The Power and the Glory

by William C. Hammond

  “That treaty has gone by the boards. France claims that we violated it, first, by our proclamation of neutrality and, second, by signing the Treaty of London, the one Mr. Jay negotiated with the British. So the French declared the Treaty of Alliance null and void at the same time they declared a guerre de course against us. That declaration gives them the right to seize and search any American vessel bound for a British port. Or so they claim in theory. In practice, they claim it gives them the right to seize any American vessel bound for any port.”

  “Don’t they have cause? I mean, France is at war with England, right? So if the Royal Navy is openly protecting American merchant vessels . . .”

  Richard shrugged. “That depends on your perspective. We are English by descent and we have family in England with whom we are in business. When it comes to war, naturally we favor England over France. But when it comes to commerce, we don’t play favorites. We support free trade—with every country. We’ll treat with the French or the British. Or with the Dutch or the Russians or the Malays. But it’s not the Dutch or the Russians or the Malays who last year seized more than three hundred of our merchantmen. It was French cutthroats perpetrating the worst kinds of atrocities. You want an example? Here’s one. A few months ago a schooner out of New York bound for Jamaica was attacked somewhere off the north coast of Cuba. She was armed and her captain may have put up a fight. If so, he was likely outgunned and forced to strike his colors. No one knows what happened next. No one on board the schooner lived to tell about it. A few corpses washed up on the shore, or what was left after the sharks finished with them. Pickering, our secretary of state, protested to the Spanish ambassador. But what was Spain, a puppet of France, going to do? The answer is they did nothing beyond confirming that a schooner had been sighted sailing westward off Havana shortly before she disappeared.

  “I agree with Father that the British can only do so much. It’s up to us, not the British, to protect our merchantmen and answer these atrocities. And the only answer the French seem to understand these days is one delivered by powder and shot.” He uttered those last three words with bitter precision.

  “President Adams sent a peace delegation to Paris in July,” Thomas Cutler said in a calmer voice. “John Marshall, the leader of the delegation, is an honorable man. So is his colleague Charles Pinckney of South Carolina. The third delegate, Elbridge Gerry, is a Massachusetts man from Marblehead. While I commend the president for this initiative and his choice of envoys, I seriously question their chances for success. The French don’t want peace. They want funds to finance their war in Europe, and privateering is a lucrative source for those funds. They won’t give it up easily.”

  Caleb took a moment to absorb that. Then a notion struck him. “What’s your role in all this, Richard?” he asked. “It certainly sounds as though you have one.”

  Richard nodded. “I have been approached, Caleb.”

  “By whom?”

  “By our president,” his father answered for him. “Mr. Adams has commended Richard to Thomas Truxtun, captain of Constellation. Richard’s name was also put forth by our dear friend Alexander Hamilton.”

  Caleb’s eyes never left Richard’s. “When do you report to Captain Truxtun?”

  “Fairly soon, I suspect.”

  “The decision is final, then?”

  “No naval officer’s commission is final until it is proposed by a ship’s captain and approved by the Senate.”

  “But if offered, you will accept it?”

  “I will, barring the unforeseen.”

  “How do I enlist?”

  Richard’s eyebrows shot up. “Enlist? Jesus Christ, Caleb, you just got home.”

  Caleb shook his head. “That doesn’t matter, Richard. I sat in an Arab prison for ten years, and I have no intention of sitting any longer. I want my life back. I want to get back to sea, and I want to serve my country. I can do both in the Navy.”

  Richard met his brother’s hard stare until their father intervened.

  “That is very noble of you, Caleb, given the hell you’ve had to endure these past ten years. You make me proud. But the fact is, I can’t afford to have both you and Richard taking leave of Cutler & Sons. Agreen is likely to be called up, and if he is . . .” Thomas held up his hands. “I need you here with me. I need you to help manage the family business.”

  “In what capacity, Father?”

  “In any capacity you choose. You want to go to sea? I can guarantee you that. You want to serve your country? You can, in a most meaningful way. Our carrying trade is our country’s lifeblood, Caleb. Without it our economy would collapse, along with our family’s fortunes. I am hoping that you will sail to Barbados within the year to learn the family business from that end. John and Robin would welcome your company and your assistance. Please, son, give this matter some serious thought before making your decision.”

