CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At noon the next day Favian and Campaspe stood in front of the Presbyterian pastor and were married.
Gideon gave Campaspe away; Eugénie Desplein was a very stiff matron of honor; outside the church an enthusiastic Coxswain Kuusikoski shouted, “Attention! Present! Salute!” and the bride and groom walked under the arch of cutlasses formed by the crew of Favian’s pinnace. General Jackson, in muddy boots, found time to stop by the reception and drink a glass to the couple’s health; he then spent the next forty minutes conferring with Patterson, Gideon, and Favian concerning the Cat Island expedition before kissing a blushing Campaspe farewell and dashing off to inspect the New Orleans Volunteers, who were parading that afternoon. Finch Martin, in his cups, launched into an address, lewd even for him, that had all of the ladies present blushing crimson, along with most of the men. At the end of the afternoon, the crew of Favian’s boat, by then roaring drunk, detached the horse from his rented carriage, put themselves cheerfully in harness, and dragged the carriage through muddy streets to Favian’s hotel while singing a lengthy ballad about the whores of Pearl Street, a song Favian hoped Campaspe did not understand.
He had shifted his quarters to a larger suite and filled his rooms with flowers; Campaspe gasped as he carried her through the door, then hugged him fiercely. Favian kicked the door shut, and they were alone..
Carefully, he set her on her feet.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the distant, fortunately indistinct song of Kuusikoski’s crew, still bellowing out their ballad in front of the hotel. Campaspe slowly lifted her gaze to Favian, and he took her hands. “My darling,” he said. The words seemed awkward. Her arms went around him, and she pressed her cheek to the front of his uniform coat.
“It’s wonderful,” she said, and Favian felt relief flood him. He had carried it off thus far. She stepped back and turned slowly, taking in the room, the flowers, the table set for two, the cold buffet, the bottles of champagne standing on the sideboard, ready to be drunk at room temperature: there was no way to chill them. Favian put his cocked hat on the rack and undipped his sword from its belt. Campaspe walked to the window and gazed out; there was a burst of cheering from the crew of the gig, and she giggled and waved down to them before backing away out of sight. Gratefully she took off her veil.
“Would you like something to eat?” Favian asked as he lit a lamp: in December the days were short. She shook her head.
A virgin, Favian thought. In all but the most technical sense, anyway. He was used to women of far more experience. And the other night had been appalling: there could be no repetition of that sort of scene. Carefully, he thought, carefully.
“Your clothes have been moved to the bedroom,” he said. “Would you like to see they’re all hung properly?”
Campaspe nodded eagerly, brightening. He followed her to the other room. She examined the contents of the drawers and closets; everything had been done to her satisfaction. Favian untied his cravats, loosened his neckcloth, lit a lamp. “It’s very nice,” Campaspe said.
“Perhaps,” said Favian, “you would like to change?” She turned awkwardly to face him, nodded hurriedly. “I’ll give you some privacy, then,” he said. He brought his dressing gown out from the closet, then bent to kiss her cheek as she stood motionless in the intimacy of the tiny room.
Back in the parlor he shrugged out of the uniform coat, then laid it carefully on the settee, detaching the heavy epaulets and put them neatly aside. Outside the singing had stopped; no doubt the patrol had put an end to it. He hoped he would not have to bail his boat’s crew out of Cabildo tomorrow. The sky was darkening; there would be sunset in a few minutes. He undressed, laying his clothes out neatly on the settee to be packed in the morning for the Cat Island trip. He looked down at the clothing spread out on the settee..
There, he thought, was the Favian that had stood at the altar, the public Favian in his blue coat and epaulets, the chivalrous hero of the Navy. In a few moments a different Favian would be facing Campaspe on their marriage bed, a Favian bereft of the authority and burden of the post-captain. All his life Favian had privately grudged the Navy its authority over his life, its demands that he assume in public the cloak of virtuous, stainless hero— demands that had forced him into an artificial, affected style of behavior, both when he lived by the code and when, in careful secrecy, he violated it.
Now, astonishingly, the code was irrelevant: there was nothing in the situation but a thin, thirtyish, dyspeptic man and a young girl waiting for him in another room. There had been nothing in his life to prepare him for this, not all the battles and adventures, not the women in his life, the various Maries in the various bordellos, Emma Greenhow, Eugénie Desplein, his former mistress Caroline Huxley. The facts were simple and human; the situation would have to be addressed in its own terms, terms entirely outside Favian’s experience. Favian put on his dressing gown and waited a decent interval, then he poured two brandies, put the tiny glasses on a tray, and knocked on the bedroom door.
