He rose to his feet, stretched, and walked toward the edge of the bluff. He listened to the sound of rollers hissing onto the beach below until the sky lightened and he could as much see as hear the slosh of waves. He glanced seaward into the spreading daylight. Something caught his eye and he looked again. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, as if the image might abide in there and not out at sea. But when he opened them again, it remained.
Jamie ran to his bedroll and withdrew the spyglass and a magnifying glass. Racing back to the edge of the bluff, he focused the lens of the spyglass on the image and kept it there, holding his breath until he could hold it no longer, then exhaling and inhaling and holding it again. Slowly, slowly, the image began to assume a solid form, from the billow of white topgallants that Jamie had first noticed down to a hull rising up on the horizon. His heart pounding, he waited . . . and waited . . . until he was absolutely certain. When he glimpsed the American ensign fluttering high above a frigate’s profile he had come to know by heart, he picked up the magnifying glass. Fumbling it, almost dropping it in his jittery excitement, he held it up and reflected the sun’s rays off the glass toward the ship. When the ship responded in kind, Jamie threw his strict officer’s training to the wind and let out a wild whoop of joy.
Racing back to the campsite, he dropped to his knees and shook Whittier hard. The exhausted Marine instinctively flailed about with his arms. One blow caught Jamie on the chest, knocking him backward.
“William, wake up!” Jamie cried out, undaunted. “Wake up, man!”
That command brought Whittier fully awake. He sat up, blinked, and, realizing what he had just done, scooted on his rump away from Jamie, fear of the consequences of striking an officer sketched vividly on his unshaved and sunburned face. “Sir, I’m so terribly sorry, sir,” he said, glancing desperately here and there as if in search of a path of retreat. “I didn’t mean to hit you, sir. Upon my honor I didn’t. I was dreaming. I—”
“William, you big bumbling boob, look at me!”
Whittier did. What he saw there was hardly anger. The grin Jamie was giving him was so delighted, so impish, that the bewildered Marine found himself grinning back.
“William, the United States Navy has arrived. Portsmouth is about to enter the bay and she has signaled us. I daresay we’ll be dining aboard within the hour!”
Fourteen
Hingham, Massachusetts, April 1805
KATHERINE CUTLER awoke as the first light of dawn filtered through the bedroom’s two large, east-facing windows. She had not bothered to draw together the dark blue window curtains before retiring the previous night. She knew there was no point in trying to block out the morning sun. She would be up early after a fitful night’s sleep, as she had been nearly every morning in recent weeks.
She tossed aside the light blanket and reached for the robe folded over a chair adjacent to the bed. Drawing it tight around her, she walked over to a window and gazed out on the neighborhood she and Richard had come to cherish during their twenty-five years together in this clapboard house. It was neither the grandest house in her immediate view nor one that might be considered a fashionable Hingham residence. But it was their home, their sanctuary. They had raised three children here, children who had grown up forever romping and laughing together. Or so it seemed to Katherine as her gaze took in the familiar landmarks visible through the window.
There had been opportunities over the years to move into a larger house, including the family home on Main Street where Caleb and Joan now stayed whenever they came down from Boston—which was more frequently now that Joan was heavy with child, praise be. Certainly they could afford a larger dwelling. Both Cutler & Sons and C&E Enterprises were flourishing, and Caleb and others had urged Richard to purchase one of the newer seaside residences out toward Crow Point or World’s End. Jack and Anne-Marie Endicott had chimed in on that chorus of voices. Such a residence, they claimed, would provide the Cutlers more comfort and privacy and would be more in keeping with the family’s social status. But Richard had always demurred, and Katherine had always understood why. Yes, they could afford something more. But no other house, they both agreed, could ever hold the cherished family memories locked within every nook and cranny of this modest home on South Street.
Richard . . . The thought of him saying that very thing brought an image to Katherine’s mind and a smile to her lips. Then that same image pulled her from the past to the present, and to the future she prayed they still had together.
