“Who told you that?”
“My cousins, John and Robin Cutler. They make it their business to know what’s happening on other islands in the Indies.”
“I see. Carry on.”
“There’s not much more I can tell you, sir. I understand that British forces have captured several fortresses near Port-au-Prince—or Port Républicain as it’s now called. But they have failed in their objective to drive out the French. A peace treaty was signed some years back, not long after the National Directory abolished slavery on Saint-Domingue and other French islands. That decree ended the slave rebellion—for a while, at least.”
“Is that it?”
“I believe so, sir. As I said, I don’t know a lot.”
“You know a great deal more than most people, Mr. Cutler, including just about everybody in our State Department. What of the current situation? Anything to add there?”
“No, sir, except to say that I believe the slave rebellion continues in the form of a civil war on Saint-Domingue, pitting former slaves against their former owners.”
“Not quite accurate, but close enough. Does the name Rigaud mean anything to either of you? André Rigaud?”
It did not.
“What about Toussaint L’Ouverture?”
“That name’s familiar, sir,” Carter cut in, relieved to have something to contribute to the conversation. “I read a little about him in a newspaper. He’s a leader in the civil war, I believe.”
“Quite so, Mr. Carter. On whose side?”
Carter gave him a blank look. “On the side of the former slaves, I should think, sir.”
“That would seem a safe assumption, wouldn’t it, since Toussaint is as pure-blooded a Negro as there is. But his role is more complicated than that. Toussaint is hardly your everyday slave. He started out that way, as a servant to a benevolent master who, among other privileges, allowed Toussaint to educate himself and learn English. Which he did to the point where he now speaks English better than most Englishmen. Plus, he has taught himself several other languages. Care to guess the title of his favorite book?”
Neither lieutenant did.
“Caesar’s Gallic Wars,” Truxtun informed them. “In Latin. So what we have here is a man who is both brilliant and a natural-born leader. And he’s a man of strict loyalties. When informed of the slave uprising, the first thing he did was to see his master and his master’s family safely off the island. He then joined the Spanish against the French, some claim because he preferred allegiance to a king over a republic. By the end of’93, he and his followers controlled much of the island’s interior.
“Early in ’94 he switched sides and declared himself for France. Exactly why, I cannot say for certain. But since France abolished slavery in the Indies, it’s a fair guess Toussaint believed he owed allegiance to France. The Spanish had also promised freedom to their slaves but were slow to act on that promise. Great Britain—Spain’s ally at the time, as Mr. Cutler correctly informed us—has in fact reinstated slavery in the areas of Hispaniola it controls. The British fear, legitimately, in my view, that emancipation on one island will encourage slave rebellions on the other islands.”
He allowed a moment for that information to sink in. “What you said a moment ago, Mr. Cutler, is accurate. Hispaniola is a hodgepodge of foreign interests, and those interests have little regard for the local citizenry. On Saint-Domingue there are—I should say, were—approximately 30,000 whites, the majority of them government administrators, artisans, and shopkeepers. Most supported the French Republic. Others, the wealthier ones—the planters, the so-called grand blancs—remained loyal to the Bourbon king, the exiled Louis XVII. When rebellion broke out, these royalists sided with the Spanish and British, hoping, I suppose, to somehow come out of the turmoil with the status quo intact. When that effort failed and the slaughter began anew, the grand blancs fled the colony right behind the petit blancs. Many of them went to Cuba, taking with them what slaves they could, as well as their knowledge of sugar production.
“Also living on Saint-Domingue are another 30,000 so-called gens de couleur, a rather elegant term for citizens of mixed European and African descent. These people are the offspring of white planters and their Negro mistresses who lived together in an odd form of common-law marriage that allows their offspring to inherit property. These people—mulattoes, you and I would call them—are recognized by France as citizens of France. They form an elite group on the island. So elite, in fact, that they consider themselves superior to both blacks and whites.
