For Love of Country

by William C. Hammond

Richard was struck by what Jefferson had just said. “You are offering me lodging, sir? Here, in your home?”

  “By all means, Mr. Cutler. My home, as you refer to it, serves as the American consulate in Paris. You are an American, are you not? On a mission for our country? Then of course you are most welcome to stay here. Had you alternative lodgings in mind?”

  Richard hesitated. It was an obvious question, but he lacked an obvious answer because the person he had hoped to stay with had not replied to his messages. “I had thought perhaps with Captain Jones,” he said.

  “Yes, I see. That would be a possibility were Captain Jones in sufficient health to receive you in that capacity. I am sorry to report that he is not. Do not be overly concerned; he is most anxious to see you. But the poor man has not been well recently. I believe it is nothing serious, but since he refuses to see a doctor, one cannot be certain.” Jefferson sent the footman upstairs with Richard’s bag and satchel and motioned to Richard to follow him down the hall. “Perhaps you will understand better after you see him. Tomorrow morning, perhaps?”

  “I had hoped to visit him today,” Richard said frankly.

  “That I cannot permit, Mr. Cutler,” Jefferson said with equal frankness. “It is a long walk across the river to his lodging, and it would be dark before you could return. Surely you have seen for yourself that the streets of Paris are not safe during the daytime, let alone at night. Allow me to send a messenger to him announcing your visit in the morning. Shall we say ten o’clock?”

  Richard nodded his assent and allowed himself to be led into a room that apparently served as Jefferson’s study. Three of the four walls were lined with books, many with gold-blocked spines, and most appearing in mint condition, either recently published or, if not, long in the care of a bibliophile. Brightly colored oil paintings of wildflowers and rural landscapes graced the walls above the shelves. On the right was a desk holding an inkwell, quills, and neatly stacked papers. In the center of the room was a round table with four chairs drawn up to it. On one of them sat a man with many of Jefferson’s physical attributes, except that he wore a peg leg attached by leather straps to his thigh and knee. Despite this infirmity, he rose with surprising agility when Richard entered the room.

  “Mr. Morris,” Jefferson said, “allow me to introduce Richard Cutler, from Boston. You may recall my mentioning his recent voyage to Algiers. He has come from there to share information with Captain Jones, who, as you know, is our president’s choice to lead a delegation to the Barbary States. Mr. Cutler, this gentleman is Mr. Gouverneur Morris. He is our commercial attaché here in Paris, an office I held when I first came to France in ’84. He will continue in that position after I have returned to Philadelphia to serve as President Washington’s secretary of state.”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Jefferson,” Richard said. “I had heard rumors to that effect, and I am pleased to learn they are true. And I am honored to meet you, Mr. Morris,” he added, bowing courteously to the richly attired man. “Your reputation precedes you. As you may know, my family is engaged in the carrying trade. We appreciate what you have done to promote American commerce overseas.”

  “That is generous of you, Mr. Cutler,” Morris said, retaking his seat, “most generous indeed. And you are most welcome. You clearly understand that I best serve my country by serving your family’s interests. I have long maintained that commerce holds the key to our prosperity as a young nation.”

  “I could not agree more, sir,” Richard countered, “especially if our young nation is prepared to invest in a navy to protect our commerce.”

  “Here, here,” Jefferson said, clapping his hands. “It seems we three are of equal mind on that score. You may be assured, Mr. Cutler, that I will be advancing that position once I hold office. Now then, please be seated. May I offer you a cup of chocolate?”

  “I’d prefer tea if it’s no trouble.”

  “No trouble whatsoever.”

  Jefferson made a small gesture to the liveried servant, who bowed and departed. He returned a few minutes later with a silver tray on which was set an elegant silver pot with three tiny legs at its base and a straight wooden handle opposite its spout. The servant poured tea into a porcelain cup and placed little bowls of cream and sugar nearby. He then bowed and took his leave, gently closing the door behind him.

  “I must say, Mr. Jefferson,” Richard commented after he had sampled the tea, “the atmosphere in here is very different from what it is outside. Did you happen to witness the recent riots?”

