“Jamie!” he shouted down to his younger brother lolling about on the wharf below, inspecting the merchant vessels nested tight against each other, their yards a-cockbill to avoid entanglement. The boy glanced up. “Get Father! I see her! She’s coming!”
Jamie Cutler looked up, shading his eyes. “You see her, Will? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, you twit. Now hurry! Father’s at McMurray’s, with Mr. Hunt.”
“I know that!” Jamie took off at a full sprint. At the age of thirteen he was, like his brother, a fine physical specimen, consistently finishing first or second in footraces against his classmates at Derby Academy in Hingham. Within minutes he was across from Faneuil Hall and inside McMurray’s, an establishment renowned for the quantity and quality of its shepherd’s pie. He found his father in the dimly lit oaken room sitting by a window and having dinner with George Hunt, the diminutive, soft-spoken, and yet highly competent administrator of Cutler & Sons.
“Father!” Jamie cried out, bursting into their conversation. Patrons chatting at nearby tables stopped in mid-sentence to take note of the excited lad dressed in ordinary brown trousers and open-necked white shirt. “It’s Falcon, Father! Will’s seen her. She’s coming! She’s almost here, Father!”
A blond-haired man in his mid-thirties placed a large hand on Jamie’s shoulder, the sky blue of his eyes boring into the rich hazel of his son’s. They were expecting Falcon. All of Boston, all of New England, all of America was expecting Falcon. Her imminent arrival was the reason he had allowed his sons to abandon school and sail with him to Boston from Hingham every day this week, and would continue to do so until the day Falcon arrived. But could today really be that day? She was a fast ship. No one understood Falcon’s sailing qualities better than Richard Cutler. But could Agreen truly have sailed from Algiers to Boston in just five weeks?
Answers to those questions were obvious in the eager expression on Jamie’s face and the way he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, edging toward the door. Richard stood up. “Will you settle this, Mr. Hunt?” he asked, meaning the bill.
“That will not be necessary, Mr. Cutler,” a voice cut in. “Today your meal is on the house.” In a loud voice of authority the headwaiter proclaimed to the tavern at large, “On this glorious day, all food and drink are on the house, compliments of Mr. Charles Wheeler, proprietor of McMurray’s Tavern!”
That announcement was met with a round of applause reinforced by whistling and shouting and stamping of feet. Some patrons bolted for the door.
“You go on, Mr. Cutler,” George Hunt said amid the din. “I’ll be right along. At my age I’m not as fleet of foot as you and your son.” He smiled warmly at Jamie.
Richard bowed in appreciation to both Hunt and the waiter and followed his son out the door. The dazzling hues of early autumn struck his eyes, and a refreshing breeze ruffled his hair. Bells began to toll, first from one church, then from another, then from another and another and another until it seemed to those gathering on and near Long Wharf that the joyous peals must go far beyond the confines of Boston and Cambridge, all the way to the western frontiers of the young republic.
A large crowd was gathering on the waterfront. Wives, parents, siblings, and sweethearts had waited ten years for this day, and they would not be denied. When word had arrived almost a year ago that a treaty had been signed in Algiers, hope soared that every American sailor held captive in Barbary would soon be home. As always, however, the devil was in the details. Another ten months would pass before the disorganized U.S. government could raise the agreed-upon ransom and hammer out those details to the satisfaction of the Arab rulers of North Africa and the advisers and magistrates and self-seeking connivers lurking in their courts. It was not until early June, three months after the Treaty of Tripoli had been ratified by Congress and signed by President Adams, that American vessels were allowed safe passage along the Barbary Coast. Even then, bureaucratic inexperience and ineptitude caused one delay after another, adding to the national sense of anger and despair.
Finally, in mid-July, a special communiqué was relayed to the European ministers and American negotiators in North Africa. After holding Americans captive for more than a decade and forcing them to labor on barely sustainable rations, the dey of Algiers, along with the bey of Tunis and the bashaw of Tripoli, grandly announced that on August 10, 1797, all prisoners held in the Barbary States would be released. On August 7 Agreen Crabtree, the most trusted ship’s master in the Cutler merchant fleet, set sail on board Falcon to Algiers from Gibraltar, where he had been biding his time for three weeks in the cordial company of Richard’s brother-in-law, Jeremy Hardcastle, a senior post captain attached to the Royal Navy’s Mediterranean Squadron.
