For Love of Country

by William C. Hammond

  Piracy does have its benefits, Richard mused as he absorbed such majesty and opulence in a desert land that otherwise had little to enrich it.

  Shy of the main doors of the palace, within a courtyard rife with blossoming flowers and the heady scent of honeysuckle, Kercy called a halt to collect both his thoughts and his breath. “Vous êtes prêt, capitaine?” he asked. Then, remembering himself, “You are ready, Captain?”

  “I am,” Richard replied, with more conviction than he felt at that moment.

  “Bon. Alors, when we go inside, I will review with you the protocol of the court. We have”—he consulted his waistcoat watch—“vingt minutes—twenty minutes—before the audience with the dey. As I have told you, protocol of the court is not difficult. But it is very important. If you do not follow exactly the rules, you will insult the dey, and that, mon ami, you do not want to do. As for the rest,” he added with a smile and a slight shrug, “that is up to you.”

  “I understand,” Richard said.

  At 11:00 the door to the audience chamber opened and a goldenrobed court official summoned them deeper into the palace. Kercy led the way. At the doorway to the innermost region he paused between two towering, scimitar-wielding Turkish guards. Bowing more from the neck than the waist, he announced to the court, in French, the arrival of Richard Cutler from the United States of America in the company of his aide-de-camp, Peter Chatfield. With an imperious movement, Kercy turned to his right and held out his arm toward Richard, as a circus barker might do when introducing the next act.

  It was Richard’s cue to enter, and he did so stiffly, replicating the consul’s bow as best he could while his eyes flicked about the chamber. He saw five men in what was, surprisingly, a sparsely furnished sanctuary. Four of them stood, ranged on either side of a fifth man who was seated in a substantial though largely unadorned wooden chair with a high back that seemed, to Richard, hardly the seat of royalty. The proportions of the man in relation to his throne created an incongruous image. Although dressed in ornate turban and rich silk robes, Mohammed bin Osman was scrawny and of insignificant height, while his heavy wooden throne was tall and gracefully curved. He might have been mistaken for a child were it not for his thick black eyebrows and chest-length black beard, which was tied off in a number of tight, separate strands embellished with tiny beads of various colors. To allow his feet to touch an ornately decorated stool set on the marble floor, he had to sit slightly forward with his elbows on the armrests, giving the impression that if he were ever to lose his temper he would spring forward from his seat of power to personally smite the offender. From somewhere within the vast chamber—Richard could not determine where—came the soft, wistful melodies of an oud.

  “Welcome to my palace, Monsieur de Kercy,” the dey said in English to the French consul. “It is a pleasure, as always. Please make the introductions.”

  Kercy walked halfway from the doorway to the throne and stopped. He bowed to the dey, just as he had before, then turned and gestured to Richard to join him.

  After Richard had performed his requisite bow, careful to keep his arms straight down at his sides, Kercy first introduced the dey of Algiers, whose dark, deep-set eyes fastened on the tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed Anglo-Saxon standing before him. To his right was a man identified by Kercy as the khaznaji, the royal treasurer. Beside him stood the vekil kharj, the quartermaster of the Gate of Jihad, who served his master as foreign minister. On the other side of the throne, to Richard’s surprise, stood a broad-shouldered man dressed not in the silk cloak and cassock of the two ministers but rather in white-pleated canvas breeches, a halfbuttoned-up garment that was more a vest than a shirt, and red Turkish shoes. On his head was a pleated, off-white turban, and at his waist he carried a Damascene knife and scimitar held in place by an elaborately woven silk cuzaca. He was introduced as a rais, a sea captain.

  It was the fifth man present, however, whom Richard found the most intriguing in this fortress of Islam. He was bearded and dressed in a white shirt covered by a black cassock that descended to his knees. On his feet he wore slippers with heels, as Kercy had explained all Jews living in Algiers were required to do, and a black headdress that fell like a half-sleeve to the nape of his neck. He held papers in his hand and was stationed next to a plain wooden desk replete with other papers and writing implements.

