Annapolis, page 18
“I reckon.”
A short time later, her coach was pounding through the ruts, and Antonia was certain that the springs would be broken before they reached the little Anacostia River, but whenever she felt the horses slowing, she banged the handle of her umbrella on the ceiling and urged the driver along.
GIDEON WALKED OUT to meet John Allworthy, a small-featured and precise midshipman with no great love for Parrish but a passion for doing things naval—like dressing ship or dueling—strictly by the book.
“Irish code duello of 1777?” asked Gideon.
“As agreed upon, sir,” said Allworthy.
“Challenged chooses the ground, challenger chooses the distance.”
“Aye.” Allworthy flipped open the mahogany box he carried under his arm. In it were two polished pistols, lead balls, and small vials of powder. “Challenged also chooses the weapons.”
“Fine pistols,” said Gideon, without touching them.
“Call forth your man, and I’ll call mine.”
Jason put a hand on his stomach to quiet the rats; then he walked to the middle of the field. He thought an expressionless eye might unnerve Parrish. So he dug his gaze into Parrish’s breast and tried not to let go.
“It is our duty to ask, a final time, Mr. Parrish, if you will satisfy the offense to Mr. Stafford with an apology,” said Gideon.
Parrish did not respond, but made a great show of reconnoitering the field. “I choose the higher ground, to the left.”
Allworthy looked at Gideon. “That would seem to be the final word on the matter of apologies, sir. Challenger chooses the distance.”
Without turning to Jason for approval, Gideon said what Eaton had whispered in his ear: “Challenger chooses… three paces.”
Parrish’s face froze. Jason gasped. The other duelists drew closer.
“Three paces?” said Allworthy. “This is most unusual.”
“It’s not allowed,” said Parrish.
“Please be quiet,” snapped Allworthy at his man.
Gideon kept his voice calm, his eyes on Allworthy. “The code duello does not specify distance between the duelists.”
“But tradition assumes a distance of ten or twelve paces,” said Allworthy.
“Tradition is unwritten, sir. You’re a man who likes things in black-and-white.” Gideon pulled from his pocket a small book and held it up. “The Irish code, adopted at the Clonmel Summer Assizes, 1777, for the government of duelists, et cetera, et cetera.… You’ll find no stipulation as to distance here.”
“This is a trick,” growled Parrish. “A coward’s trick.”
“But who is the coward?” William Eaton now approached, his hat pulled low, his figure still shrouded.
“And who is this meddler?” demanded Parrish.
“See to your tongue, mister, or I’ll challenge you myself.” Eaton now threw off his hat, revealing the shock of white hair.
Parrish could not conceal his surprise. “I… I did not recognize you, sir.”
“However, you recognize that at twelve paces, you’ll kill Mr. Stafford and go home. At three paces, he’ll kill you, too. You want that?”
Parrish thrust out his chin. “I’ve been called onto the field of honor.”
“You can clear the field with a simple apology.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Allworthy, “but you are not supposed to converse with the duelists.”
“Thank you, Mr. Allworthy,” said Eaton. “Your name fits you. But it’s in the book.” Eaton took the book from Gideon. “Do you care to read Article Nine, on the mediation of disinterested parties?”
Allworthy shook his head and stepped back. “I accept your word.”
Eaton stood in front of Parrish. “Now, then, do you want to die?”
“I do not intend to, sir.”
“Spoken like an officer.” Eaton’s eyes bored into Parrish. “A very… dumb officer.”
“Say that again, and I shall be forced to challenge you, sir.”
And Eaton gave Parrish one of those grins that had disarmed Arab tribesmen a dozen times. “Come on, son. You’ve proved your bravery by standing here. You’ll prove your magnanimity if you apologize.”
“I meant what I said.”
“He won’t call me the bashaw’s cocksucker,” said Jason.
“Those are insulting words, Mr. Parrish,” said Eaton. “And in using them, you also insult Dr. Cowdery and Captain Bainbridge, who speak highly of Jason’s work in Tripoli.”
