Annapolis, page 9
She had hoped to meet the latest son for the sea a little sooner. After a visit to Stafford Hall and a taste of Jack’s book, she was ready for a younger perspective on the Stafford history and the Stafford brothers. But that would have to wait.
So she called home. Her mother had moved in to take care of her daughter for the week, but Susan was never quite sure of who took care of whom.
People often commented on how much Susan’s teenage daughter resembled her. The long, slender limbs, the serious, elongated face, the short haircut, a nineties update of the twenties bob, a haircut with a message: here was the kind of woman who could be as fun-loving as a girl in a beer commercial but was definitely nobody’s fool.
A good day in school. A good day in the town where the Staffords had lived. A mysterious old house. Home on the weekend. Love you. Love you, too.
Then Susan opened the envelope. It was from Jack Stafford: “I’m busy trying to raise some L.A. money to buy the Stafford house. So instead of my smiling face, I enclose Book Three, which will introduce you to one of your own ancestors. Meet some real pirates, and another generation of Staffords and Parrishes. If you believe in foreshadowing, read closely. Those dead horses floating on the Chesapeake mean something. So does the birth of American subversive activity in the Tripolitan Desert. See you tomorrow. That’s a promise.”
The Stafford Story
BOOK THREE
Boys and Honor
September 1786
On a late summer night, Black Jed and Sara made love, though Black Jed at first had no interest, as his mind was sunk in the failure of the latest Annapolis Convention.
He had helped plan it with Washington and like-minded men who believed that their squabbling confederation of states had to be bound more tightly. The nation was drowning in debt, local taxes were rising, and foreign pirates were circling. But the states could agree upon nothing. Only five sent delegates to Annapolis, and the host state was not among them.
So, on the night that the convention ended, Sara slipped into bed next to her husband and said that perhaps she could soothe his disappointment.
“I see no reason to bring another child into the world,” he answered.
“After all our tryin’, what makes you think we’ll achieve the miracle tonight?” Then she added more playfully, “Let us try to perfect the union of man and woman, make it the first link in the great chain of national union.”
“Phrased in that way, it would be unpatriotic of me to refuse.”
THAT SAME NIGHT, at Parrish Manor, a yellow-haired infant named Samuel cried for his mother. But there was only a wet nurse to soothe him, because his mother had died to give him life.
In the morning, the infant’s aunt Rebecca took perfumed soap and water to the room where her sister-in-law’s body lay. With the help of an old slave woman, she undressed the body and washed it, starting with the feet and working carefully, even washing between the toes. She worked her way up the legs. She hesitated to wash the pudenda, torn as they were by the passage of the child, but she took another pinch of tobacco and went on.
As she washed across the belly to the sadly deflated breasts, she wondered at the forces that caused women to ignore the fevers, hemorrhages, and other horrors of childbirth, simply to couple with men, and she wondered why she had never felt these forces within herself. She had known no desire to be embraced by a man, no need to be filled ever again as Big Tom Stafford had filled her.
But now she would have to be mother to a baby, and to the two other yellow-haired children of her brother Samuel—studious Walter, troublesome little Robby. She resolved that she would do the job well.
IN JUNE OF 1787, the states took a step closer to union when twelve of them finally, miraculously, convened in Philadelphia to discuss a constitutional union. That same month, the private union of Black Jed and Sara Stafford miraculously bore fruit—a baby girl with black hair and a fierce cry, christened Antonia, for Sara’s mother.
In 1789, the still more miraculous year that Washington became president under a new constitution, another Stafford miracle occurred with the birth of another child, named Thomas Jason.
As the years passed, it became clear that the boy did not have the playful spirit or size of his namesake. Those had been the birthright of brother Charlton. Thomas Jason was of average height, like his mother, dark-haired and intense, like his father and sister, a boy who listened to what was said, absorbed, calculated, then acted. He was never called Tom. The name did not suit him. He was known to most as Jason, to his sister as Stubborn Little Jace, and to his father as the son for the sea.