She turned from the window and padded down the back stairs into the kitchen. In days gone by she would have found Edna Stowe there, working the culinary magic that had made her a legend in Hingham. These days, with advancing age slowing her step, Edna typically did not emerge from her bedroom until later in the morning. Katherine had urged her housekeeper to remain abed, pointing out that since she could prepare Diana’s breakfast and there wasn’t much else to do in the early morning, there was no need for Edna to be up early. In truth, Katherine wanted those early hours for herself, to be alone with her private thoughts. And later, as pink dawn bloomed into the full blush of morning, to have breakfast alone with her daughter, always a highlight of the day.
Katherine drifted through the morning, doing her normal housework but clearly preoccupied, until 11:00, when a gentle knock sounded at the front door.
“I’ll get it,” Diana warbled from the parlor, the joy in her voice and the bounce in her rapid footsteps summoning a smile from Katherine. Just so had it been years ago, in the Hardcastle residence in Fareham, England, whenever Richard, usually in company with his brother Will, arrived from his uncle’s home several miles away to visit with Katherine and her younger brother Jamie. Her heart had raced whenever she heard the clop of hooves and saw the Cutler carriage approaching on the pebbled drive, bringing him ever closer to her.
Diana opened the door to a sturdy, well-proportioned young man of eighteen years whose finely chiseled face and cleft chin suggested family roots in English aristocracy. His wavy brown hair was clipped neatly at his jaw line. He was dressed in loose-fitting buff trousers and waistcoat, and the olive green of his shirt matched the color of the eyes that gazed affectionately at Diana Cutler. He removed his tricorne hat with a flourish and bowed low, as to a highborn lady.
“Hello, Peter,” she greeted him, the thick-lashed hazel eyes that were perfect replicas of her mother’s dancing with delight.
“Hello, Diana,” he said. “You look lovely. Are you ready to go?”
“I am!”
Katherine walked up behind Diana just then, carrying the basket of food she and Diana had prepared that morning. “Good morning, Peter,” she said as she handed him the basket. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
“It’s always an honor to see you, Mrs. Cutler,” he replied correctly. He took the basket from her. “Thank you for preparing this picnic for us.”
“Diana had more of a hand in it than I,” Katherine smiled. “Now you will take a coat, won’t you? It may be unseasonably warm today, but the harbor waters are still cold. And a breeze might pick up this afternoon.”
Peter nodded. “I’ve put everything we need in the boat,” he assured her, “including an extra coat for Diana and some blankets. Will and Adele are meeting us at the boatyard. And it’s a quick row out to Grape Island, Mrs. Cutler, so if the weather does kick up, we can be back ashore as quick as you please.”
“So you see, Mother,” Diana teased in mock reproach, “everything is in proper order and properly chaperoned.”
Katherine Cutler smiled inwardly, wondering just what sort of chaperones Will and Adele might make. An incident that occurred two weeks ago suggested that they might be rather lenient ones. She had purchased a flounder from a local fisherman and thought to make a present of it to her older son and his wife. Carrying the newspaper-wrapped fish, she had walked the short distance from the docks to her son’s home on Ship Street. When a knock on the front door produced no response, she had tried th
e back door, with the same result. Assuming that Will and Adele were out, and planning to leave the flounder on the kitchen table for their supper, she had quietly opened the door and walked in. She found no one in the kitchen, but coming from upstairs were the telltale sounds of low masculine grunts coupled with higher-pitched feminine moans. Quickly she retraced her steps, taking the flounder with her.
“Yes, I do see, Diana,” she said in an equally teasing tone. “Be off now, you two. And please be careful.”
“We will, Mrs. Cutler. You have my word on it.”
“Will you be going riding with Aunt Lizzy this afternoon?” Diana asked as they were leaving.
“Perhaps. We’ll see.”
“You should, you know,” Diana replied happily. “It’s a heavenly day for it, and the horses need the exercise. Tomorrow we’ll go riding together, Mother, shall we?”
“Yes, Diana. Off with you now. Go!” She shooed them away with flicks of her hands.