  It took Caleb only a moment to respond. “I don’t need to give it serious thought, Father. Of course I will comply with your wishes. If I learned anything while in prison in Algiers, it’s that nothing matters more than family and country. And I can’t deny that I have much to learn about our business.” He scraped back his chair.

  “Where are you going, son?”

  “To visit Mother.”

  Richard stood up across from him. “I’ll go with you, Caleb.”

  THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS saw lively debate as to where Richard would take his sons and Caleb on the short cruise he had promised them. Will and Jamie fancied the Isles of Shoals, two low, treeless islands off the coast of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Their father, however, thought those islands too far away and peopled by fisher-folk too long cut off from the mores and morals of the mainland. He suggested the Misery Islands in Salem Sound off the North Shore of Boston. These two islands—one big, one small—were an easy day’s sail from Hingham and afforded both sheltered coves for anchorage and sweeping vistas of Cape Ann, so named by King Charles I of England to honor his mother, Anne of Denmark.

  As it turned out, the cruise had to be scrapped. The following Thursday, a day before the Cutlers were to set sail, the wind strengthened to a full gale, whipping up white foam even within the protected waters of Hingham Bay. Moisture-laden clouds gloomed in from the southwest and stalled over Boston, pummeling its shores and streets with a cold, drenching rain. As the days elapsed and the storm lagged on, concern mounted that the homecoming celebration to honor Eagle’s crew would also have to be scrapped.

  Providence proved kind, however. Three days before the planned event, the storm blew itself out. Hingham awoke to a soothing, warm October sun, a gentle westerly breeze, and a bright blue sky accentuating the red-gold, brilliant yellow, and tarnished bronze of autumn foliage. Such conditions boded well for what had to be done, and quickly. Scores of men and women converged on the Lincoln farm south of Hingham to prepare for the many hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people who would attend, for it was a well-publicized event open to everyone. Tent tops were erected, tables were brought in, and a makeshift dais was set up for speeches, with chairs set to accommodate the elderly and infirm. Numerous pits were filled with combustibles to slow-cook the beef, venison, and pork that would accompany rounds of beer, wine, and ale. By Saturday morning the broad green pastures surrounding the Lincoln farmstead had been transformed from a serene, pastoral setting into a veritable fairground.

  No one appeared more pleased with the results than the host of the event, Benjamin Lincoln. Dressed in a blue uniform coat with buff facings and gold buttons—three silver stars on the twin epaulettes signifying the rank of brigadier general—he strode about the grounds armin-arm with his wife, a tall, pewter-haired woman of grace and gentility. Together they greeted those who arrived on foot from nearby farms or by horse and carriage from locations farther away. Adults and children alike came dressed in their Sunday best.

  The Cutlers arrived early, before noon, to help out where they could and to be on hand to greet the members of Eagle’s crew. Thei
r wagon had hardly ground to a halt before Will and Jamie jumped off and darted ahead to where meats lanced on iron spits sizzled over blazing fires. Richard and Katherine, meanwhile, took Stephen Starbuck, Lavinia’s husband, a shopkeeper from Duxbury, and Frederick Seymour, husband to Anne Cutler and a physician from Cambridge, to greet the general and his wife.

  “Welcome,” General Lincoln said, shaking each man’s hand in turn. “Mrs. Lincoln and I are honored that you are able to join us today.”

  “You must travel to Hingham more often,” Mrs. Lincoln admonished. “We miss your wives and we miss seeing you. I remember your sons, Doctor. They are a handsome brood, though from the look of them they must be quite the handful.”

  “That they are,” Anne confirmed.

  As morning melded into afternoon, Richard and Katherine strolled about among the guests, talking to as many people as possible. At one point they saw Caleb in the company of four of his shipmates walking toward the dais where Benjamin Lincoln was preparing to speak. What he had to say was indistinct—Richard and Katherine were too far away—though his intent was clear enough. One by one, each member of Eagle’s crew was invited up to the platform to stand between the general and his wife and receive the cheers and applause of those gathered around. This day, there would be no talk of war or piracy or an agrarian economy going to seed.

