows said. The tone was grudging. Favian looked with surprise at his friend. Was there resentment in those solemn eyes? Had the jealousy begun already, and over such a poor command as Experiment? And then, in a frozen instant, Favian felt he understood: Possibly Burrows would have been offered Experiment if Favian had turned it down. Had he just, by taking a command below his own station, deprived Burrows of what might be his friend’s first and only chance to distinguish himself?
“Mr. Burrows, I have good news for you as well,” Hamilton said, a satisfied smile flickering over his features. Burrows looked at him cynically. “I have received word that Enterprise has come into Portsmouth, after having sailed from New Orleans. Her captain, Johnston Blakely, has been promoted, and has relinquished command. As I am certain that your exchange will be concluded in a few weeks, I would be pleased, Mr. Burrows, to offer you the appointment.”
Burrows said nothing. Neither did he move; he merely sat in the chair, his hands clasping its arms, his eyes fixed on Hamilton’s face as if he expected the secretary of the navy to jump up and cackle “April fool!” before withdrawing the appointment altogether.
“Will?” Favian prompted.
William Burrows continued to gaze profoundly at Hamilton, his face set in its customary expressionlessness, and then he began to laugh. It was a strange, unpracticed laugh, akin to a high-pitched screech, Burrows’s lips drawing back from his teeth and gums in a grotesque parody of a smile, his eyes still fixed on the astonished secretary. Burrows’s face grew red, his body still frozen in a stiff attitude in the chair, his knuckles growing white as he fervently grasped the arms of the chair. His howls echoed in the small room. Tears began to fall down his cheeks. Hamilton stared at Burrows with nervous wonder.
“Will, for God’s sake!” Favian said, astonished. He had never, in their entire acquaintance so far as he could remember, seen Burrows utter more than a polite laugh.
Burrows ran out of breath and began to cough. This seemed to break the spell; he huddled forward in his chair, coughing into his fist, and then looked up at the Secretary, his eyes still streaming.
“I—I am honored to accept, sir,” he gasped.
“Er—congratulations, Captain Burrows,” Hamilton said, a weak and nervous smile on his face. For some reason this set Burrows into another outburst of hilarity, quelled only when Favian, thoroughly scandalized, began to pound him vigorously on the back.
“I am sorry, sir,” Burrows said as soon as he’d regained his wits. “I am— I am honored by the appointment, and apologize for my— my behavior. Perhaps you would be so kind as to give me and Markham each a glass of your North Carolina whiskey?”
“Are you— ah— entirely certain you are well, Mr. Burrows?” Hamilton asked cautiously. He poured whiskey and pushed it across the table. Burrows gulped it hurriedly.
“Never better, sir,” he said. There was still a dazed smile on his features. He blotted the tears from his face with a handkerchief. “I can’t— I can’t explain what happened to me. I only hope I can persuade you to forgive me.”
“Think nothing of it, Captain Burrows,” Hamilton said, as politely as he could manage. “Both Experiment and Enterprise are at Portsmouth. Captain Markham may leave whenever he is ready. Captain Burrows, I am sure you will be prepared whenever your exchange is completed—”
“If I may, sir, I should like to leave with Captain Markham,” Burrows said. “If you could send the orders after me, I could begin making arrangements as soon as I reached Portsmouth.”
“Ah, very well, Captain Burrows. If you wish.”
Portsmouth, Favian thought. The only town he could claim as home, the town from which the Markham clan had, over the last hundred years, sailed their wooden hulls upon the breast of the sea, Portsmouth. Favian, without quite believing in luck, hoped that Portsmouth would be lucky for him.
“Captain Burrows, your lieutenant will be Edward McCall,” Hamilton said. “Captain Markham, your lieutenant has yet to be assigned. There are a number available; I have a list if you would care to indicate your preference.”
“Thank you, sir.” He took the list and scanned it. The privileges of a captaincy were coming quickly; he was given not only a brig, but patronage to go with it. It was a heady feeling, knowing he had the power to alter the life of one other officer. A bit of Decatur’s cunning came to him. He looked up. “I can ask, sir,” he said, “for no greater support than to request the services of Acting Lieutenant Archibald Hamilton.”
The secretary flushed with pleasure. “I regret I must deny you your request, sir,” he said. “My son is being reassigned to the United States in your place, as soon as his promotion is confirmed.”
“I am sure he will bring honor to the appointment, sir,” Favian said, his eyes already wandering once more down the list. He found he knew most of them, at least by reputation— the Navy was a small place— although he had not met some of the junior lieutenants.
“May I have Peter Hibbert?” he asked.
“A New Hampshireman, I see.”
“I have known him for some time, sir.”