Stifling sadness born, in part, from watching her rapidly maturing daughter setting off beside her beau, Katherine smoothed her hair, took a coat from the closet, and left the house as well, heading toward Pleasant Street to visit with Lizzy Cutler Crabtree, her lifelong friend. Lizzy met her at the door and ushered her inside.
“How’s Zeke?” Katherine asked as she removed her light woolen coat in the hallway.
“He’s fine,” Lizzy answered. She took the coat and hung it from a peg. “He’s in his room playing with Will’s old soldier set. I just looked in on him. He has a fierce battle raging up there, so he should be set for a while. Can I get you anything?”
“A glass of wine would be nice.”
Lizzy could not conceal her surprise. Never had she known Katherine Cutler to request or accept a glass of spirits of any kind except at the dining room table, and certainly not in the morning. Katherine met her puzzled look steadily.
“Of course,” Lizzy managed after a pause. She gave her friend a meaningful look. “Should I pour one for myself?”
“That might be a good idea.”
“Right, then. I’ll be back with a bottle.”
Lizzy returned with a tray holding an opened bottle of claret and two glasses. She set the tray on a side table and poured out two glasses, offering one to Katherine and keeping the other for herself. She sat down beside Katherine on the sofa and looked closely at the woman who had been like a sister since childhood. “Well, this is unusual,” she said.
“Yes, it is,” Katherine agreed.
“What’s the occasion?” Lizzy asked cautiously. “When I saw you at the market yesterday and you told me you wanted to come by today, you seemed so distant, almost as if you wished to avoid me, even though we haven’t seen each other for a while. That isn’t like you.”
“True,” Katherine acknowledged.
“Well, then,” Lizzy ventured, “what is it? What’s troubling you, Katherine?”
When Katherine did not immediately respond, Lizzy put down her glass and clasped Katherine’s left hand in both of hers, waiting until Katherine met her eyes.
“What is it, Katherine?” she pleaded, near tears now. “Please tell me. You know you can tell me anything.”
Katherine nodded. “I do know that. It’s why I’m here.”
“And . . .?”
Katherine took a healthy swallow of wine, set down the glass, and placed her right hand over Lizzy’s hands. “I have not been avoiding you, Lizzy. Please understand that I could never, ever do that. But I have been avoiding something else, a secret I have not dared to share with anyone.”
“Including Richard?”
“Especially Richard.”
“For God’s sake, Katherine, tell me. Let me help you.”
Katherine blinked. “I have a cancer, Lizzy.”
Instinctively Lizzy tightened her grip on Katherine’s hand. For several moments she could not speak. She just looked beseechingly at Katherine, willing her dearest friend in life to deny what she had just said. “You have a what?” she finally mustered.
“I have a cancer,” Katherine repeated matter-of-factly. “I have a lump on my breast. I’ve known about it for some time. I’ve tried denying it, but that hasn’t done much good.” She gave Lizzy a rueful smile.
“But . . .” Lizzy fumbled for words. “But from what I understand, a lump on the breast doesn’t necessarily mean cancer.”
“That’s true. But in my case, it does.”
“How can you be so certain?”
Katherine shrugged. “I just know.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“No. I can’t bring myself to do it. I want to wait until Richard comes home. It won’t be long now. He wrote in his last letter that the war is nearly over. Perhaps it’s already over and Portsmouth is sailing home to us. When he comes home, we’ll decide what to do. We have always decided important matters together.”
Lizzy took Katherine’s hands in both of hers. “Katherine, listen to me,” she said sternly. “If this is a cancer, it cannot wait. You must see Dr. Prescott, and you must see him soon. It will only get worse if you wait. Please. I beg you. You know he is an excellent physician. A man we can trust. He has cared for our families for years. He’ll know what to do. We can go together, Katherine, right now. I’ll stay with you every second.”
Katherine shook her head ever so slightly although her voice was emphatic. “It will do no good for me to see Dr. Prescott. I know the treatment for this sort of thing. We both know what happened to President Adams’ daughter. I will not have my breast removed. I will not have Richard returning home from war to a mangled wife!”