At the age of six, Jason could name the six cities in which the six frigates of the new United States Navy were being built. At seven, he could sail a skipjack by himself. And at eight, he knew about the Barbary pirates of North Africa.
These brigands, as he explained it to his sister, demanded tribute from nations trading in the Mediterranean. Those who refused saw their ships seized, their crews enslaved, their cargoes sold in the bazaars of Casablanca, Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli. “Father calls it a sorry president that we pay them.”
“That’s ‘precedent,’” said his sister haughtily. “A sorry precedent.”
At nine, he explained to her that the French, who had been our enemies and become our friends, were once more our enemies, having loosed their privateers on our shipping because we were trading with England. “Father says there’s small difference twixt Barbary pirates and French privateers, and it’s good that we’re finally finishing the six frigates. Would you like me to name them for you?”
Antonia said no. She would name them herself. “United States, Congress, President, Constitution, Constellation, and Chesapeake.”
Jason called it a sorry precedent that a girl should fill her head with such things, but secretly he was glad that she did. It gave him someone to talk to.
Meanwhile, brother Charlton had dreamed of becoming the son for the gaming table, but he had become the son for the soil instead.
Shortly after he finished his education at the College of William and Mary, Charlton married a plump and withdrawn young woman named Hannah Redgate, of Fairfax, Virginia, and took her to Stafford Hall.
Tidewater gossips could not understand his attraction to her. Despite what were called his manly flaws, Charlton was considered one of the most eligible young men on the Chesapeake, well bred, well off, shrewd in the ways of the tobacco business, possessed of a lion’s mane of brown hair and a lion’s lust for life as well.
It was not until people heard that Hannah Redgate’s dowry included American Sultan, the magnificent breed stud that carried the blood of Selim, the first Arabian stallion in America, that the marriage made sense.
ii
Jason Meets the Parrish Boys
In the summer of 1799, Jason and Antonia went to Stafford Hall to visit their big brother. They were not close, Charlton being so much older. Jason would not have been interested in visiting at all but for a chance to test his sailing skills, and Antonia would not have been interested but for the presence of the famous horse and the possibility of a ride.
“American Sultan isn’t exactly a ridin’ horse,” Charlton told his little sister the day after they arrived, “unless he’s doin’ the ridin’ on some mare.”
“Oh, let her ride the silly old horse,” said Hannah.
And Antonia decided that Hannah would make a fine sister-in-law.
Jason decided otherwise, because in exchange for Antonia’s ride on American Sultan, Hannah wanted to sail up the Patuxent.
“Can she haul a sheet?” asked Jason.
“We have slaves to make the beds,” said Hannah.
“It’s a sailin’ term,” said Charlton. “It’s a line to work the sail.”
“Well, I don’t like boats. But it seems much the best way to see the neighboring plantations. My slave, Becky, can sheet the line.”
“Haul the sheet,” corrected Stubborn Little Jace. “My slave, Zeke, can do it.”
“But Becky learns quick,” Hannah said proudly.
“Too bad she’s a slave, then,” said Antonia, just twelve and already speaking her mind.
Hannah smiled, showing stubby little teeth. “Your brother warned me about your opinions, dear. But look out there.…”
From the veranda where they sat, the tobacco fields rolled a quarter mile to a line of trees, beyond which was the river, flowing slow and serene.
“What darkie wouldn’t think that was heaven?”
Antonia thought she might have to change her opinion of Hannah Redgate Stafford.
THE BREEZE THE next day was southwest and steady. No threat of change, so they would run far and fast upstream, then beat hard all the way back.
Jason did not mind, so long as he was at the helm of the Patuxent V, a big skipjack the like of which no other boy on the Chesapeake commanded. Of course, the presence of his slave, Zeke, was a comfort he always welcomed.
Sailing was not a skill most slaves learned. But when Black Jed taught his son, he taught Zeke, too, because Zeke was smart and bull-strong, and could be trusted to keep the boy out of trouble in any weather.