  With the introductions and formalities over, Dey Baba Mohammed bin Osman wasted no time getting down to business. His hooded ebony eyes flashed at Richard, but he spoke softly. “Welcome to Algiers, Captain Cutler. Do I understand correctly that you come as an emissary of your government?”

  “You do, Your Excellency.”

  The dey’s thin smile revealed his pleasure with that salutation. “And you have come to Algiers to negotiate the release of American prisoners of war?”

  Jeremy was right, Richard mused. This man is slippery as an eel and speaks near perfect English. And he speaks in lies. Aloud he said: “I have come to Algiers to secure the release of twenty American seamen and their captain, yes. But I have not come to negotiate their release. That has already been done, Your Excellency. You yourself set the price of ransom two years ago, and you announced that price publicly.”

  “So you say. What is your understanding of the price?”

  Richard withdrew a piece of paper from his coat pocket and read a figure he could have recited in his sleep. “Fifty-nine thousand four hundred and ninety-six American dollars.” He looked up. “To be delivered to your khaznaji in gold and silver ingots and pieces of eight.”

  “You have brought this amount with you?”

  “I have, Your Excellency.”

  “As described?”

  “As described, Your Excellency.”

  “And is that the entire sum you bring?”

  “I have brought a little more, Your Excellency, in the event you are holding other American sailors whom I might ransom at the same price.”

  “I see.” Bin Osman motioned his khaznaji and vekil kharj to his side. As they huddled together speaking in a tongue he did not understand, Richard glanced askance at Kercy. The Frenchman stared rigidly ahead.

  When the whispered conference broke up, the dey’s voice hewed a sharper edge. “Mr. Cutler, you are a representative of your government? Yes or no.”

  Richard did not immediately respond because he did not understand why the question had been repeated. “I carry American papers, yes, Your Excellency,” he hedged. “But I do not have an official rank. I am here in Algiers as a private citizen. I intend to pay the ransom you have specified from my family’s accounts.”

  “Am I to understand, then, that you have the same lack of authority as did Mr. Lamb, your government’s previous emissary?”

  Richard was uncertain where this line of questioning was leading. A sudden surge of dread overwashed the anxiety that had already bound his stomach into a knot. “I have come to Algiers,” he repeated, “to pay the ransoms required to free American seamen you have detained here.”

  This time bin Osman summoned Kercy to his side. Richard watched the consul walk formally toward the throne. He bowed low before the dey, his hands at his sides, and remained in that position as he and bin Osman conversed quietly in French. Richard strained to hear. He could not hear much, but what he could make out suggested that the dey was not entirely pleased with what he had heard so far, and that at least one source of his displeasure was the French consul. Their discussion concluded, Kercy walked slowly backward to his place beside Richard without ever removing his eyes from bin Osman.

  The dey stoked his beard, looked at Richard. “Captain Cutler,” he said, “I must insist that you stop speaking to me in riddles. You either are or you are not a formal emissary of your government. I was informed that you are, which is why I agreed to receive you today, to discuss the terms of release of American prisoners of war. However, as surely you are well aware, we can accomplish nothing before we negotiate a treaty of peace between our two nations. No release of priso
ners can take place before such a treaty is signed and an appropriate tribute paid. The question I again put before you is therefore very simple: Are you or are you not prepared to negotiate such a treaty?”

  No one had advised Richard of the need for such a treaty. Nor had he spoken in riddles. He had spoken the truth, a truth of which bin Osman had been made formally aware months ago. He felt himself being drawn into a trap. If he replied to the dey in the affirmative, the money he had brought with him might have to be used, in its entirety, for a purpose he was unprepared, unqualified, and unauthorized to perform. Even if peace treaty negotiations did prove successful, it seemed all but certain that Caleb and his shipmates would not be released until additional funds were paid. If he answered in the negative, however, the dey might consider his presence in Algiers of no value to him, and all would be lost.