Fifteen
Derne, Tripoli, April–May 1805
RICHARD CUTLER WAS awake in his sleeping cuddy when he heard Portsmouth’s bell struck one time. By the time it was struck two times a half-hour later he had washed his hands and face from a tin basin filled with fresh water and had shaved with soap and razor. When his steward, coffee pot in hand, entered the cabin to wake Richard at the appointed hour of 5:30, he found him seated at his desk.
“Good morning, Captain,” Simms greeted him cordially. “I see that you have once again denied me the opportunity to intrude upon your dreams. It’s becoming a habit.”
“Good morning, Sydney,” Richard replied. He sketched a grin to camouflage the real reason he had arisen so early in recent days—ever since his son Jamie had insisted that he and Private Whittier return to camp to advise Captain Eaton of the state of affairs. After so many weeks of worry, he had finally held his son in the relative safety and abundance of his frigate at anchor in the Bay of Bomba, only to see him gallop off into the sunrise. At least, he thought, this time around he would have ample provisions. And he could not gainsay the pride he felt in his son’s commitment to duty.
“Shall you be dining alone this morning, Captain? Or will Mr. Crabtree be joining you?”
Before Richard could answer, a faraway voice sounded through the open skylight.
“Sail ho!”
“Where away?” inquired the much louder voice of George Lee standing a few feet from the skylight on the quarterdeck directly above.
“Fine to nor’west, sir.”
“Is she making for us?”
“That she is, sir. And I see one . . . two . . . three sets of sails, sir.”
“Very well. I shall inform the captain.”
“Belay that, Mr. Lee,” Richard called up through the skylight. “The captain has heard the report and is coming on deck.”
Richard shrugged on the undress uniform coat Simms held up for him. “Breakfast will have to wait, Sydney,” he said as he collected his bicorne hat. “But I’ll take along a cup of your coffee. No one brews it better.”
“Thank you, Captain. I shall have breakfast for you whenever you desire it. Eggs, toast, bacon, and fried potatoes, cooked to your usual specifications.” Simms handed his captain a cup of coffee. “And I shall prepare enough for two, just in case.”
On the quarterdeck Richa
rd returned the salutes of Lieutenant Lee, Lieutenant Meyers, and Midshipman Sterne. He took a sip of coffee, then shaded his eyes with his free hand and glanced aloft at the American ensign. Five knots from the east-northeast, he calculated the wind. A quick glance ashore revealed an empty beach strewn with green seaweed and edged by steep headlands except on the extreme eastern end, where a walkway of sorts provided a manageable pathway from the beach to high ground.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “What do we have?”
“Argus, she looks to be, sir,” Lee responded. “In company with Hornet and Nautilus. We’ll have positive identification in a few minutes.”
“I daresay you are correct, Mr. Lee,” Richard said. “That being the case, all we need do now is await the arrival of General Eaton’s army.”
That happened two days later.
AT SIX BELLS in the forenoon watch, William Eaton, wearing a crisply pressed general’s uniform, was piped aboard USS Portsmouth. Despite the trials and tribulations of his march across desert sands in the company of often unwilling and sometimes mutinous Arab allies, he appeared to be, as Agreen Crabtree later put it, in remarkably fine fiddle. As Agreen accompanied Eaton aft to meet the ships’ officers and commanders gathered on the quarterdeck, boats from Argus, Nautilus, and Hornet were making for shore laden with fresh provisions for the army.
“I have brought with me from Syracuse seven thousand Spanish dollars,” Isaac Hull informed Eaton after introductions were exchanged and the general was seated. “Commodore Barron has placed these funds at your disposal.” As captain of the brig Argus, Isaac Hull served as co-commander with Richard Cutler in this expedition, just as they had done during the war with France in a raid on the island of Marie-Galante in the West Indies. The conversation paused while Sydney Simms served a dinner of mutton chops, fresh beans, and curried rice complemented by two bottles of Bordeaux.
A Call to Arms Page 27