  “Darling,” Katherine said, after the crew had received their due, “I see Joan Keating over there. I fancy a word with her. Please excuse me for a moment.”

  Richard smiled to himself. Experience had taught him that a “word” between Katherine Cutler and Joan Keating would likely last a great deal longer than a “moment.” He contented himself by watching the proceedings on the dais until he noticed Agreen Crabtree trying to make his way toward him. It was slow going, for there were many partygoers in between, and Agreen cut a popular swath in Hingham.

  “Ahoy, Agee,” Richard said when they were together. “How’s Lizzy?”

  “Doin’ fine,” Agreen said. “Disappointed not t’ be here. Dr. Prescott’s given her strict orders t’ stay put. I don’t plan t’ stay long myself. Just wanted t’ pay my respects t’ the men.” His eyes narrowed. “Anne told Lizzy you’ve heard from Captain Truxtun.”

  “That’s right, I have. A post arrived yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “I’m to meet with him in three weeks’ time. He’ll size me up and figure out what to do with me—if anything. While I’m down there I plan to stroll around a bit, maybe talk to a few people. Father thinks we should consider opening a second office in Baltimore. It’s our westernmost seaport, and it has easy access to Pennsylvania and the Ohio Valley. From there we can ship our goods inland. Plus, it’s well protected from storms and invasion. And, it’s a lot closer to the Indies than Boston.”

  “That’s true; all of it. Baltimore’s quite the place, I’m here t’ tell you. I dropped anchor there twice while in Sloane’s employ. I’d give a sow’s ear t’ join you on this cruise ’cause I’d enjoy takin’ you around t’ some of the choice spots. ’Course, seein’ as how you’re so prim and proper and all, I’d have t’ limit my tour t’ the respectable establishments. But no matter, you haven’t invited me; and besides, I wouldn’t want t’ leave Lizzy in her state.”

  Richard nodded his agreement. “You’re on the beach until the baby’s delivered, no question. Maybe after that . . . What is it, Agee?” he asked when he noticed Agreen’s attention focusing on something over his shoulder. “Why the silly grin?”

  “Ah, Richard? Friendly fire’s comin’ up aft. I suggest you wear ship.”

  Richard turned around to find Anne-Marie Endicott standing demurely before him. She was dressed simply, as was her custom since casting off the trappings of a marquise and fleeing France back in ’89. But the simple rose-colored cotton dress and the off-white shawl draped across her slender shoulders neither concealed nor diminished a physical presence so alluring that, in pre-revolutionary France, la crème de la crème of Parisian society had characterized the Swiss-born beauty as une belle femme du monde, an expression denoting either high praise or deep envy, depending on who was offering the comment. A flourish of thick, flowing curls framed delicate facial features, the black locks a sharp contrast to Richard’s yellow hair. Yet the eyes settling affectionately upon him were as bright a sky blue as his own.

  “Hello, Richard,” she greeted him. “You seem surprised to see me.”

  He kept his expression noncommittal. “Not surprised, Anne-Marie. Happy. I’m always happy to see you.”

  “Well, I’m grateful for that.”

  His gaze took her in with the same pulse of warmth he had felt when he first met her in Paris back in ’78 while in the company of Captain Jones and Benjamin Franklin. And when, weeks later following a performance of The Barber of Seville at the Tuilleries, they had first nestled naked on her bed and she had initiated him into the glorious rites of manhood. He had felt that same pulse when, years later, he met her again in Paris, this time under far less romantic circumstances, for he was married and the father of three children, and she was newly widowed. Her husband, Bernard-René de Launay, had several weeks earlier been seized by the mob and dragged off to the place de Grève. There they had held down this royal commander of the Bastille and cut off his head with a dull knife, then jabbed it onto a long pike and paraded it through the streets of the city.

