For Love of Country

by William C. Hammond

  His gaze swept back to the activity at the naval dockyards and lingered there. Clearly, the British government was investing serious money and manpower to renovate and enlarge these facilities. Not far from the quay to which Lavinia was being secured Richard noted what appeared to be a dry dock under construction, the first, he presumed, outside Kingston, Jamaica, the largest Royal Navy base in the West Indies. When that structure was completed, it would save sheathers, caulkers, riggers, and carpenters the three weeks of backbreaking and often dangerous work required to careen a stripped-down vessel over on her side to clean or make repairs to her bottom.

  At precisely 3:00 in the afternoon, a chorus of ships’ bells clanged pleasantly from the seven British warships anchored in the bay, six bells per ship. As if on cue, a chunky, officious officer of the Royal Navy in the glory of full dress uniform strode up the plank leading from the pier, boarded Lavinia, and arrogantly bade the first seaman he came across to go and fetch the ship’s master. His pomposity was only slightly curbed when that tall, young, fair-haired seaman with startling blue eyes indicated that he was the ship’s master.

  “At your service, Lieutenant,” Richard said, his sarcasm evident.

  With a loud harrumph and a jiggle of his bulldog jowls, the officer indicated to Richard that he was to accompany him forthwith in a longboat. Their destination was the heavy frigate anchored in mid-harbor, a ship Richard had immediately identified as HMS Boreas when Lavinia had entered Freeman’s Bay. He had admired her pale yellow varnish, her sails furled on their yards in Bristol fashion, her three masts stepped with just a hint of rake, and the unblemished black bands running along her gunport strakes. By all accounts she was a magnificent fighting machine, the pride of the Leeward Islands Station. Nothing but the best for Captain Horatio Nelson, Richard thought bitterly. No sooner had that wave of hostility crashed over him, as it often did at the mere mention of Nelson’s name, than Richard chided himself for harboring such sentiments. He realized they were groundless, pointless. It should be the other way around, common sense reminded him.

  “Good luck, sir,” Geoffrey Bryant said as Richard made ready to disembark.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bryant,” Richard replied. “You have command. Keep the men occupied. The tide turns within the hour and I intend to be sailing with it.”

  The row over to the flagship was a short one. Richard sat in the sternsheets next to the lieutenant, watching intently as the frigate loomed ever larger. During the war he had been on one much like her in Plymouth Harbor when he was interrogated by British authorities following Captain Jones’ raid on Whitehaven. So he assumed that Boreas was another Fourth Rate carrying fifty guns, not counting the swivel guns mounted on Y-brackets on her bulwarks and tops, or the murderous carronades affixed to iron slide carriages along her weather deck and quarterdeck, their stubby barrels now becoming visible through gunports cut through the bulwarks. Richard had learned of these newly issued lightweight weapons from his brother-in-law, Hugh Hardcastle, a flag lieutenant in the Royal Navy. First cast in the town of Carron, Scotland, they looked and loaded much like mortars. When fired at close range, Hugh had assured him, their 32-pound shot could wreak bloody havoc. At the time, he was relating to Richard the glory he had witnessed from Admiral Rodney’s flagship during the Battle of the Saintes, and the high-pitched tones of excitement and defiance with which he had described the gore and mayhem inflicted by these “smashers,” as he referred to the carronades, had seemed very much out of character for that normally staid British naval officer.

  At the entry port of the frigate, Richard was turned over to a heavyset master-at-arms sporting a prominent red handlebar mustache. As he was escorted aft to a hatchway and ladder leading below, he glanced again at the short-barreled iron guns bowsed up tight against the bulwarks. He longed for an opportunity to walk over and inspect them, to see for himself what all the excitement was about.

  The scarlet-jacketed marine corporal standing guard belowdecks banged the butt of his musket on the deck to recognize the master-at-arms approaching the after cabin. Once the official had stated his business, the marine rapped gently on the oaken door.

  “What is it?” queried a gentle voice from inside.

  The corporal opened the door a crack and nodded at the master-at arms to answer.

  “Mr. Turner, Captain. I have with me the ship’s master of the American schooner, just arrived.”

  “Very good, Mr. Turner. You may show him in.”

