A Burial at Sea

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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Though it was abominably late and he was slightly the worse for drink, when Lenox returned to his cabin he found that he didn’t feel like falling straight into bed. He went to his desk and lit a candle there.

“Sir?” said McEwan groggily, from the other side of the door. “D’you need anything?”

“No, no, thank you,” said Lenox.

“G’night, sir. Oh! But the Americans, how were they?”

“Most friendly.”

“Did they try to boast about the old wars, 1812 and that?”

“Not at all.”

“My old granddad fought them then. He was sore about it still, up till he died. Said they were up-jumped ruffians, the Americans.”