  He fought to keep his nerves under control. He needed time to think, to weigh the ramifications more carefully. But time was a luxury he did not have. Not so much as a minute. He looked straight at the dey. “Be assured, Your Excellency,” he said in a level voice, “that I do serve as an emissary of my government. Should you desire confirmation of my status, my aide-de-camp carries my papers with him.”

  “That will not be necessary, Captain Cutler.”

  “Then, may I ask Your Excellency to state your terms?”

  Bin Osman deferred that question to the vekil kharj, who read from an official-looking document handed him by the Jew: “As to terms of peace between Algiers and the United States of America,” the minister formally announced, “His Majesty Mohammed bin Osman requires a sum of four million Algerian muzunas—in value, one hundred thousand American dollars—that will—”

  “I don’t have that amount,” Richard blurted out, his face darkening. Kercy shot him a warning glance. Protocol forbade interruptions.

  The foreign minister pursed his lips, continued in a ceremonial tone: “... that will guarantee peace between our nations for a period of five years. During that time your ships are free to trade anywhere in the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean without interference from Algiers. There remains the matter of annual tributes. His Majesty in his infinite mercy agrees to settle that matter at a later date. His Majesty declares that with this treaty in place, American prisoners of war in Algiers may be released upon payment of the ransom specified. It is Allah’s wish, praise His holy name.”

  As the Muslims in the chamber repeated those last four words, Richard set his gaze on Kercy. He willed the French consul to look at him, talk to him, counsel him. When Kercy remained stoic, eyes forward, Richard swung his gaze back to bin Osman.

  “Your Excellency,” he said evenly, forcing himself to bow low in consular fashion, “there is an apparent misunderstanding that I am confident we, as men of goodwill, can resolve. As I have stated to this court, I am an emissary authorized by the government of the United States to pay the ransom to free its citizens. I am not authorized, however, to negotiate a peace treaty with Algiers. I did not bring the requisite tribute. I have only enough funds with me to ransom the Americans you are holding.”

  Bin Osman gave another of his thin smiles. “Ah, but you can secure whatever funds you need, can you not, Mr. Cutler? You travel from here to Paris, no? To meet with Captain John Paul Jones? We are informed he is coming soon to Barbary to negotiate treaties with the four states. That being so, may we assume that he has—or will have—the requisite tribute? To ensure that such treaties are signed? Surely a nation as rich as yours should find this a trifling matter.”

  That last remark would have made Richard laugh were any of this a laughing matter. But it was something else the dey had just said that shocked Richard to his core. Who had informed bin Osman of his pending audience with Captain Jones? That mission was a state secret, or so he had presumed. Richard had told no one about it outside of his family. Nor had Alexander Hamilton informed anyone, so Richard had been assured, other than the French foreign minister, who had to be informed when Hamilton requested access to the French medical facilities in Toulon. Vergennes was a longtime friend of the United States, the one reliable ally America had in the French court in addition to the marquis de Lafayette. Who might Vergennes, in turn, have informed of this mission?

  Richard’s eyes again flew to Kercy and then back to the dey. “Your Excellency,” he said, straining to reverse the setback, “you speak the truth. I am to see Captain Jones in Paris. He, not I, is the emissary authorized to negotiate treaties of peace on behalf of the United States. I would be honored to convey to him the terms for peace you have proposed between our two nations. As for today, may I request that Your Eminence demonstrate your generosity and goodwill by releasing into my custody the Americans you hold here, at the price you have specified. I assure you that Captain Jones will consider these factors most favorably when he negotiates the terms of peace. By granting this request, you will be serving both your cause and the glory of Allah.”

  Again the thin smile. “You speak like a diplomat, Mr. Cutler,” the dey said, in a tone that did not necessarily convey a compliment. “I believe your government makes a grievous error in sending Captain Jones to me instead of you. Yesterday, I might have considered your request. Today, alas, I cannot. One of your highest-placed diplomats has recently informed this court that America no longer wishes to negotiate the release of any of its citizens at any price, or to pay tributes of any kind. So if I release the prisoners I hold, I have lost . . . how do you Americans say . . . my bargaining chips. Nor would that be the end of the matter. Other nations might follow suit. There would be no further payments. You are a man of business, are you not, Mr. Cutler? Surely you can appreciate why my agreement to your request would be very bad business. My superiors would not be pleased. Allah would not be pleased.”