  The door opened wide and Richard was ushered into a spacious and well-appointed cabin. Sunlight streaming in from open stern windows reflected off the thick glass of the quarter-gallery windows of the dining alcove on the starboard side aft. In the center of the space was a gilt-edged, freshly polished mahogany desk resting on a lush Persian rug laid over the dark red deck, a color intended to mask the splatter of blood in battle. In front of the desk, their high wingbacks blocking much of Richard’s view, were twin chairs of impeccable taste, their yellow-floral-on-blue upholstery matched by the thin pad on the settee running athwartship in front of the stern windows. Oil paintings of ships and seascapes graced the walls between rows of books clutched in tight by what must have been specially designed bookshelves. Completing the décor was a curved-front ebony sideboard with gilt handles on the drawers. On its top, among other items, was a silver-sided tray holding cut-glass decanters of various wines and spirits.

  “Would you have me stay, sir?” the master-at-arms inquired.

  Horatio Nelson rose from the desk, shook his head. “Thank you, no, Mr. Turner. Please leave us. You may close the door on your way out.”

  After the door clicked shut, each man stood in silent contemplation of the other. They had not seen one another since 1774, twelve years ago, on the quays at Bridgetown when Richard was seeking the whereabouts of Nelson’s close friend and former shipmate, Hugh Hardcastle. At the time, Nelson was serving as a senior midshipman aboard HMS Seahorse in the Windward Squadron, his age just fifteen, a year older than Richard’s fourteen. His meteoric rise through the ranks had become the stuff of legend, and Richard was well aware that it was not just “interest” in Whitehall that had propelled Nelson from a midshipman at the age of twelve to a post captain at the age of twenty. One did not achieve such prominent rank in the Royal Navy at so tender an age unless his superiors saw in him something unusual.

  “Well, Mr. Cutler,” Nelson said. “It appears Fate has played her hand in our lives once again.”

  “It would seem so,” Richard replied cautiously. Nelson’s cheerful greeting had caught him off guard.

  Nelson motioned to the chairs in front of him. “Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. The sun is most definitely over the yardarm, so may I offer you a sherry? A spot of claret, perhaps?”

  “Thank you, no, Captain.” Richard did, however, accept the invitation to sit in one of the wingback chairs. He set his tricorne hat on the desk in front of him, then leaned back, crossing his right leg over his left, all the while returning Nelson’s steady gaze. To Richard’s surprise, given all he had read about the man’s illustrious career to date, Nelson hardly seemed the paragon of a British naval officer. He was a half-foot shorter than Richard and appeared to be somewhat fragile of frame, though it was difficult to discern what might lie beneath the gilded finery of a naval captain’s uniform. And finery it was, from the silk of his neck stock to the rich gold-edged and gold-embroidered indigo fabric of his dress jacket. His hair was a shade darker than Richard’s and closer cropped, though still sweeping down over his ears, and the eyes making their own careful analysis of the situation were as gray as the sea before a gathering storm. Despite yellow-tinged, almost sickly looking skin—the result, Richard knew, of several near-fatal bouts with malaria—he was nonetheless a distinguished-looking individual who seemed entirely at ease with his rank and destiny; and also with the span of silence that, for Richard, was fast becoming untenable.

  “Where should we begin?” the American asked.
<
br />   The question prompted Nelson back from wherever it was his thoughts had wandered. When he spoke, his tone was decidedly less cordial. “A good place to begin, I should think, is with an explanation. Tell me, pray, why you continue to smuggle cargo in and out of Barbados when you are perfectly aware that by doing so you are in violation of the Navigation Acts.”

  “With respect, Captain, I protest your accusation of smuggling.”

  Nelson’s dark eyes flashed. “Come, come, Mr. Cutler. Let us not play games. You know damned well that is what you are doing. How can you claim otherwise?”

  “I claim otherwise because Lavinia has British registry.”

  Nelson waved that away. “A tiresome ruse,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Really, Mr. Cutler, I had expected better of you. These days, a British registry can be purchased for a song, especially by a family like yours with connections in England. Besides, it no longer has legal standing. You are aware of the recent Order-in-Council?”

  “I’m sorry, but I am not,” Richard hedged.