  “No, I did not. Mr. Morris was with me that day, and we thought it wise not to venture out. This uprising is a nasty business, Mr. Cutler. God alone knows how, where, and when it will end. I have lived in Paris for five years now, and during those years I have grown to love this city. I cannot tell you how deeply it saddens me to watch it disintegrate at the hands of a mob.”

  “I met General Lafayette on my way into Paris,” Richard informed him. “He told me that many people in the third estate are hoping to establish a new form of government much like our own.”

  “Yes, I have often heard that said. The general may also have told you that I have been invited on several occasions to express my opinions on a new manifesto. It’s called the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, and it was introduced to the National Constituent Assembly by Lafayette. This manifesto is fashioned after our own Bill of Rights, so I suppose we should be flattered. But there is one thing that people tend to overlook in contemplating an American basis for a new government in France. We Americans fought the British. The French are fighting themselves. It’s a critical distinction.”

  Richard understood that distinction, but to him it did not seem so critical. Before the revolution that carved America out of the British Empire, the vast majority of Americans were, after all, British. To his mind, the American Revolution was just as much a civil war as the looming French Revolution would be, and just as much a war fought for principles and ideas rather than for territory and commercial advantage.

  “Personally, I agree with Mr. Jefferson,” Morris cut in, warming to the subject, “though perhaps I would take what he said a step further. To be frank, I do not believe that the French can duplicate our republican form of government. And they have no business overthrowing their king. I favor what Lafayette favors, a constitutional monarchy based on the British model.”

  Richard nodded, then shifted the topic of conversation toward the subject uppermost on his mind. “Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Morris,” he said, “please do not think me rude. You have been most kind in receiving me today. But since I have little time in Paris, I must be blunt. In Algiers, I was unable to ransom my brother and other Americans held there. There were a number of reasons for that, most of them, perhaps, outside anyone’s control. But I was informed there, by the dey himself when I was brought before him in the royal palace, that you, Mr. Jefferson, have let it be known that the United States henceforth will not pay ransoms to Algiers or any of the Barbary States, or treat with them under any circumstances. Is that truly your position, sir? And will that be your position as secretary of state? If so, there can be no dialogue with these people. Captain Jones will have failed in his mission before he leaves Paris. I mean no disrespect in asking such questions. But it is imperative to me, as I am sure it is to Captain Jones, that our government’s position be clarified. My brother’s life is at stake, as are the lives of many American sailors.”

  Jefferson frowned. He placed his cup of chocolate delicately back on its matching saucer as Morris said: “It appears, Mr. Cutler, that you have no difficulty coming straight to the point.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but I have no choice. I am meeting with Captain Jones tomorrow and I will be leaving Paris the following day. I have no time for diplomacy or genteel discourse.”

  Jefferson uttered a sharp laugh. “Time for diplomacy, Mr. Cutler? I believe what you mean to say is, there is no opportunity for diplomacy in this topsy-turvy world, here or anywhere else. But n
o matter. I can see that you are disappointed with me and I understand why.” Richard drew a breath to temper the word “disappointed,” but was waved off. “I admit I may have made an error in diplomacy,” Jefferson continued, “but I stand by my position. I had hoped, in saying what I did, that the Barbary States would do exactly what you want them to do: stop seizing our ships and imprisoning our sailors. If they were convinced that our government would not parlay with theirs and would pay no ransoms under any circumstances, then what would be the advantage of taking hostages, especially if other nations were to follow our lead? Representatives of several other nations have assured me they will, if we have the courage to use this weapon. France and England have declined, which should come as no surprise. France is distracted by internal issues at the moment, and England is quite content to let the Arabs continue to wash their dirty linen for them.”

  “By ‘dirty linen’ I assume you mean attacking our commerce to destroy competition,” Richard said, echoing the words of Captain Dickerson in Algiers.