  Richard was stunned by the dey’s words. “Who is the American diplomat you refer to?” he dared ask.

  “Your consul in Paris,” bin Osman informed him, “Mr. Thomas Jefferson. You know of him, I must presume, since I am advised that you will be visiting him when you are in France.”

  Advised by whom? Everything was happening too quickly. Yes, Richard did know of Thomas Jefferson, and yes, he had been ordered to report to him when in Paris. Jefferson was widely rumored to be George Washington’s choice for secretary of state once the new republic was established and Washington had been elected president. Richard was aware that Jefferson opposed paying tribute to any country sponsoring piracy or terror—for the very reasons advanced by Stephen Starbuck during the family conference in Hingham—but would Jefferson so deliberately and publicly knife Richard in the back while at the same time sabotaging the mission of Captain Jones to North Africa? It was unthinkable. It made no earthly sense. But would the dey make such a claim were it a total fabrication?

  “I find that hard to accept,” was all Richard could say, and he said it without much conviction.

  The dey nodded at Kercy.

  “It is true, monsieur,” the consul confirmed. His voice was low, melancholy, as though Jefferson’s statements on tribute had sucked the wind out of his sails as well. “I will show you his letter. It came to His Majesty the dey from my ministry in Paris a week ago.”

  Richard felt despair overriding his anger and frustration. He forced himself to concentrate on the few cards he held—cards that, despite all, might yet provide a wedge inside the prison door.

  “Captain Cutler?” the dey prompted him.

  “Excellency?” The word came out softly, with no strength to it. Richard was beginning to accept the unacceptable: that his mission to Algiers had failed as assuredly and miserably as that of his predecessor.

  Bin Osman sat back in his throne, a motion that lifted his feet off the stool and made him look, for an instant, like a bearded gnome sitting in a highchair. Yet not a flicker of amusement danced in Richard’s eyes as he returned the dey’s dark stare.

  “Captain Cutler,” bin Osman said in the conciliatory tones a father might use when offerin
g parental advice to a child after first chastising him, “I can see you are an honorable man. I admire that. We hold your brother and you are doing what you can to have him released. I admire that as well. I too have a brother. If our roles were reversed, I would do as you are doing.

  “I am therefore prepared, out of respect for you and to show the mercy and love of Allah, to make a certain . . . how shall we say . . . accommodation. We understand, you and I, why I am unable to release all of the American prisoners at this time. However, for the value of two hundred thousand muzunas—five thousand of your American dollars—I will release your brother to you. He is a fine young man. I see pride and accomplishment in him. Perhaps you are aware that I once offered him a position as a servant in my residence. I meant it as a high honor, though he was delighted to refuse.” Bin Osman chuckled at his turn of phrase. “So you see, Captain Cutler, for his sake and for yours, I am willing to bend the rules, as you Americans like to say. You may take your brother to Paris with you, if you wish.”

  Five thousand dollars, Richard realized, was twice the amount a sea captain fetched in the ransom market, and three to four times the price for a common sailor. This was extortion on a grand scale. However tempting the lure thrown out to him, Richard forced himself to ignore the bait. He at once understood what message his acceptance of the dey’s offer would convey to the rest of the world about Americans’ values and the sanctity of the freedom for which they had shed so much blood. The fledgling United States would be seen as something Richard fervently believed it was not: another platform for duplicity and treachery on the world stage, its citizens as subject as the citizens of other nations to the deceit and betrayal of those in positions of power and influence. Of more immediate concern, what message would his ransoming Caleb send to the rest of Eagle’s crew, all of whom were relying on Cutler & Sons for their well-being and the well-being of their families back home? Richard could well imagine their reaction to watching Caleb sail off to freedom while they remained abandoned to their fate in Algiers.