RICHARD AND JAMIE wove their way along Long Wharf through the throngs of citizens straining to reach the spot where dockhands were clearing a space for the schooner to tie up. Some in the crowd recognized the elder Cutler and made room for him and his son to pass through. More than one reached out to touch him in gratitude, for the men returning home on board this particular schooner were in the employ of Cutler & Sons. Muslim pirates had seized the company’s brig Eagle in the Mediterranean in August 1787. Since then, Cutler & Sons had done what it could to secure the release of its sailors, sending Richard Cutler and Agreen Crabtree to Algiers with $60,000 in ransom money raised from family members on both sides of the Atlantic. Although that ransom attempt had failed to achieve its primary purpose, the imprisoned Americans at least knew that their country had not forgotten them and that their employer had not forgotten their families. Speaking on behalf of the Cutler family, Richard had promised Eagle’s crew prior to leaving Algiers that Cutler & Sons would look after their families for as long as necessary. Although the cash squeeze on the shipping company had been extreme at the time, the Cutler family had kept its promise.
Will Cutler dipped and bobbed his way over to his father and brother when he saw them wending their way to the Long Wharf counting house. “See, Jamie, I told you!” he crowed.
“Mr. Cutler! Mr. Cutler, sir!”
Richard turned to see a small-boned, thirty-ish woman in a faded blue cotton dress and plain white mobcap coming toward him. Her face was familiar, but her name escaped him. “I’m Jane Reed,” she said, sensing his uncertainty when she was close to him, “wife to Jim Reed.”
“Yes, of course, Jane. I’m sorry. It’s been a few years, and in all this confusion . . .”
“Mr. Cutler,” she interrupted him, “I’ve something to say to you.” Taking a deep breath and fighting back tears, she leaned in so that he could hear her amid the clanging of bells and the bustle at dockside. “Thank you,” she said, her voice breaking. “Thank you and your dear family for all you have done for me and my Jim. You, sir, are a saint.” She swiped away tears and then reached up to kiss him on the cheek.
Richard had to fight the lump in his throat to reply. “I’m hardly that, Jane. It’s God’s blessing that Eagle’s crew has come home to us today.”
“His, yes,” she agreed, “and yours, Mr. Cutler.” She touched his arm before moving off into a crowd that was growing ever more jubilant as Falcon, lying a short way off the quay with her bowsprit facing toward the east whence she had come, made ready to be warped in. Sailors at her bow and stern heaved coiled ropes to dockers stationed fore and aft on the merchant vessels bracketing the space cleared for Falcon along the half-mile stretch of Boston’s longest commercial wharf. The dockers caught the ropes and, aided by deckhands, ran the bitter ends through hawser holes and onto cylindrical capstans bolted amidships on each of the two vessels. Once the end of each rope was secured to a capstan and a signal given, men stationed in a circle around the giant winches pushed hard on the metal bars at the top, taking in first the slack of rope and then the full weight of the schooner herself, coaxing her slowly inward toward the wharf.
Members of the schooner’s crew working in the rigging had by now assumed distinct form, as h
ad the passengers lining her larboard railing. The former hostages stood listening to the bells and watching the goings-on ashore as if in a trance, as though unable to accept the blessed gift of homecoming after enduring so much for so long in a wretched Arab prison. Many let tears stream unabashedly down their cheeks.
As dockers cranked Falcon in the last few feet, the crowd stepped back in deference to the Cutler brothers—Richard on the dock and Caleb, his younger brother, standing amidships near Falcon’s entry port. The two brothers locked eyes as onlookers cheered, waved their hats in the air, and beckoned joyously to loved ones now just a few feet away and drawing closer. As Falcon bumped against the massive stone-and-wood structure, Caleb formed a fist with his right hand and brought it over his heart, in the same gesture of the Roman general Fabius Maximus with which he had said good-bye to Richard in the dey’s prison those many years ago. Richard returned the gesture and then allowed his gaze to wander over the cluster of men around Caleb, who were becoming more animated as they recognized family and friends on the dock. He looked aft to the helm, to the tall, muscular, tawny-haired ship’s master standing by the tiller. When their eyes met, Agreen Crabtree snapped a salute, a gesture familiar from their days as midshipmen in the Continental warship Ranger and then as acting lieutenants in Bonhomme Richard, both ships under the command of John Paul Jones.