  “Exactly. I admit I may have been naïve in my choice of words,” Jefferson went on, his voice rising, his inborn southern gentility giving way to steely resolve, “but I stand by my conviction that negotiating with pirates and paying them tribute is not only foolish, it is counterproductive. I realize that not everyone agrees with me. Mr. Jay does not. Nor do Mr. Adams and Mr. Hamilton. They maintain it is cheaper to pay tribute than to build a strong navy. God’s mercy, Mr. Cutler, how naïve is that? You ask for my position as secretary of state? Here it is: I may uphold the rights of the individual states, but America, as a nation of states, must build a navy that can and will confront any nation that seeks to meddle in our affairs. A single broadside of cannon will do more to protect our interests than millions of dollars in tribute. I apologize if your brother has suffered as a result of what I said. But I submit to you that your brother and your commerce and your country will prosper far more, in the long haul, if governments will stop mollycoddling these pirates and start fighting them!”

  Richard was astonished to hear Jefferson espouse a view that could just as well have been advanced by his father-in-law, as crusty and ornery a hard-liner as the Royal Navy ever loosed upon the sea. During the war with England, when prices charged to England for ship’s stores began to skyrocket, Captain Hardcastle’s solution was to dispatch a fleet of battle cruisers to Stockholm and blast the Swedish capital to kingdom come. Such action, he thundered, would bring down prices, by God, and quickly.

  “No apologies required, sir,” Richard said, realizing that he had been put roundly in his place; realizing also that President Washington had selected the right man to manage America’s foreign affairs.

  The conversation veered to more practical matters regarding Algiers. As it continued over a supper of chicken fricassee, greens, and two bottles of claret, the turmoil and despair of Paris just outside the door seemed a world apart. Jefferson and Morris were keen to learn about Richard’s voyage to North Africa via Gibraltar, and thence to Toulon, especially the details of the sea battle with the two Arab xebecs, an account that sent a servant scurrying down to the wine cellar for a third bottle. Richard related as much as he could remember to his hosts that evening, as he had months ago to Captain Mercier in Toulon, and as he would tomorrow to Captain Jones.

  LATER THAT EVENING, his mind besotted with fatigue and wine, Richard excused himself for the night and climbed the stairways winding up to his lodgings on the third floor of the consulate. It was a snug room with a high ceiling to mitigate the effects of summer heat and humidity. The twin windows had been pushed outward, allowing the moist breeze to ruffle the yellow lace curtains and circulate the muggy air within. Richard walked to a window and listened. His senses came alert at what he first took to be cannon fire but which turned out to be a distant roll of thunder. On this night, at least, Paris seemed at peace.

  On the oaken dresser table next to his bed, three candles burned brightly, revealing the large leather satchel Thomas Jefferson had told him would be there, thick and heavy with letters from home. Richard opened the satchel, removed the letters, and placed them on the bed in appropriate piles according to recipient. Every member of his crew had at least two letters, even those, Richard noted with remorse, who were no longer alive to read them. The dates inscribed on them indicated that some of the letters had been written almost a year ago.

  The largest pile belonged to Agreen. Each of the letters in his stack was written in the familiar cursive of Lizzy Cutler and carefully numbered, one to twenty-two, each number circled in red. Richard almost laughed as he counted them. “Think she’ll have you, Agee?” he asked out loud. He waved the pile of letters back and forth in the air. “Here’s your answer, my friend.”

  He flipped through his own pile of letters. Most were from Katherine, and he ached to read them. But he opened first a letter from his father dated 15 May, just two months ago.

  “Dear Richard,” it began, “your letter written from Toulon arrived yesterday. Your mother and I feel your remorse in every word. There are no words to send you that will ease your sorrow and frustration. I wish there were. I can only assure you that no one here blames you for what happened, least of all your parents. It was the will of God. You did everything you could.” The letter went on to say that everyone was well at home except for Richard’s mother, who had endured another round of physical suffering over the winter. She was better now, as she normally was come spring, though her health remained fragile. “Lavinia and Anne ask me to send their love to you and will be writing letters of their own. Please send our family’s respects to Mr. Jefferson and to Captain Jones, and sail home to us when you are able. God in His mercy will watch over us all.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Richard whispered, his words catching in his throat. He glanced at his letters strewn out atop the bed. True to his father’s prediction, Lavinia and Anne had both written him—to add their support to their father’s words, Richard was certain: he knew his sisters that well. But it was the fourteen letters from Katherine that he opened next. He read them in chronological order, starting with the letter dated the day after Falcon sailed from Boston.