Campaspe seemed pale in the light of the lamp; she was lying stiffly in the bed wearing a lace nightgown, the covers up to her armpits. Favian tried to smile. “You’re beautiful, my dear,” he said. “Would you like some brandy?”
“Thank you.”
He gave her a glass, took one himself, and made a toast. “To our future.” Expressionless, she touched her glass to his and drank. Favian blew out the lamp, took off his doeskin gloves, and slipped into the bed. He reached over to take Campaspe’s hand; it was cold as ice.
“My dear Campaspe,” he said, “the last days must have been very tiring. If you wish simply to go to sleep— well, I’d understand.”
There was answering pressure on his hand; he could see the faint light glimmering on her eyes as they slid toward him: no speech. She raised his hand and kissed it, then finished her brandy and leaned across him to put the glass on the bedside table. She kissed his cheek. “I think I would like to sleep,” she said.
Favian touched her brow with his scarred fingers. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he said. “The other night— it isn’t all like that. It can be wonderful.” He could see her dark eyes watching him; he took a breath and went on. “I think the other night I must have been a little mad. But please don’t think I don’t love you, or care for your feelings. I’m very happy just being here with you.”
Campaspe kissed him again, impulsively; her arms went around him, and she rested her head on his shoulder. He put an arm around her, drank his brandy, and contemplated his falsehoods. They seemed successful enough. The nearness of Campaspe’s body, her obvious femaleness, had brought, despite his attempts to control it, an aggravating arousal; the night might well be a long one. Campaspe spoke only once in the next few minutes, before she fell asleep. “It’s very strange,” she said. Favian, silently agreeing, sipped his brandy till it was gone.
Shortly after three the next morning Campaspe came into the parlor to find Favian working by lamplight at his desk. He turned at the sound of her footfalls, seeing her walking in hesitantly, looking lonely and very young in her long nightgown, her hair down, shrouding her face. He reached out his left hand, and she came across the room and took it.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m making an inventory of my property,” Favian said. “I want you to have it. In case anything happens to me.”.
She pressed his left hand as he wrote with the right. He signed the paper, dated it, and put the pen aside.
“I haven’t seen your hands before,” she said.
“They’re not pretty, are they? I hurt them in the wreck of the Experiment. They don’t give me any pain, though.”
“I’m glad.”
“I’ll make a will tomorrow, when there are witnesses,” Favian said. “The house in Maine is probably under British occupation, and if the peace lets them keep what they’ve conquered, it will probably be confiscated. The rest, the property in New Hampshire and New York, can come to you free and clear. I’d suggest you follow the advice of my father and brothers when it comes to investments— they’re intelligent men.”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Campaspe said suddenly. “It’s bad luck.”
“Very well.”.
If he were killed at Cat Island or afterward, he thought, his will would have to be very explicit on the subject of who was to have charge of the money and property during Campaspe’s minority. His father, he thought; but then his father was over seventy and might find it a burden, and in any case might not have enough years left to him. His brother Lafayette, then: a brilliant man, if a cold one; he and Campaspe would not like each other, but he would make her money. He looked up at Campaspe and wondered how New England would see her. Latin, impulsive, and suspect, no doubt; they would offer her little charity. Emma Greenhow, he thought, would be as appalled by his choice as he was by hers. New York was less narrow, he thought; Campaspe would probably be happier dwelling in his property on Manhattan.
He realized with surprise that all his thoughts had been based on the likelihood of his own death— not a good sign, he thought. Was he really, secretly hoping for death in the upcoming campaign, some glorious end that would enable him to avoid the responsibility he had just undertaken?.
Not good; fighting men who had anticipated their own death all too often found it— he had seen such deaths many times during his violent career. Yet it was clear that his Navy career might well be over. He had stolen a United States frigate and compounded his disobedience by sailing it into a situation in which it might well be taken by an entire British fleet... There was no way he could survive the court-martial that would result from that..
And even if all worked out for the best as far as Macedonian was concerned, he knew that his marriage would not help his career. Campaspe was not, he judged, the best material for an officer’s wife; somehow he could not see her alongside the staid, proper wives of the other captains. Perhaps it would be best for all concerned if some sharpshooter’s ball found him, and he was able to make his quiet exit and leave Campaspe a wealthy widow...
