“Well, my lord,” she said in her lilting English accent, “now that Will seems to have snuggled down, I suggest we do something about those wicked fantasies of yours. But first, isn’t there something you want to tell me?”
“Tell you? About what?”
“About your voyage to the Indies.”
“Oh? I thought I had already told you what there is to tell. What specifically are you referring to?”
“I am referring specifically to your stopover in Antigua and your audience there with Horatio.”
Richard frowned. “Who told you about that?”
“Geoffrey Bryant. I met him this afternoon on my way to town. He didn’t tell me much, especially when he realized that you hadn’t told me anything. I doubt he’d have much to say in any event, since apparently he never left Lavinia. Only you did, I believe. So might I ask my husband to fill in the gaps? It’s a matter of some importance to me.”
Her tone was sweet, but it conveyed the firm message that a matter of such significance would not could not be swept under the carpet. Better to lay it out in the open, say what needed to be said, and clear the air. He understood; it was an unwritten rule of theirs. But the simple truth was that he could not explain to Katherine why he hadn’t told her about his meeting with Horatio Nelson. Which is what he told her.
“Then, can you tell me, is he well?”
“Yes, I’d say he is. He didn’t look all that blithe and bonny, as you like to say, but then you know about his bouts with malaria. He looks well enough. And he certainly had no trouble threatening our family and our livelihood. He sends his warmest regards to you, by the way.”
“Good. I trust you gave him mine?”
“I did.”
“Thank you, Richard.”
There was a marked pause in the conversation as Richard ran his forefinger up and down the narrow stem of his wine glass. He knew from experience that Katherine would say nothing further on the subject. It was his move in that intriguing game married couples play with each other, the rules of one match decided by the outcome of previous ones, just as, on a grander scale, legal precedent is established by past rulings in a court of law.
“Have you ever wondered,” he asked at length, his gaze flickering back and forth between her and the half-filled glass he now held at arm’s length, “how your life might have been different had you married Captain Nelson? Surely you must have. I may not always see eye to eye with the man, but I cannot deny he’s a decent sort with a bright future. You said so yourself that day you gave me Gibbon’s book. Do you remember that day in Fareham?” He was referring to the second volume of The History of the Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire that Katherine had given him as a Christmas present in ’78 at his uncle’s home in England. It rested today on a bookshelf in the parlor, the letter he had written his parents from France, delivered to Hingham by John Adams, still folded within its pages.
“Of course I remember.”
He twirled the stem of the glass between thumb and forefinger. “Well, have you ever wondered? I wouldn’t blame you if you have. Think on it: the status, the admiration and glory, the jewels and fine clothes and mansions, perhaps a title someday.” He held out his arms expansively. “Does this compare with that? Do I?”
She studied his face from across the table. When too many moments of awkward silence had ticked by, she asked, in tones edging on incredulity, “Are those serious questions?”
His eyes remained locked on hers. “Yes, I suppose they are.”
“Well, my lord, if that is the case . . .”
Katherine dabbed at her lips with a napkin and scraped back her chair. Rising, she walked around the table and offered him her hand. “Richard, will you come with me?”
“Of course.” He stood up, took her hand in his. “Where are we going?”
“Upstairs. To our bedroom. In the morning, you may ask me if I have answered your questions to your satisfaction.”
RICHARD AWOKE the next morning to splatters of sunlight dancing across his face and the rhythmic call of a mourning dove on station near the open window of their bedroom. Dreamily he turned on his side and reached out to draw her in close, for despite their repeated and ever more creative efforts to quench the fires of night, he was, incredibly, primed for her again, the embers of dawn not yet extinguished. She was not there, though the rumpled space next to him preserved the scent of her body. He breathed in that scent and opened his eyes. The angle of the sun told him that it was still fairly early, between 8:00 and 8:30. From downstairs he could hear muffled sounds. The boys were up; therefore Katherine would be up. Sighing audibly, Richard tossed the coverlet aside. “You’d make one pathetic mother,” he chided himself just as another, more pleasurable thought crossed his mind. As difficult as it was for him to be away at sea for extended periods, the lifestyle he had chosen did have its benefits. Last night had been one of them.
At the table by the dresser he poured a half-pitcher of water into a pewter basin and splashed it onto his face. He rubbed his chin and jaw, testing for growth. The previous evening he had shaved in anticipation of the night ahead, and he decided this morning he could delay shaving again. He dried his face with a towel, then slipped on an informal ensemble and padded barefoot down the narrow back stairs leading into the kitchen.
The familiar scene before him brought him squarely back into the center of his family. Jamie sat perched in his customary place, buckled in atop a thick slab of wood that brought his tiny waist level with the heavy oaken kitchen table. His breakfast was everywhere in evidence: porridge was smeared on his mouth and chipmunk-like cheeks, on his shirt, on the table, and a very small amount in its bowl. Will had already finished his portion and was playing on the floor amidst two armies of tin soldiers, those painted in red, as usual, having the worst of it from those painted in blue.
“Good morning,” Katherine greeted him. “Would you like some tea? The water’s hot.”