Hannah had a fine time on the upstream journey, having brought a map of the area plantations, from which she read the names of the owners as they sailed past, and if she had a little gossip about someone, she added that, too, although Jason did not care and Zeke was not supposed to listen to such things.
It was not until she brought out fried chicken, peaches, and minted tea that Hannah stopped talking. This coincided with a rise in the wind and a sudden chop on the river. Jason and Zeke did not notice that Hannah was turning as green as her dress. Their eyes were fixed on another skipjack, a quarter mile upstream, sails set loosely, course angled toward the mouth of a creek.
“That’s Parrish Creek, Miz Hannah,” Zeke said.
“Oh, yes.” Hannah smiled wanly. “The ones who don’t like the Staffords.”
Zeke chuckled. “We don’t see much of ’em ’round ’Napolis way, but when they comes through, we always hears they been cussin’ Staffords.”
Jason took out his small spyglass and aimed it at the boat. “There’s two aboard, Zeke. Kids. The tall one at the helm is watchin’ the other one.”
“Do what?”
“Can’t tell. Head’s goin’ up and down kind of funny, but—”
“What’s the name?”
Jason steadied his glass. “Aunt Rebecca, out of Parrish Manor.”
“Well, they sure ain’t much for sailormen.”
Jason grinned. “We could take ’em, Zeke… take ’em to windward and beat ’em up their own creek.”
“Make ’em think twice ’bout cussin’ the Staffords.”
Jason looked up at the sail. “Sheet ’er in, Zeke.”
Hannah groaned. She was seasick… in a little river chop.
The Patuxent gained fast, but the helmsman of the Aunt Rebecca had turned his attention entirely to the activity in the bottom of his boat.
“We got him!” said Zeke. “Bring her in close and give him a salute.”
Jason put the helm over carefully so as not to spill any of the wind. “Hey, the one just standin’ up… does he have any breeches on?”
Hannah groaned again.
“No, Marse Jace, it don’t seem he do.”
“And now the other one’s droppin’ his.”
“Must be gettin’ ready to give a broadside of his own.”
The tall one turned, revealing his own weapon, primed between his legs.
“Good God!” Hannah brought a hand to her eyes and clapped the other to her mouth.
On the Aunt Rebecca, a slave girl with coffee-colored skin looked over the gunwale. She was not much older than Jason himself, with budding breasts and a look of absolute terror on her face.
“Get out of here,” shouted the tall, skinny one at the Patuxent.
“Yeah,” shouted the other one. “Mind your own business.”
But Jason’s father had taught him that a man never let anyone hurt a woman… even a slave. So he brought the Patuxent close to the other boat and demanded, “What are you doin’ to her?”
“Fuckin’ her. Now be on your way.”
Stubborn Little Jace knew what that was, having had some fatherly instruction. He glanced at Zeke, and Zeke glanced at Hannah, who was retching up dry heaves at the side.
And Zeke leaned over her, whispering, “I’d sure love a sandwich. Bluefish and sliced rhubarb. Wash ’er down with a drink of buttermilk. Mmmm-mm.”
That did it. Hannah fired a vomit broadside that carried right onto the deck of the Aunt Rebecca, bringing a riot of curses and shaking fists.
“Nobody think about fuckin’ after somebody puke on his feets!” cried Zeke.
And the Patuxent shot ahead, showing her transom to the other boat.
“A Stafford!” cried the tall one. “A bloody Stafford!”
Jason put over the helm, turning sharply to starboard, cutting directly across the other boat’s bow. “I’ve crossed your t, mister. I could blow you to bits if we was carryin’ cannon, ’cause I’m the best sailor on the Chesapeake. Cuss my family again, I’ll tell everyone what a little pecker you got.”
And that was how Jason Stafford met the yellow-haired Samuel Parrish and his brother Robby, two motherless boys raised by their aunt Rebecca.
iii
Farewells
Four years later, Jason Stafford looked up at the great black hull of the Philadelphia and tried to swallow his homesickness.
