Chapter 27
The Barton Estate
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Three years ago
“Bien, Señor Auldon,” said the mustachioed Basque. “Again.”
The snap of wooden swords echoed off marble. Near the fountain of Saint Marina, Ethan Auldon fenced with his instructor, Fernando Pavia. Rows of poplars, hedges, and columns enclosed the courtyard. The three stories of the Barton estate loomed all around them. Ethan’s feet slid over the flagstones as he lunged. He landed his riposte on Pavia’s shoulder for a third time, just as he’d been instructed.
“Good, good!” smiled Pavia. “You’re improving. Time for a break.” He offered Ethan a canteen.
Ethan drank greedily. He plopped down on the edge of the fountain next to John Sullivan. After Ethan’s father nursed the Bartons’ son back to health during the Yellow Fever of 1793, they’d offered to assist Ethan’s education. Ethan had spent years tending to the wealthy Bartons and their sickly son, and in return, they offered another reward—the services of their cousin, Fernando Pavia. It was Pavia’s job to teach Ethan to fight and help him enlist in the Navy. The truth was, Ethan wanted to join the Navy, but not alone. So, he shared his lessons with John.
“Can you believe it?” said Ethan, still panting. “We’re really doing it. We’re crossing swords with a veteran mercenary.”
“We’re crossing wooden wasters, anyway,” smiled John.
“It’s only been a few months, mate. We’ll know the real thing soon enough. The Navy always has a choice berth for a skilled fighter.”
John was tapping his foot. He drummed his waster on his knee. “Aye, our choice of berth. Sure.”
Ethan offered the canteen, but John shook his head. “You still want to enlist with me, right?”
There was a distance in John’s eyes. He didn’t reply.
“Sullivan,” said Pavia. “In your fighting stance.” The Basque mercenary pointed with his waster.
A few minutes later, Ethan watched in amazement as John sparred with Pavia. Ethan’s marksmanship had come along well, but he was still working on basic forms with a sword. John fought like a senior student. Spit flew from his mouth as he lunged. His nostrils flared as he dove under Pavia’s swing. After weeks of training, taut muscles had appeared on his arms. John fought with the fury of a fox cornered by hounds.
Ethan caught movement in the corner of his eye. He glanced up at the manor’s tall windows. A pale face peeked through the curtains on the third floor. Sixteen-year-old Diego Barton was watching from his bedroom, and Ethan felt guilty. Javier Barton’s sickly son had always longed for athletic ability, but it was not to be. The face withdrew, and the curtains closed again.
“Bien, otra vez!”
John snarled. His waster launched at Pavia’s stomach, trying to get below the parry. Except Pavia didn’t parry—he stepped left. John fumbled to recover balance, but it was too late. Pavia’s waster slapped John’s from his hand, then delivered a chop to the back. John flopped on the ground, gasping.
“You’re good, alumno,” said Pavia, resting his waster across his shoulders. “But those weren’t the forms I asked for.”
“This is a waste of time!” John roared. He slammed the hilt of his wooden sword into the stones.
Pavia stood stork-legged, unmoved by his pupil’s tantrum. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Knocking you in the dirt is great exercise.”
John got to his feet and began pacing. Sweat bled through his cotton shirt. Dirt stained his breeches. “To hell with sparring. You made your point—I’m not good enough to beat you.”
“Bien. Back to forms. Now, then—”
“It’s time for sharps.”
Pavia chuckled and smoothed his mustache. “Sharps? You’re still shaking off dust from your last defeat. I think not.”
“I know every stance. Every parry. Every riposte. You haven’t taught me a new technique in weeks.”
“Learning skill at arms is not the same as memorizing a fishermen’s bend. There are no constellations to navigate the field of battle.”
“I fight with everything I have!”
“Si, you fight with your passions.”
“And yet, I can’t win.”
“It wasn’t a compliment, alumno. If anger is your master, it is your enemy’s servant.”
“I don’t have time for games,” John snapped.
