CHAPTER THREE
Favian’s boat, the current behind it, sped down the brown waters, the crew stroking easily at the oars even as they turned their heads to look at the city built up beyond the levee. Kuusikoski, the tiller clasped easily in his hand, craned his neck as he peered over the heads of the oarsmen at the black New-Hampshire-built privateer schooner. Now that Favian’s audience with Patterson was over, and he and his party were now quartered in the roomier cabins of the virtually crewless Louisiana, Favian was bringing to his cousin Gideon the news of the death of Josiah Markham, Gideon’s father.
The privateer’s lookouts were sharp-eyed; there was a hail from the privateer while the boat was still two hundred yards off, and Kuusikoski’s answering shout of “Macedonian!” while probably not understood since no one but Patterson knew the frigate was in Louisiana, created a stir about the entry port. Gideon’s men seemed to know their business and to be performing it smartly.
The pinnace swept under the towering jibboom, and Favian looked up in surprise at the figurehead, the rudely carven, brightly painted visage of a Russian Cossack, a fierce green-eyed young man with a red beard and a gold ring in one ear, waving a saber. This startling figure had originally been the figurehead of the Revolutionary privateer Cossack, commanded by Malachi Markham, uncle to both Favian and Gideon. Malachi’s career had been a spectacular one, filled with violence and danger— perhaps more danger than had been strictly necessary..
The Cossack figurehead was said to resemble him and had been taken down from the privateer after the war and put in a place of honor in the home of Josiah Markham. Josiah had always said the icon was for use in war and would not be happy gracing a ship in peacetime. Now it seemed that Josiah had given the figurehead to his son, in essence giving the privateer its coat of war paint, a talisman of success. Favian looked up to see the schooner’s name carved into the bulwark near the cathead: Malachi’s Revenge. Appropriate, Favian thought, this invocation of the family war god. He had himself flown the Markham viper banner, designed by Malachi, from the Experiment’s main truck during his successful cruise to the Narrow Seas and back, and for much the same sort of reason: a little of Malachi’s luck could make any war cruise easier.
The bowman hooked on forward, and Favian came up the schooner’s side to the twitter of pipes, sideboys in white gloves reaching down to help him in. Most privateers disdained naval practice, but others, apparently including this Malachi’s Revenge, seemed determined to outdo the Navy at their own game. Favian uncovered to the American ensign flying from the peak and walked forward through the lane formed by the sideboys, the schooner’s officers with drawn swords, and the “gentleman volunteers,” who served as marines and who wore uniforms of a sort, green coats and red caps..
Favian recognized the faces of the officers, New Hampshiremen for the most part: Francis Allen, a dashing devil-may-care young man, perfectly suited for his apparent role in command of the gentleman volunteers; Michael Clowes, a veteran New Hampshireman, who had probably been aloft overhauling the rigging, since he had a marlinespike on a thong around his neck and was spotted with tar, a thorough sailor whose own merchant schooner had been unlucky enough to have been captured by the British during the first month of the war. George Willard, a black-eyed Gay Head Indian from Martha’s Vineyard who had served Gideon for years; and finally Gideon himself, successful privateer and congregational deacon.
Gideon shook Favian’s hand in its doeskin glove. “Favian, by Jerusalem!” Gideon said, a broad smile on his face. “My heart rejoiceth; I’m glad to see you here! I thought it was Commodore Patterson, come to celebrate his new step!”
That, Favian knew, might well have been the first report: if anyone in New Orleans saw a naval officer with two epaulets from a distance, he might well assume it was Patterson with a promotion..
Memories of Gideon flooded him: the strong New Hampshire speech laced with biblical tags, the sunbrowned sailor’s face under the round beaver hat.
“You know my officers, I suspect,” Gideon said. “Mr. Willard, Mr. Clowes, Mr. Allen, Mr. M’Coy the second bosun— the rest are ashore. You’re lucky I wasn’t ashore myself; my wife and I are staying at a hotel.”
The wife, Favian knew, was new: the widower Gideon had married a Creole.
“I came with dispatches,” Favian said. “My ship is at Fort St. Philip. I was surprised to see you here.”.
He clasped each officer’s hand and offered his greetings and offered news of their families where he knew it, wondering all the while how he could get Gideon apart to give him the news of his father. Gideon was not in mourning, nor was he wearing a mourning band..
“Captain Markham, I’ve brought news of our family as well as dispatches,” Favian said. “Perhaps we could speak privately?”
Gideon gave him a careful look. “Aye,” he said. “Mr. M’Coy, pipe the hands to their dinner. Captain Markham, will you join me below?”
“Certainly, sir.”
They went down the aft scuttle to Gideon’s cabin. It was a handsome, well-lit place, with its arched deckhead beams and graceful stern windows, but its looks were marred by battered, secondhand cabin furniture, relics of the poverty that had dogged Gideon for much of his life, and which had cost him his wife and son, dead of malnutrition and neglect. Favian accepted the place at the table Gideon offered him and sat down with a careful look at his cousin.
Gideon Markham was in his middle thirties with no gray in his brown hair; but his hard life— he’d been at sea constantly since the age of fifteen— had aged him and lined his face. Favian remembered a spare, lithe man of average height, reserved in the New England way and often grim. The Gideon he saw before him had thickened slightly about the waist and was older, which was to be expected, but the grimness seemed to have gone. Remarriage had changed him for the better, that was clear, and Favian’s curiosity about his wife increased..
