A Burial at Sea

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Fetch me my glass, Butterworth,” said Billings to the steward, who was behind his chair.

The captain had been planning to dine alone, but came through to the wardroom now. He was smiling. “An American ship. Come along, anyone who’d like to,” he said.

All of the men except one, Pettegree, rose and followed the captain, leaving their bowls of potato and leek soup behind to fall cold; for his part, the purser had a second bowl and then a third, delighted at his good fortune. The American ship wouldn’t be near for another quarter of an hour at least.

On the main deck they took turns looking at the ship through Billings’s glass (the captain kept his own), while with the captain’s approval Mitchell, who was on watch, gave orders for the ship to reverse itself toward the approaching vessel.

Soon Lenox could see her with his bare eye, a one-decked ship of middling size.

Martin spoke. “A sloop of war, clearly.”

Lee, when he took the glass, answered the captain almost immediately, “Yes, she’s the USS Constellation, I’d bet any sum. We met her once near the African coast, when I was aboard the Challenger. She captured a fat little bark with seven-hundred-odd slaves in her, set the slaves free, and imprisoned the slave traders. I would recognize her anywhere.”

“A good sailor?” Martin asked.

“Not fast. The Lucy could outrun her under jibs and staysails. But she’s steady, sir, and because the Americans make their ships of live oak she’s tolerably strong. It would be a mighty storm that broke her beams.”

There was a tangible buzz of excitement as the Constellation drew closer, among the officers and the men alike.

“Prepare the Bumblebee,” said Martin when they were less than a mile apart. “Cresswell and Lenox, you shall pilot her over there if they invite us on board. Mitchell, you shall stay on watch.”

Only now did Lenox see that his nephew was among those lined along the rail, looking out.

At last the American ship was close enough that Martin could cry out “Good evening!” and hear in faint reply from the captain of the Constellation, “You’re very welcome on board our ship, sir! You’re in time for supper!”

It was easy to claim that the French and the British navies were superior to any other in the world. Some fifty years before, however, during the War of 1812, Britain had been shocked at the strength of the American fleet, and now, with that country’s civil war receding into the past, the United States Navy was again a formidable force. Fortunately the States and Britain were on excellent terms. In fact their navies had worked jointly to lay the cable for the first Atlantic telegraph, the USS Niagara and HMS Agamemnon the two vessels chiefly responsible for that achievement, and the comity between the two navies was written on the face of every man on board the Lucy: they liked each other.

“Billings, Carrow, and Lee, change into uniform as quickly as possible. Bosun, bring along several men to row us—yes, they may stay on the Constellation while we eat, of course”—at this there was a tremendous clamor of men begging for the job. “Mr. Lenox, you may use your own discretion, but you are most welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, I shall.”

Soon they were across in the Bumblebee, Teddy Lenox and Alastair Cresswell rather puffed up with their responsibility and commanding the jolly boat it as if they were carrying Lord Nelson to battle.

As they slipped over the gunwales of the American ship, Lenox saw a half-circle of officers in their best uniform. At their center was an imperious-looking, remarkably thin gentleman, almost Roman in his ascetic good looks, skin tanned and hardened by the sun, with snow-white hair. He looked to be about fifty years of age.

“I am Captain John Collier, of Cohasset, Massachusetts,” he said, “and you are exceedingly welcome on board the USS Constellation—most heartily welcome.”

“I thank you,” said Martin, whose demeanor was grave but whose eyes sparkled with happiness.

“Have you dined?”

“No; at least, we began, but didn’t finish.”

There were introductions all around, now, Martin giving special favor to Lenox, and Captain Collier claiming himself honored to meet a member of Parliament. Lee remembered himself to several of the junior officers. Soon they all went down the hatchway and into the captain’s dining room; as he ducked below deck Lenox noticed a furious din of chatter, trade, and tale-telling erupt among the six men who had been permitted to row them over, while Cresswell and Teddy were making themselves at home with the chewing tobacco of the Constellation’s midshipmen.

The captain’s dining quarters were extremely homey, with candlelight bouncing off of the honey-colored wooden walls and chairs of a deep plush blue color ringed around an oval table. On one wall, over the door, was a large blue and white banner that said “For God, for country, and for Yale,” and opposite that was a needlepoint of a large, well-proportioned farmhouse, which Lenox presumed must belong to Collier when he was on land, and which read, “Cohasset Folly,” beneath the image. It was a cabin that made the Lucy’s own quarters feel frankly starched, unfriendly, by comparison.

As for the officers, they were all exceedingly gracious and excellent listeners—not how one thought of Americans, quite, and yet they wore their good manners naturally. Lenox found himself speaking with the ship’s chaplain, who could not have been a figure of greater contrast to the Lucy’s: a kindly faced, bespectacled, quiet gentleman, he had been at Yale with Captain Collier, and since then had published several books, apparently of the transcendentalist ethos. He promised to give Lenox a copy of his most recent before the ships parted.