“John,” Ethan said, “A few months ago, you never held a sword in your life. Look at how far you’ve come! Give it time.”
“Ah, there,” said Pavia, sweeping his hand toward Ethan. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
John’s eyes drifted to a bee, burrowing into a rose. “My family doesn’t have time.”
“I know,” Ethan murmured.
“Pavia,” said John, taking up his stance. “One more bout. If I beat you, you get the sharps.”
Pavia scratched at his goatee, then shrugged. “Very well. I get paid either way.” He raised his waster.
John charged, and the swords disappeared into a whirlwind of cuts and thrusts. John fought with even more fury than before, and Pavia gave ground quickly. As Ethan watched, he began to believe John might really land a blow this time. As John brought his hardest strike down over Pavia’s head, Pavia’s waster rose to block it. A dry snap echoed through archways. The blade of John’s waster was reduced to a splinter. The point of Pavia’s wooden sword hovered beneath John’s chin.
“Damn it to hell!” John cursed, taking a step back. “I had you. I had you that time!”
Pavia shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’ll fetch another waster.”
Before Pavia could set off for the barn, John said, “That wasn’t fair. One more.”
“I’ve never met a pupil so eager to be stabbed.”
“I’m done playing with toys, Pavia.”
“Nola bizi, hala hil,” said Pavia in his Basque language.
“What does that mean?” demanded John.
“A saying in my company of sell-swords. ‘How you live is how you die.’” Pavia circled in front of John, gracefully twirling his waster into a fighting posture. “Trust me, alumno. You want to fight, so I will train you to fight.”
John raised a shout across the whole courtyard. “Don’t teach me to fight, goddamnit! Teach me to kill!”
Surgeon’s Mate Ethan Auldon. Art by Pablo Fernandez.
Chapter 28
The USS Philadelphia
Near the British Imperial Colony of Gibraltar
Tuesday, August 23rd, 1803
Melisande had never seen such an ugly pile of rocks and scrub. Several miles off, a great mountain rose from the sapphire water. It was their destination, as Sullivan had told her, called “The Rock of Gibraltar.” One side sloped gently, the other fell precipitously. The Rock’s shape reminded her of a wolf, snout in the air and howling at the moon. Squat brush covered the slope and surrounding flatlands. There were no towering pines or leafy maples—just weeds and drab cliffs.
An odd buzzing drew Melisande’s attention. She looked about her, expecting to see some strange bug beating its wings. She broke into an amused smile when she found the source. A few paces forward, Matthew Meadows was curled up between two canons, fast asleep and snoring. She envied the peaceful old sailor.
Melisande hated the dank bowels of the ship. It was nothing like an open camp, with the smell of pine and wood smoke, and good old-fashioned dirt. Or the longhouse, amid the scent of herbs and cornmeal. Being whipped about in a hammock couldn’t compare with waking up beside kith and kin. Falling asleep with a lover. Life on this boat was like drifting across the ocean in a rotten barrel. Three hundred unwashed men—working, eating, farting. A smell like sour eggs blowing up from the hold. Chickens and pigs shitting in pens. Tar, gunpowder, bails of oakum, and the sweaty foot odor of damp. It redefined misery.
Another sound drew her attention. A snickering brat up to no good. Melisande recognized the blonde cork-screw curls of Robert Cowan, a twelve-year-old midshipman, creeping towards Meadows with a bucket. His childlike nose wrinkled with concentration as he raised it over the sleeping sailor. Before Melisande could open her mouth to warn Meadows, Cowan tossed the bucket. A gallon of deck-scrubbing water broke over the old seaman’s face.
“Bleedin’ Christ!” shouted Meadows as he jolted awake.
Cowan squealed with laughter. A few paces behind him, Midshipman Philip Grove joined in Cowan’s hysterics. Grove was four years older, but no less puerile. The two of them were always prowling the deck, berating the seamen or threatening them with the cat. They were bullies with the authority of rank.