  Each of the long letters—five, six, seven pages—was written in the form of a diary, the events or impressions of one group of days added on to those that preceded it. Clearly it was her intent to keep her husband informed of what she was doing and, more important, what his sons and daughter were doing, on a daily basis, as though he were there with them in Hingham and she was simply recounting for his benefit those often mundane events of a child’s life that have meaning only to a parent, and those character-defining decisions that only a parent can make.

  Richard smiled longingly, grateful for the love of a woman who after nearly a decade of marriage took such care keeping him involved in the daily lives of his children, even with him half a world away. “You are in Paris as you read this,” she concluded in her last letter, dated May 18. “You will meet with Captain Jones and then, God willing, you will be returning home to us. Will, Jamie, and Diana send their dearest love, as do I, my darling husband. You are forever in my thoughts, forever in my prayers, forever in my heart. Katherine”

  Thirteen

  Paris, France, July 1789

  RICHARD HAD TO WALK the nearly two miles from the American consulate to the building where John Paul Jones lived on the Left Bank. Public conveyance was not available. The hackney coaches that had once graced the Champs-Élysées and rue de Rivoli no longer conveyed better-off Parisians to the Tuilleries Gardens for a stroll or to the open-air food stalls at Les Halles. The élite these days did not rendezvous at the Palais-Royal, a festive hub of restaurants, gambling dens, and theaters opened to the public not long ago by its royal proprietor, the duc d’Orléans, in a desperate attempt to stave off financial ruin. Today its cafés and private clubs sat deserted, as forlorn and cheerless as the once-bustling boulevards where jugglers, drink peddlers, illusion-show aficionados, and animal-fight haw
kers had regaled the crowds while hurdy-gurdy players cranked out their jangling tunes.

  Adding to the gloom of the day was a heavy mist, the aftermath of a summer storm that had rumbled through Paris during the night, spreading in its wake a muggy shroud of gray over the buildings and bridges, the public bathhouses along the banks of the river, even the stained-glass magnificence of Notre Dame. By the time Richard had crossed over the Seine, the white cotton shirt he was wearing under his coat clung to his skin and sweat oozed from under his black felt tricorne hat. He dared not doff the hat. That morning, before allowing him to leave the consulate, Thomas Jefferson had pinned a rosette on the front of Richard’s hat with a warning to keep it visible at all times. That simple clump of blue, white, and red ribbons identified him as un partisan of the National Assembly; without it, Gouverneur Morris had added his own warning, the knife and small pistol Richard had concealed on his person would hardly be sufficient to keep the human wolves at bay.

  Jones’ residence was located east of the Luxembourg Palace, a grand Florentine establishment that served as the Left Bank’s equivalent of the Right’s Tuilleries Palace. On another day, in another era, Richard would have enjoyed walking through these cramped city neighborhoods that, he suspected, had changed little since the early Middle Ages. There was no spring to his step this morning, however. Not with the eyes of Paris upon him. Those eyes were everywhere—in bread lines, in windows, in the dark shadows of doorways—scrutinizing everyone who appeared different or well-to-do. People did not shout at him or taunt him; that sort of innocuous human behavior he could have tolerated with equanimity. What unnerved him was their ominous silence, their menacing glares transmitting incomprehensible depths of hatred, resentment, and anger. For the first time ever in Paris, Richard felt panic niggling at his gut, and he had to force himself to slow down, to appear nonchalant, to deny the wolves the smell of fear. When finally he rounded onto the rue de Tournon, it was with considerable relief that he climbed the short flight of steps leading up to number 52, and thence upstairs to the premier étage where he knocked on a door on the left side.