“The third group on the island—by far the most numerous at 400,000 strong—consists of former black slaves. Most of these Negroes came to Saint-Domingue in chains from the west coast of Africa. I need not describe for you the misery of their lives. So it should be easy to understand why they call Toussaint ‘Father Toussaint’ and look upon him as a saint or savior—which to them, of course, he is. Thousands have flocked to his banner.”
“Against whom? The French?”
“Not at all, Mr. Carter. Have you not been listening?” His tone conveyed more humor than reprimand. “As I told you, most of the whites have fled the island. Those who remain are connected in some way to the government or military. No, Toussaint is fighting the gens de couleur, the mulatto army led by André Rigaud, the militant extremist whose name I mentioned earlier. Rigaud also knows a thing or two about military affairs—enough to conquer and control what amounts to a semi-autonomous state in the southern regions of Saint-Domingue. His objectives go far beyond that, however. He seeks what Toussaint seeks: to conquer the entire island of Hispaniola. Toussaint seems to have a better chance of succeeding because his army is considerably larger than Rigaud’s. That’s the point to remember. Two years ago Toussaint thwarted Rigaud’s attempt to assassinate the French governor of the colony, a general named Laveaux. As a reward for saving his life, Laveaux appointed Toussaint lieutenant governor of Saint-Domingue and commander in chief of French forces on the island. Have I confused you yet?”
Richard scratched the nape of his neck. “You’ve done a good job confusing me, sir. This is all quite intriguing, but if I may, what does all this have to do with Lieutenant Carter and me?”
“A great deal, Mr. Cutler, which I am about to tell you. Before I do, however, you should know that Toussaint L’Ouverture has been in secret contact with President Adams.”
That piece of information caused both lieutenants to blink. Then Truxtun delivered his thunderbolt. “He has formally requested that our government lift our embargo on shipments to Saint-Domingue. He has also requested military supplies and food for his army. In exchange, he has pledged to Mr. Adams that he will deny France the use of Saint-Domingue as a naval base in the West Indies.”
Richard and Carter exchanged looks, both men struggling to make sense of a labyrinth of double-dealing that seemed to expand in size and complexity with each sentence Truxtun uttered.
“Captain,” Richard managed, “how can that be? Did you not say a moment ago that Toussaint L’Ouverture now commands French forces on Saint Domingue?”
“I said exactly that.”
“Forgive me, sir, but how can the commander of French forces deny France the use of a naval base he is pledged to maintain and defend?”
Truxtun’s mouth twisted. “I appreciate the difficulty you are having with this, Mr. Cutler. If it’s any consolation, I asked my superiors the same questions that you and Mr. Carter are asking me. What you need to understand is that Toussaint’s true loyalty lies not with France but with the former slaves. He trusts no foreigner or mulatto. But he will treat with you and me and anyone else he believes can help him realize his ultimate objective.”
“Which is?”
“An independent nation ruled by freed black slaves.”
Richard shook his head in disbelief. “And the United States is open to this? We’re willing to help him realize this objective?”
“I can’t answer that. What I can tell you is that Mr. Pickerin
g is on board with this initiative, as is Mr. Hamilton. Mr. Stoddert, less so. So you see, gentlemen, we have a government that is split on this issue. But it’s a disagreement based more in ignorance than fact. We require more facts, more information, to clarify the situation. We need to understand more about Toussaint’s motives and exactly how he intends to use our support, should we decide to lend him that support. Above all, we need to be assured that whatever we decide to do is in the best interests of our country. That requires a fact-finding mission, led in part by an American naval attaché, to meet with Toussaint L’Ouverture on Saint-Domingue and have it out with him, so to speak.”
“I see. And that naval attaché is . . .”
Truxtun’s smile was benign. “You, Mr. Cutler, as no doubt a man of your intelligence has already concluded. You, escorted by Lieutenant Carter and a squad of his Marines. Mind you, I am not ordering you to do this. Mr. Stoddert made it quite clear that this mission is to be strictly voluntary, both because of its confidential nature and because there may be danger involved. Having stated that, I am compelled to point out that your name was put forth by both Mr. Adams and Mr. Hamilton. I must therefore ask if you harbor any doubts concerning the wisdom of their choice?”