“Prince, you shit!” growled Meadows as he rubbed his eyes. “You’ll have my boot in your ass! You’ll…” Meadows trailed off. He paled when he saw Cowan staring down in slack-jawed shock. “S-sir, I…” Meadows stammered.
“Did you hear how he spoke to me?” Cowan shouted. He looked around the deck as if expecting to see a mob taking up arms in support. Crewmen working nearby didn’t dare say a word, lest they draw Cowan’s fury on themselves. “Did you hear how he spoke to me?” repeated Cowan.
“I heard it!” snapped Grove, nostrils flaring. “I heard what he said!”
Cowan glowered at Meadows. “How dare you. How dare you speak to me in such a way!”
“Midshipman Cowan,” pleaded Meadows. “I apologize, sir. I didn’t realize it was you. I’m sorry…”
“You will be, old goat!”
Melisande flushed with heat. She gripped the starboard rail so hard her hand hurt. It was Cowan that owed an apology, not Meadows. That little prick needed a punch in the nose, and she was about to give it to him.
“I apologize, Mr. Cowan,” said Meadows, his back pressed up against the gun carriage. “I didn’t think one of the gentlemen would be tossing buckets of water.”
Before Melisande could take a step, another officer stomped past her. Captain Bainbridge swooped in like a hawk diving for prey. That’s more like it, thought Melisande, directing a smug grin at Cowan. An earful from ole Bluster-Britches ought to teach the little snot.
But Bainbridge walked right past the two midshipmen. He yelled so furiously at Meadows, spit landed on the sailor’s cheek. “You tell an officer he is no gentleman?!”
Meadows gaped at the red-faced captain.
“I’ll cut you into ounce pieces, you scoundrel!” shouted Bainbridge. “On your feet this instant.”
“Aye, sir.” Meadows scrambled to get to his feet, tripping in the cables. “I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to say…”
“Shut your mouth, brigand. I’ll not be contradicted on my own ship.”
Melisande gawked at the scene. She couldn’t understand a thing so backward. If a Tuscarora boy threw water on an elder, he’d feel the scorn of his entire clan. The boy would be lucky not to die of shame.
“Marine!” snapped Bainbridge.
Private William Ray stepped forward. “Sir.”
“I want this man taken below and placed in irons.”
Ray closed his eyes for a heartbeat, then replied, “Aye, sir.” He nodded to another Marine nearby, Private Burling. They each took one of Meadows’ arms and escorted him to the main hatch.
This wasn’t right at all! Melisande wouldn’t have it. Bainbridge had to be told what a mistake—what an injustice—this was. A look from Meadows stopped her.
The veteran sailor held Melisande’s eyes. Her resolve withered as if Papa Grey Fox had returned from the dead. Meadows gave the smallest shake of his head, a command only she could hear. She let go her aching fists. Against every fiber of her being, she held her silence.
“Disrespect a gentleman on my ship, will you?” sneered Bainbridge. He followed the Marines as they prodded Meadows down the hatch. “You’ll learn discipline after a spell at the grating, I’ll warrant. A mistake you’ll not make again…” The captain’s ranting disappeared below decks.
Melisande looked around, expecting to find shock and outrage among the crew. But they were already going back to their duties.
###
“I do believe I detect a note of disquiet, my lad,” said Dr. Cowdery, thrusting an arm into a coat sleeve.
Ethan stood in the doorway of the surgeon’s berth, staring at the medicine cabinet above Cowdery’s desk. The door banged open and closed with the rolling of the ship. “Fiddling for the officers wasn’t my idea.”
“Ah,” clucked Cowdery, threading his brass watch chain through a buttonhole. He stooped before a mirror on the bulkhead and tied back his hair. “That would be the hand of Midshipmen Sullivan at work.”
By now, Ethan was used to Cowdery’s quick insight. He couldn’t reveal John’s plans, but nor could he hide his frustration. He frowned at the colorful row of medicine phials.
“You could have said no,” suggested Cowdery.