“Insulting them was not my intention.”
“Neither is dying, but Mr. Browne has seen to it that you will. So take the word of the hero of Derna when he tells you that he owes his life to Mr. Stafford.”
“Your word?”
“Without him, the bashaw would have taken my head. He would have taken all your heads. You owe your life to Mr. Stafford as much as to me or Lear or Thomas Jefferson. So which will it be? Death or apology?”
A cold wind rolled up from the river, and rattled over the dried cornstalks. And Parrish chose an apology. “Because I take the word of a hero,” he added.
Eaton looked at Jason. “Do you accept?”
“If Mr. Parrish accepts the truth, I accept his apology.”
“He must agree not to speak of this matter again,” said Gideon.
Parrish hesitated a moment, looked down at the tops of his shoes, and said grudgingly, “On the strength of Mr. Eaton’s word, then.”
“And, if you must,” said Eaton, “you will take his part… in courtesy to me.”
Just then a coach roared into the clearing, horses screaming, harnesses jangling, a young woman shouting from the window, “Stop! Don’t fight.”
Jason shivered with embarrassment.
Gideon took Jason’s arm and pushed him forward, at the same time, saying, “Mr. Allworthy, your man’s hand, if you please.”
Let us finish this, he was thinking, before Parrish can make a mean-spirited remark on a man’s sister coming to save him.
But Antonia was out of the coach and running toward them in an instant, and Gideon knew that if Parrish said something insulting, it could start all over again.
“Your hand, Mr. Parrish,” urged Gideon.
But Parrish was watching Antonia, and his lip was curling into a smile.
Make it respectful, Gideon was thinking, or I may have to duel with you myself.
“I will gladly shake the hand of a man whose sister is so faithful and so beautiful.” Parrish offered his hand all around, settling finally on Antonia.
“I’M SORRY,” SAID Antonia after Parrish and his mates had ridden off. “But I had to do something.”
“You could have made me look like a fool,” said Jason.
“Better a live fool than a dead hero… or a dead fool,” she said angrily.
“She stood by you, son,” said Eaton. “Be glad for that.”
“And,” added Gideon, “any time you can restore your honor without firing a shot, be glad for a bloodless victory.”
“A bloodless victory. An excellent feeling,” said Eaton. Another cold wind puffed up from the river, billowing his black cape.
“Let us leave these young people to plan their Sabbath,” said Dr. Cowdery.
“Let us leave them to plan their lives,” said Eaton, “now that they can live them.”
“Thank you both,” said Gideon.
Eaton placed a foot on the step of his carriage. “Mr. Browne, I’ll trouble you for my handbook.”
As Gideon passed the book, it dropped and flopped open, and Gideon saw that it was not a handbook at all, but a small journal, all of its pages blank.
“I thought you said this was the Irish code.”
“I said there was an Irish code. I’m not sure of its fine points.”
“Allworthy would have believed anything we said, so long as—”
“That’s the general idea.” Eaton slammed the door of the carriage.
“But…” Jason came closer to the carriage, “where’s the honor in that?”
Eaton tapped the roof of the carriage and it lurched forward. “As Gideon has been heard to say, ‘Honor is a slippery thing.’ Defend it however you can. But hold tight to life!”
They stood and watched as the carriage clattered back through a stand of trees. They stood close and said nothing. And after a time, the carriage appeared out on the bridge, rolling back to the city.
“Defend your honor,” mused Antonia, “‘but hold tight to life.’ I like it.”
“So do I,” admitted Jason. “So do I.”
Antonia slipped a hand into her brother’s. Then she slipped the other into Gideon’s.
The day was brightening. They could see all the way to Capitol Hill and the great squat building with the pudding-bowl dome.
THAT MORNING, AT Parrish Manor, Rebecca washed another body for burial. In preparing the bodies of her sister-in-law, her brother Samuel, and now her brother Duncan, she had come to see herself as the angel of the family tomb, the defender of the family birthright. She had two nephews left—Samuel and Walter. And she would give back to them what had been taken from her.