  Ruthlessly, relentlessly, the wolves of revolution had stalked his widow and their two daughters, as they did every Parisian of noble blood, and Richard had risked his life to spirit them out of Paris to the French seaport of Lorient, and from there to America on board Falcon. During the three-week voyage home, Agreen had served as sailing master and—so chortled the local gossipmongers in Hingham—as chaperone, in alliance with Gertrud, the brawny German woman who had been Anne-Marie’s childhood nurse and who now guarded her interests and those of her daughters with fierce maternal tenacity.

  “Is Jack here?” he asked, referring to the Boston widower and wealthy merchant who had finally won her hand in marriage after many months of ardent pursuit.

  “Yes, somewhere. He’s hoping to find time to chat with you. About business, of course. Jack’s a dear, but Lord knows, he is always about business.” She leaned in close enough to brush off a shred of lint from Richard’s white linen neck stock. “Truth be known, Richard, Adele was equally keen to travel here today. She’s over there . . . with Will.”

  Richard followed her gaze to see his son standing before a girl of his own age and height dressed as simply as her mother and with nearly identical physical attributes. Adele had been born Adélaide de Launay, but when the family reached America her mother had changed her name to sever as cleanly as possible her family ties to France. Beside her was her younger sister, Frances, née Françoise, equally fetching though somewhat shorter and with straight ginger-colored hair that was shiny as a foal’s. Will had his hands in his pockets and was staring down at the ground, looking up occasionally when spoken to or, more rarely, when he was doing the speaking. Jamie was nowhere in sight.

  As he watched them Richard recalled his own youth. He had been as awkward and tongue-tied in the company of a pretty girl as Will seemed to be now.

  “Diana is around here somewhere,” he said to Anne-Marie, “and will be delighted to see Frances. Tell her to look for a gaggle of prattling girls. Will you be staying over? Katherine and I would be pleased if you would visit us.”

  “We’d love to, but Jack wants to return to Boston before it gets dark. For reasons of business, you understand.” She gave him a rueful look.

  Richard nodded. “Some other time, then.”

  “Absolutely. Adele will insist on it.”

  They both smiled at that. Their eyes locked during a brief moment of silence that was broken only by background laughter and chatter. Richard’s mind whirled with questions he longed to ask. Was Anne-Marie happy? Were her daughters adjusting to life in America? And how was Gertrud? He had heard t
hat she was not well. But he never seemed to have either the courage or the occasion to ask them. Why, he had often wondered, was it so difficult for him to talk to Anne-Marie now? Was it because he somehow felt responsible for her fortunes in America? It was he who had convinced her to flee her adopted country and sail away with him to Boston. Was the state of her marriage to Jack Endicott, good or bad, somehow a reflection on him? Or was his reluctance something darker, the underside of jealousy, perhaps, envy of a man who now possessed what had once been so blissfully his? Whatever the reason, words failed him, and he felt a mixture of relief and frustration when her eyes shifted away from him.

  “Please excuse my bad manners, Agee,” Anne-Marie said. “How are you? And how is your dear wife? I understand that you two are expecting a child.”

  Agreen doffed his tricorne hat. “Yes, ma’am, we are. In just a few weeks’ time.”

  “That’s wonderful. I am so happy for you, Agee. May God watch over you and your family.” She gave him an amused look. “And may God grant me my most ardent wish, that someday you will call me Anne-Marie, rather than ‘ma’am.’”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Agreen replied, grinning.

  Just then a great roar of applause rose up from around the platform. They turned to see a rather short, stubby man of advancing years approaching the much taller and more robust Benjamin Lincoln. The shorter man was dressed in a plain suit of light brown cloth, a bottle-green waistcoat, and a white shirt and neck stock. His round head was bald on top, though sprouting out from its sides were thick mounds of gray hair and sideburns flecked with white. Nothing about him, however, suggested either frailty or aloofness as he waved out at a crowd pushing in from all sides.

  “Who is that, Richard?” Anne-Marie asked. “Why all the ado?”

  “That’s our president,” Katherine Cutler answered. She had walked up alongside her husband and slipped her arm proprietarily through his. “Hello, Anne-Marie,” she said just a shade too sweetly. “How nice to see you. Richard didn’t tell me that you were coming today.”