  Nelson’s steady gaze told Richard that he was not at all convinced of the American’s claim of ignorance. “The decree states, sir,” Nelson said, in what was clearly a well-worn speech, “that American vessels are henceforth banned from trade in the West Indies. Shipments to and from these islands are reserved exclusively for British subjects sailing British-owned and British-built ships. That includes Canadians and Irishmen, but, alas, as a result of our recent squabbles, it most definitely does not include Americans. You are in clear violation of that decree, Mr. Cutler, even if I were to accept your registry claim, which I do not. Lavinia is American-built and American-manned. And because you are in violation, I have the legal right to impound your cargo.”

  “Does having the legal right,” Richard countered, “give you the moral right? Your Navigation Acts are opposed by many English citizens on these islands. Including, I am told, your superior officer in Barbados, Admiral Hughes.”

  To Richard’s surprise, Nelson actually smiled at that allegation. He leaned forward and beckoned Richard in toward him, looking every bit the school chum about to divulge a grand secret. “Admiral Hughes may be a decent sort,” he said, his voice low, conspiratorial, “but I fear he’s more a jack-pudding than a fighting admiral. You have no doubt heard of his latest escapade? Poor fellow actually poked his own eye out with a fork whilst chasing a cockroach across his quarterdeck. Now tell me: does this seem like a man whose opinions matter?”

  Richard was shocked to hear a Royal Navy officer openly disparage a superior; nonetheless, he could not restrain a smile of his own. He had indeed read about that unfortunate mishap, in a Boston newspaper. Try as the Admiralty might to suppress the story, it had leaked out from the forecastle of HMS Adamant to the Bridgetown Gazette. From there it was picked up by London’s Morning Post and Daily Advertiser and thus, inevitably, by most other English-language newspapers and magazines around the world.

  It took a moment for Richard to suppress the chuckle bubbling up within him. When he had composed himself, he said: “Nonetheless, it is an undisputed fact that your so-called Navigation Acts are strangling these islands. The governor of Antigua has called for their repeal. Governors and legislatures on other islands have joined him. Merchants everywhere are demanding redress. And they are not happy with the Royal Navy either. It is widely acknowledged, Captain, that you are at serious odds with most of Antiguan society. Of course,” he added, to drive home the point, “you must realize that. Which is why, I suspect, one hears that you seldom go ashore.”

  Nelson winced at that assertion. He clasped his hands together and lowered his head down close to them, as though a pilgrim sitting in supplication within his father’s parish in Burnham Thorpe. For several moments the only sound in the cabin was the ticking of a small pendulum clock set upon the sideboard. When Nelson did finally sit upright, he peered intently at Richard and spoke in a voice that was at once both weary and wary.

  “Mr. Cutler,” he said, “the reason I seldom go ashore is because there is very little here of interest to me. I find Antigua to be a vile and sickly place. I greatly prefer Nevis and Saint Christopher—or Saint Kitts as it is now called—but alas, I am not able to spend much time on either island these days. Even if I were, my strong preference would still be to serve my country elsewhere, on some other station. However, I need not remind you that duty is the great business of a sea officer, and in my experience it has never involved a popularity contest. I was sent here to the Leeward Islands Station because my superiors in Whitehall have faith in my abilities. It is to them, and to them alone, that I owe my allegiance. Be assured that I am prepared to grind whatever grist the mill requires to ensure I do not disappoint them.”

  With that said, both men realized that further discussion on the topic would serve no purpose.

  “Where, then, does that leave us?” Richard asked.

  “Where does that leave us,” Nelson intoned, repeating the words slowly, carefully articulating each as if pondering the significance of the question. His answer apparently determined, he folded his arms across his chest and said with conviction, “I do not know about you, Mr. Cutler, but where that leaves me is in a rather awkward position. It has always been my policy never to mix personal sentiments with the requirements of the service. But in this instance, for reasons I needn’t explain to you, I am prepared to do just that. You are free to leave Antigua and sail home to . . . Hingham, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nelson studied Richard a moment. Then: “You are free to leave Antigua with your cargo intact. But be forewarned,” he added in a voice suddenly laced with malice, “you will never again receive such favorable treatment from me. Henceforth, the Royal Navy will keep a close eye on you and your family. We have spies everywhere, including Barbados, and those spies will be monitoring your every move. The next time a Cutler vessel is found in violation of the Navigation Acts, I shall order its cargo and crew impounded, and the vessel seized as a prize. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Richard replied, his lips tight. High on his forehead, the scar from an old wound began to pulse.

