“Wardroom’s straight ahead, sir. Compared to the mids’ berth, a palace! Your cabin ’ull be fourth down the starboard side. It’s just been painted, and two whale oil lanterns which I supervised bein’ put in and squared away. You’ll have Doctor Darby to larboard and Mister Kerr just forward. Both snore, but not as bad as the gunner. I’ll see that your things are put in, sir.” The midshipman opened the door to the wardroom but did not set foot into officer’s country.
“Thank you, Mister Wainwright.” Curran saw that the wardroom was empty but for the steward laying a cloth and plates. He turned in the doorway. “Mister Wainwright, I wonder if you might explain something for me?”
Wainwright blanched slightly. It was only yesterday that the first lieutenant had asked him the difference between a French bowline and a snatch tackle. Wainwright’s explanation had failed so spectacularly that he had been sent to the masthead with a cake of soap between his teeth. “A nautical explanation, sir?” Wainwright quavered.
“A general one,” Curran said. “Why was it that Constellation and Enterprise did not exchange boats? As far as I could tell, the ships did not even hail each other.”
Wainwright became very grave and he said, “Oh.” After that, there was a silence of many seconds.
Curran began to understand Erskine’s quick exasperation. “ ‘Oh’ is not an answer, Mister Wainwright.”
“You don’t know, sir?”
“Do you not find it unusual that two United States naval vessels did not speak to each other in a harbor three miles across?”
“I thought the whole Navy knew, sir.”
Curran managed to say patiently, “Perhaps if you tell me, Mister Wainwright, the entire Navy will know, for I find that I alone have not been let in on this highly esteemed, perhaps even world-changing piece of information.”
Wainwright stammered, “It was that duel, sir.”
“What duel?”
“It was in Italy. At Leghorn, sir, there by Livorno. It was our own Cap’n Pelles that shot off Captain Edmund’s nose, over an operatic lady, in the year seven.”
THE MARINE OUTSIDE THE GREAT CABIN DOOR CAME TO ATTENTION WITH A moderate clash of arms, brought his musket vertical, and said with great enthusiasm, “Good evening, sir.” Having completed his duty as a human door-knocker, the Marine stared earnestly into Curran’s face until above them both the ship’s bell tolled four times, two strokes and two. The Marine then smartly turned about, opened the mahogany door, and said, “The captain will see you immediately, sir.”
Curran placed his hat under his arm, balanced the sailcloth parcel that held his orders and certificates, and walked aft. A short passageway led to the well-lighted great cabin. To starboard was the pantry and the captain’s steward standing quietly; to larboard a sleeping cabin, dark and unknowable except for a lantern burning a single taper. Curran automatically lifted his eyes as he entered the great room, fixing his gaze on the six great windows curved gracefully inward from the stern. The captain’s desk was in the far starboard corner, turned at an angle. Four bright lanterns hung from the overhead, and the desk was lit by a green-shaded lamp. The room was quite as glorious as naval hands could make it; the sole of the cabin was covered with sailcloth painted in the Nelson chequer, and on the cabin’s partitions were a barometer, three Breguet chronometers, and an engraved gilt and silver inclinometer, all shined brilliantly. The darkness beyond the great windows was not yet completely black, and it framed Captain Pelles, who was standing with a foot up on the leather-cushioned lockers under the stern lights.
As Curran approached, Captain Pelles put a match to a long clay pipe. Curran turned toward the desk and stopped next to a straight-backed chair placed in front of it. He came to attention and said, “Lieutenant Curran, sir. Reporting aboard from Epevier.”
Pelles turned in a blue waft of smoke. He was nearly as tall as the cabin’s overhead, a large man who moved languidly. The left arm of the captain’s dress coat was pinned up and empty, and in his lapel button he wore the silver medal of the Guerrière action. Curran guessed, correctly, that Captain Pelles had traded his arm for the silver medal and bit of ribbon on his coat.
“Your orders, Mister Curran?”
Standing at attention, Curran still had his orders clamped under his arm. “Yes sir, sorry sir,” he said as he removed the packet and placed it on the desk.
Pelles lowered himself into the chair behind the desk. “You may sit down, Mister Curran.” Deftly, the captain opened the envelope and spread its contents on the baize-covered table. The pipe clinked into a saucer, and Pelles lifted a small pair of half-oval spectacles and hooked them behind his ears.
Curran kept his head level, as his rank required, but he could see that a pale scar traced across Pelles’ forehead and jaw. Pelles was middle-aged, maybe fifty or less, and it surprised Curran that a man this grave and somber could command what appeared to be such a happy ship.
“I read here that you are the son of a diplomat.”
“Yes, sir. My father was posted to Constantinople. American consul to the Sublime Porte of Sultan Mahmud II.”
“How did you come to be in the Navy?”
This question was not an invitation to enter into conversation, and Curran did not intend to spread canvas with his answer. He knew, and Pelles knew, that his family must have had some influence, political influence, to have gained for their son a midshipman’s berth. Pelles wanted a simple, concise answer.
“My father had the honor to do Captain Bainbridge a service, sir, after his capture by the Tripolitans. The commodore was later kind enough to find me a berth with him on President.”
Pelles digested this perfectly normal transaction and tried to separate any animosity he felt for Bainbridge. Pelles knew Billy Bainbridge to be a hard horse and an unpopular captain; by his peers, Bainbridge was considered both unlucky and a bit too eager to please his patrons in Washington. It was, after all, Bainbridge who had surrendered USS Philadelphia so disgracefully to the Tripolitans in 1803.
“You did not choose to stay with Captain Bainbridge?”
“I had no reason to wish to part, sir. It was the needs of the service, and I was transferred to United States, rated master’s mate, then to Epevier whence I have just come.”
“Just so. Just so,” muttered the captain. There was, Pelles had to admit, some good in Billy Bainbridge—he did redeem himself later when he defeated HMS Java while in command of Constitution. Pelles’ severe green eyes held Curran. “You’ve seen much service in the Mediterranean. Do you have the lingo, Mister Curran? The Lingua Franca?”
“That, sir, and the Ottoman’s Turkish, French, Spanish, and most of the Arabic. Sir.”
Pelles grunted and turned his head slightly, lifting the corner of Curran’s file as he read. Free to let his own eyes roam for a second, Curran glimpsed a small portrait placed near the quarter galley; it was of a blue-eyed woman with a full mouth. Her small bosom was not fully covered by a diaphanous gown, and there was a gaggle of awkwardly painted ships in a harbor behind her. Curran had a moment to think perhaps this was the operatic lady.
“Captain Gormly informs me that you are a fine navigator and a tolerable seaman.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, Mister Curran. I have yet to form an opinion.” The pipe came up from the saucer, the bowl glowed, and Pelles let the smoke curl up from his lip.
“You