Dockers on board the merchantmen eased the strain on the giant winches as sailors on the schooner cast mooring lines to dockers on the quay, who secured them to bollards with a series of clove hitches. Falcon was home.
The larboard entry port opened and a gangway was pushed down to the dock. First off, by protocol, was James Dickerson, Eagle‘s master. During his mission to North Africa in 1787, Richard had met with Dickerson and Caleb in a prison chamber and had learned from his brother just how crucial Captain Dickerson’s role had been in keeping his men alive and safe while catering to the whims of his captors. So impressed was the dey of Algiers with Dickerson that he had allowed extra provisions and medical attention to be brought into the prison when Dickerson requested them. Most noteworthy, not a single member of Eagle’s crew had been sold into the flesh markets of Tunis and Tripoli, a fate suffered by the one hundred other American prisoners in Barbary and countless others enslaved while sailing under a flag of Christendom.
Dickerson’s reply to Richard Cutler’s emotional expression of gratitude as he met him by the gangway was the same this day as it had been back then. “My duty, Mr. Cutler,” he said. He grasped Richard’s hand in both of his and bowed before taking his leave. As he made his way through the throng, citizens of Boston clapped him on the back, albeit gently, for all could see that he was raw-boned and weary.
Then Caleb limped down the gangway and a great cheer went up as the two brothers embraced, the grip of one hard upon that of the other.
“You look well,” Richard managed after he had eased his grip sufficiently to give his brother a quick once-over. He could feel Caleb’s ribs through his shirt and jacket. “Far better than I expected.”
Caleb was equally beset by emotions. “You sent enough food to feed an army,” he said. “And Agreen brought fresh provisions from Gibraltar. My shipmates and I had naught to do on the entire voyage home but eat and sleep.”
“Well, Edna’s in charge of you now,” Richard grinned, referring to the tried-and-true Cutler housekeeper of many years. “So you’d best get used to that lifestyle. Here, let’s move back a ways, shall we, and let others through.” With Will and Jamie in tow, they edged against the flow of a closely packed crowd surging forward to greet those disembarking one by one from Falcon. Conditions were less frenetic at the entrance of Cutler & Sons.
“A swift passage, eh, Caleb?” Richard asked to make conversation. He could not take his eyes off the brother he had been forced to abandon.
“Fair winds all the way. Agreen told us he had never seen the like on an Atlantic crossing.”
“I imagine any wind would have seemed fair to you on this voyage.”
“There is that,” Caleb confessed.
Richard motioned to his sons. “Will, Jamie, you remember your uncle, don’t you?”
“I remember him,” Will chimed in. “But Jamie doesn’t. He was just a baby when you sailed for Algiers, Uncle Caleb.”
“I do so remember him!” Jamie’s defiant look swung from his brother to his uncle. “And I was not a baby. I was three years old,” he said, as though therein lay the proof of the pudding.
“Well, we have a lot of catching up to do in any case,” Caleb said. “Captain Crabtree tells me your father is planning a short cruise just for us four so that we can get to know one other again. Are you willing?”
Both boys nodded eagerly.
“Good. It’s a pity Diana won’t be joining us.”
Will shrugged. “She wouldn’t want to come. She’s too little, and besides, she’d rather go riding with mother every day.”
“Well, if your sister looks anything like I remember your mother, she must be one lovely young lady.”
Will shrugged again. “She looks fine, I guess.”
As former hostages mingled happily with family and friends, Boston Harbor came alive with small craft commissioned by the Cutler family to transport them to their homes on the South Shore. The Cutlers had their own coastal packet awaiting them at the far end of the wharf, but they would not depart for Hingham until Richard had personally welcomed home every member of Eagle‘s crew. That took some doing, because each crewman had much to say to him. Last up was Addison Percy, a Harvard-educated physician from Cohasset who had served as ship’s surgeon on Falcon’s cruise to Algiers and home.