Gideon dressed plainly in a coat of brown broadcloth, a round beaver hat, gray trousers, half boots that were polished but had obviously seen a lot of wear, and a jewel-hilted sword. This last seemed out of place on such an unassuming man. The hilt was beautifully crafted, and Favian thought the jewels were diamonds.
Gideon perceived the direction of Favian’s eyes. “A trophy,” he said. “Captured from the captain of the British sloop Alastor that I sank last year. It was the maiden voyage of Malachi’s Revenge.”
“A worthy memento, I’m sure. I’ve heard something of that fight,” Favian said. “Captain Patterson was most complimentary, earlier this morning, concerning your conduct at Mobile in September.”
“The Lord was with us,” Gideon said simply. “We took a schooner and a sloop of war, Musquetobite. That’s why we’re in New Orleans; we’re trying to get a privateering commission for the sloop.”
“I hope it will give you joy, Gideon,” Favian said. He looked at his cousin and took a breath..
How many times had he told men of other men’s deaths? he wondered. Off Tripoli, after storms and accidents, in this war with the British? He had written to the survivors of all the Experiment’s dead, informing them of the loss of the men he had grown to know well aboard the little eighty-foot brig, all men who had trusted him until their little man-of-war had gone on the sands. He should be good at it by now, he thought; the words should be learned by rote, the consolation automatic. Somehow they were not; each time was a repetition of the same agony.
“Gideon, there is bad news,” he said. “I’m sorry to be the one to bear it. Your father passed away in September.”
Favian saw Gideon’s eyes turn away, his face hardening into a stern mask, the look Favian remembered from years ago. So the grim scowl was a way of hiding hurt, Favian thought; now it would no longer be Gideon speaking, but the Congregational deacon.
“The Almighty give him peace,” Gideon said. His fingers absently stroked a pewter coffee mug that had been resting on the table.
“He was a good man, Gideon,” Favian said. “Hundreds came out for the funeral, every public official, John Maddox, Andrew Keith, every privateer in the state. Daniel Webster spoke the oration. I wish I had kept the newspaper clipping my father sent me, but I mailed it back to New Hampshire when we sailed.”
Gideon looked up at him; despite the rigorous mask, there was a ocean of sorrow in the brown eyes. “When did it happen?” he asked.
“He passed away in his sleep while visiting my father,” Favian said. “The night of September eleventh. He went very quietly.” He considered adding what he knew about the old man’s will, about Gideon inheriting Josiah’s Portsmouth house, but decided to let the official letter inform him. It wasn’t what Gideon needed to know.
“September eleventh. While I was dawdling here in the Gulf. First David, then Father. I should never have left New England,” Gideon said.
David Markham was Gideon’s brother, a charming rogue who, the year before, had got himself hanged for conducting a communication with the British, one of the few casualties produced by the lax New England habit of seeing nothing wrong with trading with the enemy providing enough profit was made.
“Don’t reproach yourself,” Favian said. “You’ve done well here. My father and mother were with your father when he passed. Your brothers represented you at the funeral and did very well. And as for David, you know there was nothing either of us could have done to stop him.”
“I wish the Lord had spared him until I could have seen him again,” Gideon murmured.
“Your father was proud of you, Gideon. You carried on his labors; you went to sea and fought the British. I’m sure he felt your work was here.”
Gideon gave no reply, just looked down at his hands as he absently rubbed the old pewter mug. Favian sat through a long silence, then saw a shiver run, through Gideon’s body as he snapped out of his fit of abstraction.
“I’m sorry, Favian,” he said. “I thank you with all my heart for bringing the news. But I think I would like to be alone.”
Favian stood. “Of course. Captain Patterson has given me quarters aboard the Louisiana. I hope you will send for me if you want company.”
“Come to my hotel tomorrow for luncheon. Hotel Esplanade, noon. You can meet my wife.” His eyes flickered from Favian to the table and back, making an obvious effort to be civil.
“I would be honored,” Favian said. “Please don’t get up. I wish I had brought happier news.”
He returned to the deck and blinked in the strong light. He saw some of his boat’s crew on the deck inspecting the privateer with critical man-of-war eyes and motioned them into the boat. Michael Clowes came politely forward, the marlinespike swinging on its thong around his neck.
“Leaving so soon, sir?” he inquired.
Favian nodded. “Aye,” he said. He leaned toward Clowes and lowered his voice. “I’ve just informed Captain Markham of the death of his father,” he said privately. “Perhaps you might tell the other officers and arrange so that Captain Markham is not disturbed today.”
Michael Clowes’s eyes were grave. “Certainly, sir. Do you think the wardroom mess might send Captain Markham our condolences, sir?”
“That would be appropriate, yes. I’m sure Captain Markham would appreciate it.”
“Thank’ee, sir, for your advice. Mr. M’Coy, pipe the side for the captain.”
Favian swung down into the boat to the twitter of the privateer’s pipes and settled into the stern sheets. It was barely noon and already he felt exhausted; he tugged at his cravat and neckcloth and opened his collar, feeling the weight of the epaulets burdening his shoulders.
All day he had carried bad tidings, first to the city and then to his cousin. One public tragedy, soon to be the cause of the blowing of bugles and the tramp of marching feet, and another private one, an old man dying alone in a bed in New Hampshire. Received by a man who shut himself in his cabin alone with his reproaches.
He had brought enough bad news for one day, Favian thought cynically; he could be excused the rest of it until the Defense Committee met that night. He looked forward to his cabin on the Louisiana, where he could tear off the dress coat of Captain Favian Markham, U.S.N., the naval beau sabreur, and spend the afternoon alone, like his cousin, away from the prying eyes of men.