No. Damnation, no. He had seen enough death at sea to know how appalling it could be, and he knew he did not want it. With an act of will he banished the thought from his mind.
“You may keep this place if you like,” Favian said, indicating the hotel room, “but it’s probably too large for you, alone. You may want to take rooms at the Esplanade so you can be near Maria-Anna. I’ll leave you some money to buy new clothes to fit your station— I hope you’ll take Maria-Anna’s advice; she has good taste in such matters.”
Campaspe nodded. “The British may come, you know, while Gideon and I are away,” Favian went on. “In that case I want you to follow Maria-Anna’s advice. She’ll know when to leave— you can make your way to Mobile or Baton Rouge, maybe farther upriver. General Jackson will burn the city if he has to retreat, and I don’t want you caught up in it—” He raised a hand in warning. “I don’t want you telling that to anyone else, by the way, just to Maria-Anna. No sense in spreading panic.”
“Please,” Campaspe said insistently. “Let’s not talk about it.”
He fell silent, then remembered something he had intended to do before he left. “I want you to have something,” he said. “Here.” He stood and went to the sea chest that had been readied for the morning’s departure; he opened it and took out a locket on a chain. Campaspe took the locket and opened it.
“It was painted by Robert Fulton, the steamboat man,” Favian said. “It’s a miniature of a larger portrait he wanted to do— it was very nice of him to send me the miniature, I think...” It was a somewhat idealized portrait, a dashing, stern-eyed Favian in full-dress uniform standing before a background of billowing cannon smoke, looking in every line like a mature, commanding hero.
“Thank you,” Campaspe said. She stood awkwardly for a few moments, uncertain whether to put the locket around her neck or not; and then she ducked and slipped the chain over her head.
She pulled her hair out from beneath the chain, the gold glowing on the whiteness of her gown. “I’d like a lock of hair, too, please,” she said.
“Of course. Do you have some scissors with your things?”
“Oh, yes.” Campaspe returned to the other room and came out with a pair of scissors. Favian returned to his chair and let her choose a lock of his dark hair and snip it off. As she bound the lock with a little ribbon and placed it in the locket, he saw she was shivering, standing barefoot on the cold floor.
“You’re cold,” Favian said. “You should go to bed. Let me stoke the fire in the bedroom.” She stood quietly by while he crouched by the bedroom stove, then reached out to take his hand as he rose.
“Please don’t do any more work tonight,” she said. Favian put his arm around her, and she hugged him closely, her weight shifting slowly from one leg to the other. He looked down at her for several long moments, one hand stroking her back slowly. Campaspe tipped her head back, and then reached down to take his hand and place it firmly over her breast. “I’m not afraid, you know,” she said. A gallant liar, he thought; he could feel her panicked heart. There was nothing else to do but kiss her.
It went, he thought later, rather well. For the most part she was passive and let him do most of the work; he was slow and careful, trying his best to show her the possibilities of pleasure without alarming her with her own body’s reactions, or for that matter with his. She tried her best to act as if she were relaxed, but he knew she wasn’t— by the end he thought her tension was much lower, her capacity for pleasure increased. Next time, when Campaspe had a better idea of what to expect, things would go better.
She wept quietly, next morning, when his luggage was carried out by his boat’s crew; he could see their sympathetic glances as they saluted him and carried his chests past the door. He kissed her farewell and hoped Maria-Anna would come soon, as soon as she said her own good-bye to Gideon. The room smelled of stale flowers; he opened the window and said, “I’ll be back.” Campaspe smiled bravely; he kissed her again and left, feeling an unusual mixture of regrets and responsibilities.
The weight of the epaulets on his shoulders and the swinging sword by his side— the weighty fighting sword, not the little wasplike decorative smallsword— reminded him that he was going to war. Any future meeting with Campaspe might come after New Orleans had been leveled, leaving the British in control of the mouths of the Mississippi, Macedonian taken or sent to the bottom, and Favian cashiered after a long court-martial. He looked up at the window of the hotel and saw a handkerchief fluttering out of the window. He turned and waved, hoping Campaspe would do all right. There was nothing more he could do for her, he knew, except survive the coming campaign— or perhaps not to survive..
He turned and walked toward the wharf and the enemy.