She set the white peruke on Duncan’s head and thanked him for the means by which to do it, whenever it was done.
CHAPTER THREE
Talk of Ghosts
October 9
By morning, Susan had decided that the most sensible character in the book was Gideon Browne, her own ancestor.
And she had found nothing that would cause Admiral Tom to worry about this book, unless Gideon Browne was a forerunner of later characters who questioned the conventional wisdom… like Jack Stafford himself, maybe? That seemed to be where all this was heading.
Over a cup of coffee in the bed-and-breakfast dining room, Susan was reading the dueling scene again, hoping there might be a way to dramatize it. She could quote from the letters, follow Jason’s journey from the White House over Capitol Hill to the place where it happened. Probably a gas station today. From manly honor to self-serve pumps in five generations.
She was so occupied that she didn’t notice the man standing over her until he pulled out a chair and sat down.
Without a word of introduction, he said, “Did you know that between the War of 1812 and the Civil War, more American naval officers were killed in duels than in the line of duty?”
That fact was not nearly as surprising as the sight of Jack Stafford himself. But then, this was how she expected a reporter would reveal himself. You’re in your own little world, hair still wet from the shower, brain still screaming for a second jolt of caffeine, and…
He offered his hand. “Got into BWI on the red-eye.”
She gave him a once-over: denim shirt, tweed jacket, and blue paisley tie; good teeth, good tan, white hair swept back so it curled slightly at the neck, but none of those stray wisps that most old men showed at their collars; bigger than his brother, a broader face, a more subtle version of the Stafford jaw.
“If there weren’t any wars”—she tried to play along—“I suppose duels would cause more deaths.”
“No wars?” Jack shook his head. “You’re going to need a crash course in naval history. You’re forgetting David Porter’s campaign against the Caribbean pirates in 1820, the antislavery patrols of the 1830s and 1840s, the exploring expeditions, the Mexican War… and more navy men still died over insults.”
She shrugged, although she was a little annoyed at how stupid he was trying to make her feel. “I guess I just have to read more of your book.”
“That’ll cost you,” said Jack. “But here’s some free info: Eaton’s own stepson was killed in a duel that finally broke Eaton’s heart. That dashing Greek god Stephen Decatur was killed in a duel with James Barron in 1820. And that great navy lieutenant Richard Nixon said he wouldn’t leave Vietnam until he had peace with honor.”
“As my own ancestor is reported to have said, ‘Honor is a slippery thing.’”
“It sure is.… Tell me, are you going to be the navy’s worst PBS nightmare?”
“What’s that?”
“A whining feminist who says the term ‘military intelligence’ is an oxymoron and thinks military spending is the work of real morons.”
“Mother said you were a ladies’ man.” Susan rested her chin on her hands and batted her eyelashes. “But like you said, no easy answers.”
“Very good.” Jack settled back. “All of the above was a test. People who hang with me sometimes catch what gets thrown my way. You didn’t even flinch.”
“So, you actually like whining feminists who think—”
“No easy answers. None in the Tripolitan desert, none today.”
“All right… so, when do I get to see more of your book?”
“I meant it when I said it’ll cost you.”
“There’s no money at PBS for buying books. Unless, of course, we can convince the government to fund more films and fewer submarines…”
“Don’t say that too loud. My brother has spies everywhere.” Jack brought a finger to his lips. “Maybe we can work out a deal. You want to get me on tape, don’t you?”
“After meeting you in the flesh, I think it’s inevitable.”
“Well, I’d like some footage of Stafford’s Fine Folly to show potential investors back in Hollywood. Did you bring a video camera?”
“Of course, but the caretaker—”
“I’ll work on him. Now, do you happen to have a laptop?”
“IBM compatible?”
“Good.” He took a diskette from his pocket. “This is Book Four. You’ve earned it, just by being so pretty.”