“You don’t know John Sullivan. It’s never that easy. Always there’s a reason. Always there’s a cause. Somehow, his friends always wind up saying yes.”
Cowdery smirked. “From all you’ve told me of Sullivan, I’d say he speaks the language of the heart. Men like that inspire great feats—or provoke disaster. I suspect you’ve always known that about him. Yet, no matter how audacious his request, you offer him your gifts.”
“Of course. Because he’s my friend.”
“Aye. And in the hope his gifts will serve you.”
“You think I’m using John?”
For a moment, Cowdery fussed with a ribbon around his neck. When he had the shape of a bow started, he said, “I’ll never forget the longest night of my life. I was only nine. Hotter than usual for Boston, even in July. So humid I kept sweating through my sheets. I couldn’t sleep. My father and his friends were talking over wine in the parlor. There was such an energy in the air—like the night before a holiday. Every time father caught me creeping down the stairs to listen, I thought I’d be whipped. But he kept shooing me back to bed. I think he knew I sensed the importance of that night.”
“Nine years old…” Ethan mused. “That would have been during the war.”
“Aye. There was a newspaper due in the morning, you see. A paper that would answer the question: would Massachusetts and the other colonies have a king or a republic? Imagine our joy when father read the decision of the Continental Congress: Independence.”
Ethan smiled. The Revolution was nearly won by the time he was born. He’d long wondered what those days had been like. “My mother was manumitted that day. My father won his freedom fighting for General Washington. When I was young, Father once said, ‘Ethan, one day there’ll be no more slaves, and no more kings.’”
Cowdery quoted, “‘Of more worth is one honest man in the sight of God than all the crowned ruffians that ever lived.’”
“Thomas Paine,” smiled Ethan, remembering the line from Common Sense.
“Very good, Mr. Auldon. Like your father, I dreamt of a better world. When I was a boy. But I grew up. Healing the sick and sailing the sea left me content. It isn’t the fiery oratory and banner-waving I envisaged as a boy, but it’s my own small contribution. The causes of the Revolution must fall to better men. I made you surgeon’s mate not just for your medical skill, but for your passion. If I help you ascend, maybe that boy can still have his hero.”
Ethan scoffed. “So, I’m to fight in your stead?”
Cowdery smirked. “Shameless calculation on my part, it’s true. But our ideals never found purchase in a truer heart.”
Ethan shook his head. “You’re so sure I’m using John. But if my gift is championing the cause, what’s his?”
“Simple. Beating the odds.”
“I don’t believe that. John is my friend, not some pawn in a game.”
“Perhaps,” said Cowdery with a shrug. He closed the last button of his coat and swept a few loose waves of hair to the side. He walked over and placed his hands on Ethan’s shoulders. “You have an opportunity tonight, Ethan. Lecture an ignorant man, preach to a sinner, argue with a bigot—words get you nowhere. But music—ah, now music is a truth that cannot be denied. It isn’t reason or sentiment. It’s neither fact nor fiction. It simply is. Use this gift God has given you. When you play tonight, play from the bottom of your heart. Show them your very soul. Show them truth.”
A part of Ethan wanted to smile and promise he would. But the knot in his stomach reminded him of his dread. He gave a faint nod.
“Good luck, my lad,” Cowdery said with an encouraging smile. “Lock up the cabinet, would you? I almost forgot.” He stepped past Ethan and headed for the cabin.
When the doctor was gone, Ethan looked at the medicine cabinet. The door banged open again. His eyes landed on a blue phial. Before locking up, Ethan reached for the shelf of potions.
Chapter 29
The City Tavern
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Two Years Ago
The moment the last string fell silent, Ethan knew it was the solo of his life. The last note of Bach’s Violin Concerto in A Minor died away. For one heartbeat, silence held lease. Then the crowd of Philadelphia social elites exploded with applause. The grand hall of City Tavern sparkled with fine jewelry, silver wigs, and colorful apparel. Ethan bowed low, holding up his fiddle. He closed his eyes, breathing in the applause. A member of the Free African Society, standing in the beating heart of Philadelphia, performing for a packed room. It was like a dream.