  “Good. Then we understand each other.”

  “We do, Captain.” Richard made to rise. “Will that be all? If I am free to leave, I should like to sail with the ebb tide.”

  That observation rattled Nelson. “Yes . . . no,” he quickly corrected himself, and the hard set of his features dissolved as rapidly as sea mist at a summer sunrise. “A moment, if you please, Mr. Cutler,” he fumbled, glancing this way and that before being drawn, unavoidably, into Richard’s rigid stare. “I am compelled to ask . . . if I may . . . How is Katherine?”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “Good. I am pleased to hear it. You have a son, I understand?”

  “Two, actually.”

  “Two sons.” He half-whispered the words to himself, as if that fact had come as a profoundly sorrowful revelation to him. For a few moments he seemed far away. Then, as though emerging from a trance: “Well, I should think congratulations are in order. They are indeed fortunate young lads, to have such a mother.”

  “That, Captain, is one thing we can agree upon this afternoon.” Richard arose from the chair, taken aback to see the man who had just threatened his family, who indeed could command the respect of nations, so obviously in distress. “Good day to you, sir,” he managed civilly.

  “Mr. Cutler . . . Please . . . I have but one last request of you.” It was a plea that only a heart of granite could ignore. “I would be ever so much obliged if you would . . . see to . . . if you would send . . . dear Katherine . . . my warmest personal regards.”

  “I will do that, Captain,” Richard promised. “And I am certain Mrs. Cutler would want me to send hers to you.”

  With that, he bowed slightly, turned around, and walked across the after cabin to the door, closing it gently behind him as he stepped out onto the gun deck.

  Two

  Hingha
m, Massachusetts, September 1786

  FROM 1756, THE YEAR THOMAS and Elizabeth Cutler arrived in America, to the Coercive Acts of 1774 that effectively shut down the port of Boston for the duration of the war, Cutler & Sons had conducted its business from the modest facilities clustered at the end of Crow Point, near the entrance to Hingham Harbor. Costs there were properly aligned with the family’s proceeds from shipping. In addition, Crow Point was an easy walk from their home and had sufficient dock and warehouse space to accommodate the family’s small merchant fleet of two brigs, two brigantines, and a single topsail schooner.

  With the implementation of peace in 1783 and the rapid expansion of American maritime commerce, many Hingham shipping families, the Cutlers included, shifted their business to Boston. Serving the new markets opening up abroad required more ships, better docking facilities, and increased warehouse efficiency. Such amenities flourished in Boston, an hour’s sail away from Hingham assuming fair winds. So the Cutlers decided to make the move, maintaining a small office at Baker Yard in Hingham for their own convenience.

  For sailors long at sea, rounding up into the narrows of Boston Harbor was usually the most anticipated leg of the voyage, and for the seamen standing by Lavinia’s sheets and topsail brace, today was no exception. Little Brewster and seventy-five-foot-high Boston Light were fading fast astern. Off to larboard the triple mountains of Boston Neck—Pemberton Hill, Mount Vernon, and Beacon Hill—loomed close enough for the men on deck to distinguish individuals scurrying about Long Wharf, a half-mile strip of warehouses, chandlers, ropewalks, counting houses, sail lofts, and shipwrights’ offices jutting out into the harbor from the foot of King Street, recently renamed State Street. Above and off to the sides, a forest of church steeples—North Church, South Church, so many in between—pointed their white-glossed steeples skyward to the spiritual domain of God, as if to either seek or bestow His benediction upon the commercial domain of Man below. Ships and boats of various sizes, descriptions, and tonnage clogged the harbor, a few under sail, the majority moored to the wharf or to each other, their yards a-cockbill to avoid entanglement, their crews fully engaged in the serious business of loading or off-loading cargoes. Peering down from the gentle slopes of the tri-mountains, as though taking stock of the situation, a stately array of Federalist and Georgian mansions with steeply canted shingled rooftops and brick siding bore witness to just how rewarding such work could be for the owners of the merchant vessels.