“Thanks, I would.” He sat down across from Jamie and made a funny face that ignited a fit of high-pitched squeals. Bits of porridge flew into the air and added to the mess on the chair, table, and floor.
Katherine placed a steaming cup on the table next to a bowl of sugar brought from Barbados in Lavinia. Richard gave her hand a quick squeeze, exchanging with her that brief but meaningful glance that lovers give each other after a particularly satisfying encounter.
“You slept well?”
“Never better,” he smiled.
Katherine kissed the top of his head before directing her attention to the unholy mess that was Jamie. Richard looked down at his older son.
“Who’s the unlucky general today, Will?”
“Cornwallis.” Will flicked his fingernail, and the hapless Peer of the Realm flipped over on his side. The battle was over, though Will ignored his father’s acclamation, on purpose it seemed to Richard.
“Why the long face?” he asked.
Will glanced up at him, resentment written on his boyish features. “When will you be leaving us again, Father?”
Richard’s grin vanished. “What do you mean, Will? Why do you ask? Do you want me to leave?”
“No!” his son cried out. “I don’t ever want you to leave, Father. But you always do! Why? Don’t you like being home with us?”
Richard felt a lump form in his throat. Will’s questions may have been unexpected, but they were not out of character. Challenging the status quo was his standard approach to life, a trait that apparently he had inherited from his namesake. Whether this inbred tendency boded well or ill for the future, his mother and father could only speculate.
“Come over here, Will.”
Will shuffled over and sat on the floor before his father. He wrapped his arms around his knees and gazed up inquisitively.
Richard clasped his son on the shoulder and looked him in the eye. When he spoke, it was in that ageless tone of a parent imparting a life’s lesson to a child. “Will, you ask me why I leave, why I have to go away so
often. When I do, it makes you sad. Sometimes it makes you mad. Yes?”
Will nodded.
Richard nodded back. “Even when my leaving makes you mad, you miss me while I’m gone, don’t you?”
Will said nothing.
“I miss you, too,” Richard went on, “and your brother and your mother. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”
Again Will did not answer.
Richard searched about the room, feeling the eyes of his family upon him until he settled on an example. “Will, do you see your toy soldiers on the floor over there?”
“Yes.”
“And you liked the sugar you had with your breakfast? And the kite and hoop you play with outside, and your new fishing pole?”
“Yes.”
“And unless I’m mistaken, you still hope to have a boat someday to row out in the bay to catch flounder and pollock?”
His son nodded
“Will, think on it: if I stayed home and didn’t do my work, I wouldn’t make the money I need to buy these things for you. You wouldn’t have any of them. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
Will hugged his knees and rested his chin between them. He rocked back and forth on his tailbone as tiny furrows of concentration sprouted on his forehead. Then he nodded, his mind having drawn a conclusion. “It’s alright, Father,” he said. “You can go do your work now.”
He had not meant it as a joke and was surprised and annoyed when both of his parents broke into laughter. But then he started to point and giggle at Jamie, who was kicking his legs and waving his arms in the air, in response either to his parents’ laughter or to the sudden loud knock on the front door.
Katherine wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll go and see who it is,” she said. She was shaking her head and smiling as she walked out of the kitchen. When she came back in, her expression had changed dramatically. “Richard, it’s your father.” She said nothing else. She didn’t need to.
Richard was up at once and making for the parlor at the front of the house. Katherine unbuckled Jamie from his chair and set him down next to Will. With a strict warning to them both to stay put and play quietly, she hurried after Richard.
They found the family patriarch staring into the empty stone hearth. When he turned to face them, the shock to Richard was immediate. His father was not a man who gave way to his emotions lightly. As a boy, Richard had admired his father’s physical and emotional courage, and his seemingly unfathomable well of knowledge. Others in Hingham felt the same way, and his voice of reason and calm had carried far beyond the borders of the village when the drums of revolution began threatening the colony. Thomas Cutler was at heart a Tory, loyal to king and Parliament, and he had urged the town elders to stand firm and not dispatch the local militia to join General Washington’s army encamped on Dorchester Heights. Not everybody in town was convinced of the purity of his motives, however. Some claimed that he was simply trying to salvage his family’s shipping business, pointing as proof to the business relationship he enjoyed with his brother William in England. Richard knew the truth. As Captain Jones had once told him, his father belonged to that rare breed of men who act on principle, not self-interest, and Richard had observed for himself on too many occasions how society tends to revile such individuals. He was convinced the truth would come out, and it did—the day contrite British authorities in Boston brought the body of his eldest son home to him. The moment Thomas Cutler gazed down upon that brutalized pulp of flesh he switched allegiance without looking back, going so far as to offer General Washington two of his best merchant brigs for conversion to privateers. At the same time, he had commended his second son, Richard, to the military ambitions of John Paul Jones.
To Richard, as he approached his father in the parlor, Thomas Cutler appeared very much the way he had that horrible day of memory twelve years ago when he had knelt down beside Will’s defiled corpse. He was not an old man. He was only forty-nine. But today he looked as though the last vestiges of his youth had abandoned him.
