Letters

Ah, well: people change. Their ease put me at mine. Castine informed me that the yacht was Jane’s gift for his 52nd birthday (younger than he looked, then); that he thought it a bit, ah, baronial, and was unfortunately prone to mal de mer—he’d even missed a few meals aboard the Statendam in Bermudian waters! But he was determined for her sake to acquire sea legs, and so had committed himself to the sport of deep-sea fishing. Was I an angler?

Toddy always has an angle, Jane declared, not especially meaningly. He’s probably been following us to see whether we deep-six Harrison’s merde.

I was astonished. Castine asked about the verb “to deep-six,” but clearly understood the general sense of Jane’s allusion. That tone prevailed through di

Artichokes vinaigrette. Escalope de veau and fresh asparagus, perfectly steamed. Had I heard anything from her wayward daughter? Jane wondered mildly. I considered; then reported my understanding that Jea

Then she brightened. As for that movie: that’s what they were doing there! Shooting was already in progress farther up the Patuxent, it seemed, and tomorrow Prinz & Co. were going to “burn Washington” on Bloodsworth Island — but André must explain; she had no head for history.

The baron explained that before they’d learned (on their return from Bermuda) of “Bea Golden’s” falling out with Mr. Prinz, they’d agreed for a lark to ferry the film crew tomorrow from Benedict, sixteen miles upriver — where footage was being shot of the British invasion of August 1814—down the Patuxent and across the Bay to Bloodsworth Island, a 40-mile trip. There Prinz had built a set for the Burning of Washington, 155 years to the day from that regrettable event. They had expected, of course, that Jane’s daughter would be there; in any case her son would be, who with his radical friends (and, presumably, the director’s consent) was using the occasion to protest U.S. “involvement”—Castine’s tactful euphemism — in Southeast Asia.

Come with us, Toddy! Jane cried with imperious enthusiasm. Drew made her nervous with his childish politics; André could talk to him, but she’d feel better yet if I were there too; Drew had always respected me. I must come. She herself would miss the Sunday night fireworks — she had to get back to Cambridge and Cap’n Chick — but André or Buck (their combination captain, cook, and steward) would be happy to redeliver me to my boat on the Monday morning.

His pleasure, Castine assured me. Peach sherbert and Armagnac. “Heat lightning” to north of us, from where now stirred a rain-smelling breeze. I had a number of questions yet to work diplomatically into our talk — the baron’s relation to A. B. Cook, for instance; “Buffalo’s” mention of the F.B.I.; maybe even the matter of the blackmail photographs — but the evening was evidently over, and I was sleepy from the long day’s sail and the champagne. Jane politely invited me to use the guest stateroom, but — among other reasons for declining! — I wanted to be aboard O.J. if a squall blew through. As for the trip upriver, I’d let them know in the morning. My own Patuxent destination was only half a dozen miles up, where I had certain bases to touch. On the other hand, I was powerfully curious to see a bit more of my old love’s new lover, now that my heart was proven truly clear of her. We’d see.

Sunday dawned hot, hazy, and still. 70 % chance of late-afternoon or evening thunderstorms. Knowing that the anchorage would soon be empty, I paid out plenty of scope, battened everything down, and made ready after all to go aboard Baratarian. But the baron, smiling cleanly, dinghied over with a different plan: they had radiotelephoned Mr. Prinz at Benedict after I left them, and mentioned my presence; he was particularly anxious to film Baratarian en route to “Barataria,” and though period detail was irrelevant to his production, it would please him too to film Osborn Jones coming downriver under sail. What’s more, they could use the extra deck space. I would of course be remunerated; and Jane — whom Castine understood to be “entirely familiar” with my vessel — had volunteered to serve as my crew. He himself, alas, could be of small assistance. We were to rendezvous off Benedict at noon, where Prinz was filming the Withdrawal scene.

Mm hm. I agreed, but urged Castine to ride up with us as well. Surely he wished to be with his fiancée? The baron’s expression fairly twinkled: they had just returned from the recentest of a series of honeymoons, and would soon be married; knowing how much Jane esteemed me, he would sacrifice for a few hours the joy of his friend’s company in order to catch up on various business in the air-conditioned comfort of his yacht.

So: less was accomplished than I’d hoped, yet more than I’d have expected before that weekend. Jane, as I anticipated, was all impenetrable good cheer as we motor-sailed upriver on a medium reach in the wake of Baratarian. I complimented her on her fiancé and learned without pain that they pla

Ah. We passed the mouth of St. Leonard Creek, where Polly Lake and I — but good-bye, good-bye! Experimentally I a