What a ham. Get him on camera, she thought, and the show was a cinch.
• • •
ONE OF THE hardest lessons for a warrior, usually not learned until a war ended, was that you’d never live anything quite so intensely again. This didn’t mean you wouldn’t enjoy life. Looking death in the face meant you’d enjoy everything a little more. But the biggest moment of your life, when you were the most frightened, the most focused, and the most alive, would have passed.
This thought usually crossed Lieutenant Steve Stafford’s mind as he drove into the hardtop desert called the South Parking Lot at the Pentagon. He had been one of the youngest A-6 pilots in the navy. Now he was punching a clock in the famous five-sided building with the five rings, the five stories, and the ten connecting corridors of money and military power.
Steve and Joe Digger had tried to run that night in the desert, but the Iraqis had fired a flare that lit them up like two raccoons sneaking through somebody’s back yard. The flare also gave away the Iraqi position, but no F-14s came streaking over, which was all for the best, because everyone within the light of that flare—good guys and bad—would have been toast.
The Iraqis were pretty pissed off, of course, considering that the sky had just fallen on them. So Steve wasn’t too surprised when one of the guards whacked him off the side of the head with a rifle butt. The next day, when Saddam Hussein dragged the captured pilots before the CNN cameras, Steve had a shiner the size of an eggplant—a badge of courage that made him the Time magazine Gulf War poster boy and also concealed a detached retina.
Five years later, Steve could see with a little blur and didn’t even need a patch, though he wore one sometimes just to look intriguing. But he was no better than one-eyed in a cockpit. And there wasn’t much call for one-eyed pilots.
He had gone from CNN subject to CNN watcher, from Unrestricted Warfare Specialty to Restricted Line Corps, in a single night. After the Gulf, he could have chosen law, oceanography, medicine. Like most flyers who flared out, he had also considered the Office of Naval Intelligence. Or he could have left the navy altogether, which he considered seriously.
But his experience in the Gulf had taught him this: in a world where mass communication made it all but impossible to keep a secret, telling your story the way you wanted it told was as important as shooting straight. That was why Saddam Hussein had put him on CNN. That was why his grandfather spent his retirement writing about submarine warfare. That was why the navy had its own PR branch.
So Steve had decided to serve his country by telling the navy’s story. Pentagon, south parking entrance, second deck, E Ring, home of CHINFO—one of the navy’s ten thousand acronyms, this one standing for chief of information.
The E Ring was the outer ring of the Pentagon. But young lieutenants didn’t get a view of the Potomac. They got televisions tuned to CNN, and the navy’s standard-issue light green paint on everything, and the same kind of steel desks and filing cabinets that could be found everywhere in the navy, from recruiting centers to aircraft carriers.
Steve decorated his little CHINFO cubicle with pictures: his mother, Beck, his stepfather and his half-brother, sitting in front of their house in Santa Monica; his father, Lieutenant James Stafford, smiling out at the camera from under the T-top of a PBR (Patrol Boat, River) in Vietnam; and a blank space where the picture of his last girlfriend had been. Everything else was business.
He was currently working the Submarine Warfare Specialty account. This meant that if a news organization or media outlet wanted to know something about subs, from the disposal of reactor waste to the monthly menu, Steve would field the call and give the answer that the navy wanted to give.
Before he settled in that morning, his grandfather was calling.
“This better be a question about submarines,” he joked.
“I’ve forgotten more about submarines than you’ll ever know,” said the admiral. “Although… I may have some questions next week. I’m writing an article for our institute journal on NSSN swimmer delivery vehicles…”
Steve imagined him, sitting on his veranda, looking east across the river into the warm morning sunshine.
“I called to hear how your lunch with that PBS woman went.”
“It’s tomorrow.”
“Oh. I must be slowing down.”
Like hell, thought Steve. Something was on the old man’s mind.
“Well, listen, be careful with her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She may be a cousin, and she may want to tell our story. But—”