A moment later, Ethan wove his way through the press of guests, greeting the gentlemen and ladies. He came to his benefactors, Theodore and Sarah Vansant. Mr. Vansant edited the Gazette he once delivered. She often held lavish balls for various charities. Tonight, the proceeds would go to the local abolition movement. After Ethan played for one of Mrs. Vansant’s private dinners, she asked him to be the star of her City Tavern event.
“Why, Mr. Auldon,” cooed Mrs. Vansant. “That was exquisite!”
“So kind of you to say, madam,” Ethan smiled. He took up her hand and planted a kiss. “It was my honor to play for you.”
“Oh,” giggled Mrs. Vansant. She wagged her fan. “Isn’t he charming, Theodore?” she said to her husband.
A smile tugged the corners of Mr. Vansant’s mouth. “Mm, yes, indeed. I believe you were right about our Mr. Auldon.”
“I’m just glad to do my part,” Ethan said.
“That was brilliant, mate!” said the voice of John Sullivan.
Ethan beamed as John emerged from the crowd. Ethan wished his mother could have seen his moment, but his father’s death had left her with too many burdens at home. Having John here took some of the sting out of their absence. And of course, it was amusing to see John try to fit in with high society. Seth Auldon’s old coat and breeches were a bit loose on John. “Thanks mate,” Ethan said. “You really thought so?”
“Best you ever played,” said John, fidgeting with the buttons on his waistcoat.
“Ahem,” said Mrs. Vansant.
“Oh, where are my manners?” said Ethan. “This is my friend, John Sullivan.”
“Right,” stuttered John. “John Sullivan. From Irish. I mean I’m Irish. That is, from Ireland.” When Mrs. Vansant offered her hand for a kiss, John shook it instead. Realizing his mistake, he hurried to shake Mr. Vansant’s but accidentally seized his fingers.
“I can see this one’s still learning,” chuckled Mrs. Vansant. She nudged up next to Ethan. “Do help him, dear.”
“I try,” said Ethan, throwing John a teasing grin.
“Your instrument is very fine!” said Mr. Vansant. “Who gave it to you?”
Ethan scratched his head. “Actually, I found a trader selling it at a discount. It was broken, you see. I had to deliver a great many Gazettes to afford it. And then spend a great many hours learning how to repair it.”
“Oh, yes, isn’t it wonderful?” said Mrs. Vansant. “As a young lad, Mr. Auldon delivered our very own paper.”
“A perspicacious hire on our part,” added Mr. Vansant.
Mrs. Vansant leaned in close, speaking past her fan. “I don’t like counting chickens before they’ve hatched, but judging by the applause, I think we’ve raised a small fortune.”
“Thank you for helping our cause, Madam Vansant,” said Ethan. “It means a great deal to the Free Africans.”
“Not at all, dear Mr. Auldon,” Mrs. Vansant proclaimed. “Abolition is the woefully unfinished work of our Revolution. My son died at the hands of the redcoats. Every day the dreadful institution of slavery remains, his memory is tarnished.”
“Wherever did you learn to play?” asked Mr. Vansant.
“I mostly learned by ear at my father’s tavern,” said Ethan. “My mother taught me to read, and I taught myself to read music. The Bartons helped with my classical training.”
“Remarkable!” said a portly reveler. He and his wife had been leaning toward their conversation, and now decided to join.
“Why, Mr. Stewart, did you hear that?” said the newcomer’s wife. “Classically trained!”
“Why yes, Miriam,” said Mrs. Vansant. “Our Mr. Auldon is a true marvel. I had to show the nay-sayers how beautifully one can play.”
Ethan’s bow slipped out of his hand. Mrs. Vansant started when it landed at her feet. Ethan hurried to pick it up.
“Oops, oh dear,” said Mrs. Vansant.