“No, sir,” Richard said, feeling like a pawn in a game of chess.
“Splendid. Apparently my superiors view your past exploits in the Caribbean and Mediterranean as critical factors in this mission. There are further details that I am not at liberty to divulge this evening. Nor, I confess, am I aware of them all. You shall hear more of this when we meet with Vice Admiral Parker in Port Royal.”
“Admiral Parker?” Richard probed. “Admiral Hyde Parker? I believe I once met his father. They have the same name.”
“You did, Mr. Cutler.” Truxtun’s tone turned more sober. “Near the end of the war, when Admiral Hyde Parker Senior—‘Vinegar Hyde’ to some, ‘Old Piss and Vinegar’ to others—commanded the Windward Squadron in Barbados. Your acquaintance with him is yet another reason why you were recommended for this mission. It’s perhaps the most important reason of all. You see, this is to be a joint British-American expedition, and your family’s English connections may well decide its outcome.”
Eight
Port Royal, Jamaica August 1798
RICHARD CUTLER knew something of the history of Port Royal—as did most people familiar with the West Indies. Situated at the western tip of a long, thin spit of land shaped like an ostrich leg with an Italy-shaped boot at its western end, the port was in its heyday in the late 1600S the largest, richest, and most debauched British municipality in the Western Hemisphere. Its dubious distinction as the “Sodom of the West Indies” was well deserved. With an economy driven by gold bullion plundered by English privateers off Spanish treasure fleets, Port Royal served as a safe haven for pirates, buccaneers, cutthroats, and other lowlifes keen to pick a farthing or a florin from an unsuspecting tar passed out cold on an alehouse floor or in a dark alley rife with the stench of human waste. In 1680 Port Royal was said to host a tavern for every ten residents. Inside those taverns and on the streets outside, prostitutes brazenly plied their wares, their oft-used bodies tantalizing pie-eyed sailors too long away at sea.
Tottering at the tip of the societal pyramid, the town’s few respectable citizens—merchants, mainland planters, and an Anglican priest or two—tried to buy safety from the thieves and other opportunists who scourged the port. They pooled their resources and appointed Henry Morgan, the renowned buccaneer and sworn enemy of propriety and Puritanism, as lieutenant governor. The seemingly insane gamble paid off. Elevated from the base to the apex of society, Morgan found religion and set about to clean up the unholy mess, publicly hanging many of those with whom just a few weeks before he had been in cahoots. His efforts, however, proved too little, too late. At 11:42 on the morning of June 7, 1692, in what was widely perceived as divine punishment for its manifold sins and wickedness, Port Royal was rocked to its core by a violent earthquake that sent much of the city, Atlantis-like, into the sea. The few people who managed to survive the holocaust fled across the bay to the mainland, where, in collaboration with the sugar planters and wealthier merchants already living there, they established a new commercial center. With the devastation of Port Royal fresh in their minds, these citizens of Kingston, as the new community came to be called, lived and worked and prayed as paragons of sobriety and Christian morals—until memories faded.
What remained of Port Royal, meanwhile, was appropriated by the Royal Navy and rebuilt as Britain’s flagship base in the West Indies.
“ON DECK, THERE! Land ho! Dead to loo’ard!”
The cry from the foremast crosstrees compelled everyone on Constellation’ s weather deck to squint ahead beyond the bowsprit and its three cloud-white foresails taut in a stiff northeasterly breeze. Theirs was an instinctive reaction only. Another hour would pass before those on deck could see what the lookouts on high had seen. Not until the sun rose above the yardarms and the crew had been issued its noon ration of rum did a form begin to take shape on the horizon, a dark smudge in between the cerulean sea and the turquoise sky.
“Jamaica, sir,” James Jarvis said to Richard, stating the obvious as he handed back the spyglass. The voice of the young midshipman from New York seemed to have suddenly dropped several octaves, as if the mere sight of this fabled island and the possibilities for debauchery it held had instantly transported him beyond puberty.