He was almost fourteen now, older than most new midshipmen. But his father had refused to surrender his son to the discipline of the sea until the boy had studied history and the classics. And Jason was thankful, because it had delayed his leaving until now.
But the Barbary pirates were at it again, and Jason’s warrant had come through, ordering him to Boston and the new Mediterranean squadron—seven ships, led by the Constitution, one of the original forty-fours; and the thirty-eight-gun Philadelphia.
This time, the bashaw of Tripoli was demanding a payment of $200,000 and a yearly tribute of $20,000 more. The new president, Thomas Jefferson, was sending Commodore Edward Preble instead. Preble said the Barbary potentates were “a deep-designing and artful treacherous set of villains, and nothing would keep them so quiet as a respectable naval force near them.” Jefferson agreed.
It was a cold and miserable day, typical for springtime in Boston. The east wind blew in damp gusts. The sailors moved quickly about their tasks. Great casks, containing everything from bread to dried peas to water itself, rumbled along the cobblestone streets to the docks. Hammers rang. Officers shouted. Men sang as they worked in the rigging. And young boys bade good-bye to their families.
“Take care, Marse Jace,” said Zeke.
Jason clasped the slave’s hand, then his sister’s.
“Stubborn Little Jace.” The tip of Antonia’s nose had turned bright red in the Boston cold. “Stay stubborn.”
“Keep askin’ hard questions,” he answered.
“She asks too damn many.” Black Jed laughed, then coughed.
For Jason, the voyage from Annapolis had been a tutorial in paternal advice, dispensed through a benevolent haze of pipe smoke. Now a few final words: “Remember, a man stands where God puts him, where his peers expect him to stand, and he does what’s right. That’s honor.”
“A fine speech.” The voice came from behind them, followed quickly by a shot of tobacco on the cobblestones. A woman with graying hair, a sun-browned face, and more wrinkles than a tobacco leaf stepped from behind a row of pork barrels. “I like the part about doin’ what’s right.”
“Rebecca Parrish?” said Black Jed. “In Boston?”
“After a six-day coach ride.”
“You could have traveled by boat.”
“I’m given to seasickness. It’s a marvel to me that two of my nephews chose the sea. We’ve put Robby aboard the Constitution, and”—she ushered forward the young man standing behind her—“I believe you know my Samuel.”
He was taller and less scrawny now, his yellow hair slicked back, his blue jacket giving him a look of authority that Jason considered nothing but bad news. Samuel’s eyes lingered with extra interest on Antonia’s face. But his expression changed to something altogether malevolent when he said to Jason, “The best sailor on the Chesapeake… shippin’ with me?”
“I… I have much to learn.” Jason added the word “sir” for good measure.
“Samuel’s the one to teach you.” Rebecca spat another shot of tobacco.
“I’ll rely on his honor,” growled Black Jed.
“Parrishes are always reliable,” answered Rebecca. “Unlike Staffords.”
WHEN THE TIME came to leave, Jason wanted to throw his arms around his father but feared that he would seem unmanly. So he shook his father’s hand, inhaled his father’s tobacco scent, and went up the gangplank, his seabag on his shoulder and Samuel Parrish at his heels.
“Don’t look so frightened, mister,” said the tall and bony New Englander who met them, Surgeon’s Mate Dr. Jonathan Cowdery. “There’s no finer place to become a man than a frigate. Mr. Parrish will show you your berth.”
Jason followed Parrish down three decks to the midshipman’s berth, which smelled of many things, the most prominent being piss, and there Parrish ordered him to pull down his breeches.
“What?”
“What, sir? Pull ’em down or I’ll have you caned for insubordination.”
“But—”
A dirk appeared in Parrish’s hand. “Drop ’em. Now.”
And in the strange half-light of the orlop deck, Jason did as he was told.
Then he felt the cold metal blade lift his limp penis, as if this were part of some inspection. “A boy, with a boy’s pecker.” Parrish brought his face close to Jason’s. “My pecker could split your mother in half, you hairless eunuch. Cross me on this voyage, and I’ll cut that little thing off at the root. Understand?”