“Very well. Experiment will have New Hampshire officers, and because she’s fitting out at Portsmouth she’ll have a New Hampshire crew as well.”
“McCall and I are both South Carolina men,” Burrows offered. “‘Twill be interesting, this little squadron. Which state will gain the most honor, d’you think?”
“I will lay you a wager, sir,” said Favian.
“Alas, sir, I cannot afford to bet until I run aboard a few prizes,” Burrows said.
Hamilton took a sip of whiskey. “I hope you gentlemen will be at the President’s house tonight, to celebrate the New Year,” he said.
“I have not been invited, sir,” said Favian.
“Bless you, Captain,” Hamilton said, “there is no need for an invitation to see the President. His house is open to all citizens.”
“Strange, this custom,” Burrows said. “I wish there were some certain commodores who held by it.”
“Sir,” Favian said, “I wonder if you have read my monograph on Massey’s Recording Log. I think it would be of inestimable aid to the service—”
Hamilton waved his hand in dismissal. “I looked at it, Captain Markham, and I confess I could not make head nor tail of it. Interesting, of course, for those whose minds work that way. But it’s wartime, and the office is a busy one. In peacetime I could afford to give the matter more attention.”
Favian felt hopelessness rising in him. “Sir,” he said, making one last attempt, “the recording log could be quite useful in wartime. Think of a long sea voyage, cruising ’gainst the enemy—”
“And then there’s the patent problem,” Hamilton went on. “How are we going to pay this fellow Massey his royalties when it would be considered trading with the enemy? No, it won’t answer.”
“We could make an improved version,” Favian said. “We wouldn’t necessarily owe Massey a thing.”
“No, it won’t answer,” Hamilton repeated, genially pouring himself another cup of whiskey. “By the way, Mr. Markham, there’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you. Mr. Goldsborough, my regular clerk, reviewed the documents sent to us by Commodore Decatur, and brought to my attention a discrepancy. The sort of thing clerks love, of course, but still...”
“What is it, sir?”
“It’s in the matter of a ship’s boy named Jack Creamer. How did he manage to be enrolled as a member of the crew in mid-Atlantic, on the day of a major battle?”
Favian’s mind spun furiously. “He— ah— his father was a member of the crew who died suddenly, last voyage,” he said, hoping his improvisation would not be too absurd. “It was not until the day of the battle that Commodore Decatur remembered that we were carrying the boy’s father on the rolls instead of the boy. We simply corrected the error.”
“Ah, I see— yes,” Hamilton said uncertainly, his brow furrowed.
“I see that you are busy, sir. We should take our leave. I’m sure we’re both grateful for the chance to command.” Favian fled with Burrows before Hamilton could take the opportunity to begin picking logical holes in the yarn Favian had spun him.
They sped from the Navy Department to celebrate their advancement at the nearest tavern. Burrows was not in uniform, but Favian was, and fully intended to celebrate his opportunity to shift his epaulet from his left shoulder to his right, indicating command.
“What in blazes happened to you, Will?” Favian demanded as they splashed through muddy streets to the nearest saloon. “You looked like some mad ape laughing at the follies of mankind.”
“That’s what I felt like, Favian,” Burrows said quietly. “I never thought I’d be promoted by a Republican administration. That’s why I asked for a furlough and went to China. Even after I’d returned, I thought there’d be no real place for me. Third lieutenant of the President again, or perhaps a choice gunboat rotting in the Delaware. And then when he offered me the Enterprise—my God!— I swear, I thought it was some ridiculous prank. And then when he called me captain I was off and laughing again. After all these years, to finally have a chance.”
“I would not break into such fits in front of naval secretaries again,” Favian said, “unless you want to end up like your Aunt Dotty.”
They entered the tavern, scraped mud from their boots, and ordered champagne. The tavern keeper accepted the order without surprise; no doubt he was accustomed to the early-morning drinking habits of young officers from the Navy Yard.
“I hope you will be at the President’s celebration tonight, Will,” Favian said.
“It’s a little high-flown for me.”
“We captains, Will, must learn to fly in these elevated circles. Besides, you should thank Secretary Hamilton again for your command, and reassure him as regards your mental stability.”
“There was going to be a celebration in a little tavern by the Navy Yard.”
“Don’t be foolish. I think it would be to your advantage to meet Washington society, and show Hamilton that you can behave as something other than a baboon.”
The champagne appeared; Favian smiled, paid, and poured. They stood. Solemnly Burrows reached to Favian’s left shoulder, unfastened the epaulet, and shifted it to the right; he saluted and raised the glass of champagne.
“To the captain of the Experiment, and to success on the waters!”
“To success, and to the next captain of the Enterprise!”
They drank, and Favian tasted the first wine of command. It was light-headed stuff indeed; and he supposed he could grow to like it.