“Aye, Mr. Jarvis. Jamaica. What you’re looking at are the Blue Mountains. Port Royal lies on the other side.”
Activity on the weather deck brought John Rodgers up from the wardroom dressed simply in buff breeches and a white cotton shirt that billowed about him in the breeze. As custom dictated, Richard offered him the speaking trumpet, the symbol of authority. As custom suggested, Rodgers declined the honor.
“Carry on, Mr. Cutler,” he said.
“A change of course, Mr. Waverly,” Richard said to the sailing master. “Bring her southeast by east, a half east. Once we’ve cleared Morant Point, go large on a course due west. Mr. Jarvis, signal the convoy to follow.”
Waverly repeated the order to the two quartermaster’s mates at the helm. Boatswain’s whistles twittered along the weather deck as Jarvis proceeded aft to the signal locker near the taffrail. Sailors in the waist adjusted sheets, tacks, and yards, and for the first time in three days Constellation tightened sail from a broad to a beam reach. Four hours later, at Waverly’s command, her stern swung through the wind until it rested on her starboard quarter. The weather clew of her mainsail was hauled up, and she ran free due west to Kingston, the convoy trailing in her wake.
At eight o’clock that evening, with the sand spit running east to west across the entrance to Kingston Harbor in clear view, all hands prepared the ship to drop anchor. Sailors aloft clewed up the courses, reducing canvas to jib, topsails, and driver. Those on anchor duty removed the hawse-buckles on her best-bower, leaving the great wooden-stocked, fluked anchor cradled to the bows by a single ring-stopper. Astern, at the double wheel, quartermaster’s mates made ready to put the helm down and round the frigate into the wind.
As the crew went about its business, Richard brought a glass to his eye. He noticed first an immense bastion at the entrance to the harbor at the western edge of the spit. Built in the 1650s, it had originally been named Fort Cromwell in honor of Oliver Cromwell and his anti-royalist Roundheads. In 1660 the name was changed to Fort Charles after word was received from London that Charles II had restored the Stuart line to the British throne and had ordered the corpse of the erstwhile Lord Protector of England to be dug up, hanged in chains, and beheaded. Whatever its name, Richard thought as he swept the glass along the thick stone parapets, admiring the long black muzzles of cannon protruding out between them, this bastion would give pause to any enemy bent on assault.
Beyond the fortress, within the town of Port Royal proper, he could make out little of note amid the clusters of low buildings. Past them
, by the northeast shore of the town, he brought into focus a white stucco building of greater significance, and beyond that a copse of masts: the frigates, brigs, three-masted sloops of war, and other warships that maintained British hegemony throughout the Greater Antilles. Among them, one ship stood out: a first rate with a broad red pennant fluttering from her mainmast truck. HMS Queen was the flagship of Vice Admiral Sir Hyde Parker, commander in chief of His Britannic Majesty’s naval squadrons in West Indian waters. The ninety-six-gun vessel was a floating fortress so vast that it could house and feed the entire population of a fair-sized English town.
Constellation coasted alone in the lee of Port Royal, her convoy having parted company to follow a more northwesterly tack before swinging southeastward into Kingston Harbor. When she rounded to and lost way, Fort Charles erupted in a thirteen-gun salute. Constellation responded with a thirteen-gun salute of her own.
“Let go!” First Lieutenant Rodgers shouted through the trumpet. A whistle shrieked, the ring-stopper was released, the anchor cable rumbled through the hawse-hole, and the frigate’s five-thousand-pound wrought iron anchor plunged into the salty depths, bringing an end to this leg of the cruise.
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, with the sun barely up above a naval base already stirring to life, a clinker-built ship’s boat approached Constellation where she lay at anchor off the white stucco building, downwind of the British naval squadron. Eight men worked the oars, four to a side. Each was dressed in blue-and-white-striped jersey, flawlessly white trousers, and a wide-brimmed straw hat adorned with a blue ribbon. In the stern sheets, beside the coxswain, sat a British sea officer, the brilliant gold lining on his uniform coat reflecting the early morning sun.
The Power and the Glory Page 13