“Apologies,” Ethan said. He had a sinking feeling in his gut. “What—what did you mean by ‘how beautifully one can play?’”
“Oh, well I…” Mrs. Vansant wagged her fan.
“I should think it’s perfectly obvious,” shrugged Mr. Vansant. “Our purpose here is to help the cause of abolition by showing Negroes are possessed of many fine talents.”
“And look how you’ve proven it, dear!” said Mrs. Vansant.
Ethan’s eyes stung. Sweat beaded on his temple. Here he’d thought his musical talents were the toast of the town. Was he here as a mere object of curiosity? He felt sick to his stomach.
“You all right, mate?” John whispered.
“I do believe I owe my tailor an eagle,” said Mr. Stewart, chuckling over his champagne flute. “I never thought I’d see a Negro play Bach.”
“Mr. Stewart,” gasped Mrs. Vansant. “I hardly think that’s polite—”
“What did you say?” snapped John. His look struck the smiles from their faces.
Ethan tugged at John’s elbow. “John, let’s go,” he whispered.
Mr. Stewart narrowed his eyes at the adolescent in their midst. “I wagered my tailor one dollar that a Negro could never play Bach. Mr. Auldon proved an exception.”
John’s look turned menacing. “That is an insulting remark, sir. I demand you apologize to my friend.”
“There is no insult,” bristled Stewart. “I conceded my error.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Mr. Vansant. “We’re all friends here. United in common cause.”
“You will apologize to Ethan,” John persisted. “Or I will demand satisfaction.”
“The impertinence!” Stewart retorted.
“Thank you for a lovely evening, Mrs. Vansant,” said Ethan as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He clasped her hand, then Mr. Vansant’s, and nodded to the other guests. “It’s meant a great deal to me. But the hour is late, and I must be off.”
Ethan turned a hard look on John. “We’re leaving.”
John flashed another glare at Stewart, then reluctantly followed Ethan toward the stairs.
###
“I don’t believe this,” Ethan seethed. He was beating a path down Second Street, John barely keeping pace. A steady flow of carriages and riders trotted by. “You wanted a duel with that man.”
“A man insults you, and you’re angry I stood in your defense?” John argued, dodging passersby.
“You just won’t give it up, will you? You’ll find any excuse to issue a challenge.”
John snorted. “It’s always ‘turn the other cheek’ with you. I’ve had my fill of surrender. I’m for fighting back.”
Ethan rounded and planted a hand on a hitching post. “You mean murder a man for words? No, John, no. That is not justice. It’s sin.”
“It’s honor.”
Ethan stormed off again. “It’s an excuse! And you broke your promise. You just got your commission as a midshipman. You want to get yourself kicked out of the Navy?”
“You know what?” said John, his voice several paces behind.
Ethan stopped and looked back.
“I’m tired of your constant mothering. The Navy was your idea. Not mine.” John started in the opposite direction.
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“I’ll find my own way home!” John called back.
For a moment, Ethan considered following, not wanting to part in anger. Then his gaze hardened. His fist closed tight around the handle of his violin case. A walk on the wharf would do him good. He turned toward a winding alley nearby—a shortcut he used to take on his paper route.
He had gone about half the distance to Front Street when he heard the footsteps. He looked back—just brick walls blotting out the moon. A cat picking through rubbish. A pile of horse dung. A pair of cellar doors. No one. He started again and quickened his pace. A moment later, he heard more footsteps. Closer this time. He looked over his shoulder to find a tall shape moving through the darkness. The figure was only a few strides behind. Ethan broke into a run.
Just as Ethan reached the end of the alley, another figure stepped in front of him. The flicker of a street lamp illuminated the man’s face.
“Well if it isn’t the maggot’s darkie friend,” said a familiar Irish voice.
Ethan’s blood ran cold. “Fin?” he breathed.
The other pursuer caught up. Eamon’s pudgy hands closed on Ethan’s arms.
Fin smiled, twirling a broken bottleneck. “Let’s go for a stroll.”