“Truth be told, Mr. Cutler,” he reported, “I am pleased with what I’ve seen. I had expected much worse.” Not a seasoned sailor, he was having trouble finding his balance ashore after weeks on a rolling deck. “Several cases require further scrutiny, and I am concerned about Captain Dickerson. But no lives appear to be in danger. I am finishing up a report that I will give to you and your father tomorrow morning, if that is convenient for you.”
“It is, Doctor. Shall we say ten o’clock?”
Agreen Crabtree remained on board while George Hunt paid off Falcon’s crew. Only when he was certain that everything above and belowdecks was stowed in Bristol fashion did he excuse the last of the crew and step ashore to join the Cutlers.
“Welcome home, Agee,” Richard said. He offered his hand to Agreen’s tough, leathery grip. “Thank you for bringing the men home safely.”
“That’s what you pay me for,” Agreen said dismissively. Feeling awkward in the face of the powerful emotions of the day, he made a funny face at the two boys that made them giggle. “How long you reckon they’ll keep up these bells? Damn, they’re beautiful. It means a lot t’ the men. Many of ’em broke down like babies as we came in.”
A brief silence ensued, as if to honor that simple observation. Then Richard motioned up the quay. “Shall we? Anne and Lavinia are waiting for you at home, Caleb. Frederick and Stephen will join us as soon as we send word to them. Two weeks from now we have a grand reception planned for you and your shipmates. In the meantime, we’ll take that cruise I promised you, and you can eat and sleep to your heart’s content.” His gaze swung over to Agreen. “Speaking of things beautiful, Agee, your wife has some news for you.”
“Is she all right?” Agreen demanded, his tone turning instantly serious.
“She’s fine, just fine. Katherine’s with her every day, and Dr. Prescott looks in on her regularly. The baby’s kicking up a fuss, is what I meant.”
“God be praised,” Agreen muttered reverently. He set off with the others toward the single-masted packet bobbing at her mooring at the far end of the wharf.
ONCE Falcon had made her sweep through the wind toward Boston Harbor and her identity was confirmed, a swift vessel had set sail for Hingham to alert the village and the Cutler family. Such a courtesy, it turned out, was hardly necessary. Bells chiming in unison fr
om North Church and South Church and every church in between were picked up and echoed by churches in Dorchester and Milton and Weymouth. Their joyful peals were clearly audible on board the Cutler packet as she skimmed across the sheltered waters of Hingham Bay. By the time the packet had nosed her way through the flotilla of small craft swarming around her and had Otis Hill in sight, the bells of First Parish Church, Second Parish Church, and the Old Meetinghouse were in full swing.
Richard knew that Katherine would not be on the wharf to greet them. By prearrangement, she was waiting up on Otis Hill in the company of Elizabeth Cutler Crabtree, Richard’s first cousin and Katherine’s closest friend since their childhood in England. Up there, removed from the high-spirited crowd jostling and jockeying below on Broad Cove Lane and in the broad stretch of land adjacent to the Hingham docks, they were out of harm’s way. Lizzy was seven months pregnant, and if safely delivered, this baby would be her first. At age thirty-six, she was almost a year younger than Katherine, who nine years ago had borne her third child. In consideration of Lizzy’s age, the Cutler family doctor had warned her not to do anything that might physically upset her—or worse, upend her. Given the miscarriage she had suffered two years earlier, Dr. Prescott had reminded her, it was a miracle that she had conceived at all.
Thomas Cutler was on the quay, however. He stood as far out on the main wharf as he could get, at the location where the incoming packet was to be moored. The patriarch of the Cutler family in America, he had sailed with his bride to Boston a half-century earlier, seeking new opportunities in the new land. His older brother, William, had remained behind in England to manage the British end of their shipping business, which had grown sufficiently over the years to embrace the high risks and high rewards of West Indian sugar and rum production.
The Power and the Glory Page 2