“What is it, Father?” he asked warily.
Thomas Cutler bowed his head. “Good morning, Richard. I must apologize for disturbing you and your family at so early an hour. I’m afraid I am the bearer of very bad news.”
“Mother . . . ?” was Richard’s first reaction, for Elizabeth Cutler had been suffering ill health in recent months.
“No, it’s not your mother. It’s . . . this.” He offered his son the letter he held in his hand. “A post rider delivered it a short while ago.”
Richard unfolded the letter. His eyes swept first to the name at the bottom, signed in the bold script of the U.S. minister to Great Britain. He scanned the text, then read the letter again, this time more slowly.
Katherine asked, “What is it, Richard? Please God, tell me.” The pain scrawled in jagged lines upon his face frightened her.
“It’s from Mr. Adams,” he answered, though he spoke more to himself than to his wife, his eyes continuing to glare down at the letter. “Mr. John Adams.”
“Yes, I am well acquainted with Mr. Adams. And?”
He looked at her. “Eagle has been seized by Barbary pirates. She’s been taken to Algiers. Everyone aboard is a prisoner.”
Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh dear Lord no! Caleb!”
“Yes. Caleb. And Captain Dickerson and every member of the crew, all of them men in our employ.”
For long, agonizing moments the three Cutlers stood mute, as though frozen in time and place by this horrific turn of events. It was Katherine who came to herself first.
“Please, Pappy, sit down. May I bring you some tea?”
“Yes, thank you, my dear.”
As his daughter-in-law left for the kitchen, Thomas Cutler sank onto the soft cushion of an armchair and gazed up at his son with vacant eyes. “What are we to do, Richard? What are we to do?”
Richard could not recall his father ever appealing for his counsel on a matter of such import without first advancing an opinion of his own.
“I don’t know, Father,” he replied, his mind at a loss for words that might encourage or console. He refolded the letter and placed it carefully under a paperweight on top of the desk. “I don’t know.”
Three
Hingham, Massachusetts, September 1786–May 1787
WILLIAM CUTLER AND HIS daughter did not sail to Boston in September. A month prior to their scheduled departure, Cynthia Cutler, his son John’s wife, collapsed under an onslaught of severe abdominal pain. Physicians summoned to the Cutler mansion in Fareham arrived too late to save the baby, so they concentrated their efforts on saving the life of a woman savaged by pain, anguish, and massive loss of blood. She had survived, barely, William informed his brother Thomas in a letter sent to Hingham, but clearly he and Lizzy could not leave England at this time; nor would they hazard a winter crossing. Expect them sometime in early spring, he wrote, concluding with his most devout prayer that God in His infinite mercy would watch over the Cutler family in its time of suffering.
“Amen,” Elizabeth Cutler said after her husband finished reading the letter aloud in their parlor on Main Street. She pulled a woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders. Richard wondered why. Her health had improved over the summer. Was her pain more emotional than physical? Local physicians had no definitive answers.
Anne Cutler’s face darkened. “That settles it,” she said. “Frederick and I are postponing our wedding. I want Uncle William and Lizzy to be here for it, and they’ll be here in the spring. We can be married then. Frederick will understand. With so much going wrong for our family, how can I go through with a wedding now?”
“You mustn’t postpone it, Anne,” her father insisted. “For your sake and for Frederick’s, and . . .” his eyes shifted meaningfully from Anne to her mother and then back to Anne, “everyone else’s. Please reconsider. You and Frederick have waited long enough. Be married and be happy. Your joy is our joy.”
She studied her fathe
r’s face for a moment, then bobbed her head.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Richard spoke into the ensuing silence. “It’s not all bad news, Anne. We’ve heard from Mr. Hamilton,” referring to Alexander Hamilton, a man wielding considerable influence in the halls of power in Congress. During the Battle of Yorktown, Colonel Hamilton had led an assault on a key British redoubt and had credited Lieutenant Richard Cutler with saving his life just as the tide turned—for good—in favor of the Continentals. They had remained in contact ever since. “It seems that Congress is finally ready to do something. A Mr. Barkley has been dispatched to Morocco and a Mr. Lamb to Algiers. From what Mr. Hamilton tells us, their orders are to establish peace treaties with the Barbary States and negotiate the release of American prisoners held there.”
It had come as a severe shock to the U.S. government when, a year earlier, the dey of Algiers had abruptly declared war on the United States. Up to that point, America’s commercial and diplomatic dealings with the Arab world had been negligible. Many representatives in Congress could not find the Barbary Coast on a map. Like most Americans, what little they knew about North Africa they had gleaned from reading Robinson Crusoe or the writings of Miguel de Cervantes. There were aware, of course, that back in ’85 the American merchantmen Dauphin and Maria had been seized by Algerine corsairs and their crews taken to the port of Algiers, where they still remained. These and other incidents involving unlawful seizures of American vessels in the Mediterranean and Atlantic had received considerable press and had done much to stir up a small but growing segment of the population who were outraged over the impotency of their government to act effectively at home or abroad.
For Love of Country Page 4