Behind him in the mercado came the rumble of cartwheels, and a high, unbroken voice piping, “Teniente americano, teniente americano.” Curran turned to find the boy ploughing straight at him, and behind the child, a man leading a vast, slab-sided oxcart, empty except for Curran’s own baggage. The man leading the ox looked exactly like the little boy made larger—an uncle, perhaps. Curran gazed at the cart, a contraption quite large enough to move an admiral, maybe even two admirals, and he started to figure that it would cost him most of the coin he had in his pocket to trundle his things what remained of fifty yards. Again the flash of the gold on his shoulder lifted his spirits—he was no longer a starving, penniless mid. When his commission arrived he’d drawn six months’ pay in advance, and there was the pleasant bonus of reimbursement from his date of rank, the sum amounting to almost 112 gold dollars and 75 cents. Curran was richer now than he had ever been in his life, and he simply waved for boy, uncle, bullock, and cart to follow him to the boat landing.
Curran came up to the end of a short pier, whistled at the boat, and held his hat aloft. He saw the officer point his glass toward him and hold. Recognizing the uniform, and by God the glorious epaulet, the coxswain deflected the tiller and the boat came on, threading between the parallel reefs below the star-shaped fort. In a few moments Constellation’s number two cutter shipped oars and kissed neatly against the stone wall and the pier head.
The boat’s officer came nimbly across the gunwale and onto the quay. He was a red-faced man, a lieutenant, maybe thirty or forty years old. His eyes were narrowed against the sun, and his squint turned up the corners of his mouth. This gave an impression of happiness or mirth; but it was soon apparent by his tone that neither he nor the men in the cutter were particularly happy about anything.
“Is Enterprise gone?” he asked curtly.
Curran touched his hat. “I believe she is in the offing. Still south of the cape.”
The officer’s expression lightened and he took a few steps down the pier. Standing on a piling, he turned toward Constellation and waved a white handkerchief in a circle over his head. Curran looked down into the cutter. There were a dozen sailors in working clothes and a pair of green-jacketed Marines holding muskets against their knees. Between them was a man in a faded blue coat. The boat crew seemed uncommonly mum.
The officer came back and lifted his hat. “I apologize, sir. My name is Hancock, third lieutenant of Constellation.”
“Curran, sir. Honored.”
“Are you from Enterprise?”
“In transit and under orders,” Curran said. “I am just off Epevier.” He might have added, “and I am a lieutenant for almost two whole days,” but that could easily be deduced. Though Curran’s uniform jacket had seen sea and sun, the swab on his shoulder was pristine and beautiful. To any seaman alive Lieutenant Curran looked as freshly minted as a new penny.
“My captain is anxious that we might have advantage of this wind, Mister Curran. I trust you will make a transfer for us?”
“I am at your service, sir.”
Two canvas sacks were passed up from the boat.
“There is mail for Enterprise and dispatches for the Mediterranean Squadron.”
Curran watched as the Marines took up the man in the blue coat. Manacled hand and foot, his chains clattered as he was heaved up and onto the quay. From the stern of the cutter a small sailcloth bag was swung up after him. The bag had not been properly tied, and some books, clothing, and papers spilled out. The wind fanned the pages of a worn and thumbed book, and a small tissue stuck through with pins blew down the pier. The prisoner crawled a few feet over to his spilled belongings, but a hobnailed boot came down near his hand.
The tissues floated off, some cut into the shapes of stars and clouds. As the chains dipped between his wrists, the man shoved his books and clothing back into the bag and closed the drawstring. The prisoner took up the small sack and stood with what dignity he could.
Curran said to Hancock, “What is the prisoner accused of?”
“Convicted, sir,” answered the officer. “He is a murderer and a traitor.”
As the prisoner came to his feet Curran looked him over. The man wore patched duck trousers, loose cut in the naval fashion, but his old blue coat looked like an artilleryman’s coatee. The prisoner’s face was neatly shaved and deeply tanned, not like a man who had been kept below hatches but like a sailor who had walked the decks of a ship at sea. The man had a strong jaw and an aquiline nose. His age was not readily apparent, probably somewhere between forty and fifty; not quite six feet tall, he was lean and his eyes were deep-set, gray-blue, and piercing. His hair had once been dark but was now mostly gray and drawn back in a queue, as was the custom of officers before the last war.
Hancock took a thick leather envelope from his coat and handed it to Curran. “These are the prisoner’s instructions.”
Curran took the orders and glanced at the man who was in his custody. His captive did not seem by any measure repentant or abashed, nor did he seem overly concerned about the Marine bayonets leveled at his belly.
“Do you have a pistol, sir?” Hancock asked.
“In my cruise box.”
“May I suggest that you arm yourself?”
“Of course.” Curran walked to the oxcart and pulled round his sea chest. It took a few moments to open the lock and take his pistol from a tray within. He came back to the quay, and not knowing exactly what to do, tucked the pistol into the front of his belt.
Hancock offered a rusted iron hoop from which dangled a pair of brass pinions. “These are the keys to the prisoner’s shackles.” From out in the harbor came the banging of a signal gun, and the Blue Peter ran up at Constellation’s foremast. “We must be away,” said Hancock. “Do you have any questions?”
Curran prepared to open his mouth but was surprised when the prisoner spoke.
“I have a question.”
Curran and Hancock swiveled their heads. It was almost as if a dog had suddenly gone up on his hind legs and asked the time of day.
“Shouldn’t the pistol be loaded?” the prisoner asked. “I mean, if I am to be prevented from absconding?”
Hancock scowled. Abashed, Curran went to his cruise box again, found cartridge and ball, and thumbed it down the barrel of the pistol. He returned ramming the wad home and threading the ramrod back under the stubby barrel.
“I feel safer already,” the prisoner said. The sailors in the boat smirked quietly, and Curran felt his cheeks burning.
“Mind your tongue sir,” Hancock said, “or you’ll have a thumping.”
Hancock and his Marines dropped back down into the cutter. The whole business had passed so awkwardly that Curran felt compelled to speak. “Will Constellation be home bound, then?”
At the word “home” the men in the boat seemed to flinch. Hancock took up his place in the stern sheets and mumbled, “We are bound across the Atlantic, sir. Beyond that, I am not at liberty to say.” He nodded to the bow and the boat shoved off. “Give way together,” Hancock said to the oarsmen, and then he lifted his hat and shouted out, “Good day to you Mister Curran. Good luck.”
The boat went straight away, and Curran was suddenly aware of the eyes of a dozen