“Now tell me,” said Martin, when the table had quieted. “What brings you into these waters?”

“We carried famine relief to Ireland,” said Captain Collier.

“God bless you,” said Lenox, with more fervor than he had intended; he felt his own country’s inaction during Ireland’s struggle a point of shame, brought into sharp relief by the Americans’ generosity.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Was your passage eventful?”

“Not in the least, thank goodness. I feared spring storms, but they never materialized. Now we make our way to the African coast, where we will break up the slave traders for a month or so, and then fill our empty holds with goods for our shores. A routine peacetime voyage, all in all. I suspect we’re rather like you; trying to make ourselves useful.”

“That is our situation indeed,” said Martin. Here he began his familiar disquisition on the lethargy of the British navy, the strange uses to which it was being put. He concluded by saying, almost apologetically, “We understand Mr. Lenox’s mission to be of singular importance, but there are ships afloat that are doing—well, what you might call busywork, even.”

“What we need, in my opinion,” Collier said, “is a return to the age of Banks.”

There was an immediate hum of gratified agreement. “Yes, absolutely,” said Martin. “Scientific discovery has always been the second-greatest adornment of our navy.”

“I know of Banks, of course—a famous figure—but must admit my ignorance of his achievements,” Lenox interjected, a statement met with incredulity all around. “I fear it may be a similar black spot for many landsmen. Pray tell me, for what is he most widely known?”

“His voyage with Cook’s Endeavor, first to Brazil, then to Botany Bay,” said Collier. “But, Captain Martin, you are his fellow Englishman; please tell us.”

Martin, with great seriousness, said, “He is the greatest figure in our navy’s history, barring Drake and Nelson, in my opinion—that is a bold statement but one I stand by, though Banks was never a great seaman himself. There is a whole genus of Australian flowers named after him, nearly two hundred plants in all, Banksia, and he was the first to bring the eucalyptus tree, the acacia, the mimosa, back to the Western world.”

“The bougainvillea,” murmured Carrow. He was smiling, Lenox observed. “Named it after his friend, a Frenchman—and this in the 1780s, when there was a good deal of nerve between the nations.”

“Just so, because science exalts our natures,” said Collier, “above even national pride, at times. That’s why I wish our navies would undertake more voyages of the kind Captain Cook led.”

“I’m reading the Voyage of the Beagle at the moment,” said Lenox, “and—”

“A truly great book,” one of the American officers chimed in.

“Unfortunate that Darwin lost his mind subsequently,” said Martin. “Apes, indeed.”

“We’ve had that discussion too often in our own wardroom for it to be fruitful any longer,” said Collier, smiling. “Mr. Lenox, what were you saying?”

“Only that perhaps science is still alive in the navy. Mr. Darwin is.”

“The Beagle sailed forty years ago, I’m sorry to say,” Martin put in. “There’s nothing like it afloat now. More’s the pity.”

As the discussion wended onward, they ate a wonderful meal, no doubt the best of the Constellation’s diminished stores, a tender leg of lamb, creamy mashed potatoes, a dessert of black sugar cake. There was, too, a great deal of excellent wine. Having been at seas slightly longer than the Lucys, the men of the Constellation eagerly heard the most recent news, and they were into their cigars and port by the time the noise subsided in the faintest degree.

When it did, Collier stood. “Gentlemen,” he said, “raise your glasses, please, along with me. I am very happy to welcome you on board, Captain Martin, Mr. Billings, Mr. Carrow, Mr. Lee, the Honorable Mr. Lenox. My family came from England to Massachusetts in the 1630s, and though we have fought against you twice, first in our revolution, then in the war at the start of this century, we have never forgotten that our roots were planted first in English soil. We honor the old country. And it gives me pleasure that our nations have finally understood this special connection, and that we may eat a meal such as this one in the spirit of pure friendship. Your health, gentlemen—oh, and as is your custom, I believe, to the Queen.”

“The Queen!”

Martin stood up then, and praised Collier and his ship, her taut rigging and shipshape sails, and then echoed Collier’s delight in the friendship between their nations.

“And now,” Collier said, when the toasts were all delivered, “if you can stay a little while longer we have some excellent brandy—American, but good, I promise you—and we would welcome your company for as long as you please to drink it with us.”

It was very late at night indeed—nearly morning—when the Bumblebee readied herself for her short voyage back to the Lucy. Alice Cresswell and Teddy Lenox for their part were shamefully drunk, and the officers, roughly but with a hint of indulgence, piled them into the bottom of the boat; then all of them, including Lenox, turned back to wave goodbye to the Americans as the rowers began to pull. The men of the Constellation, among them her own officers, were lined along the rail of the ship, waving back and shouting messages of goodwill, of good sailing, and of good luck.