For Love of Country

by William C. Hammond

  Getting American sailors released from Arab prisons, however, was never a complicated matter. It was simply a question of money. Upon seizure of any foreign merchant vessel, whatever the flag of Christendom under which it sailed, ransom payments became due to the sultan of Morocco, or the dey of Algiers, or the bey of Tunis, or the bashaw of Tripoli, depending on which state had perpetrated the atrocity. Toss into the bargain some form of annual tribute, as most European maritime nations had been doing for years, and American merchantmen would be free to sail anywhere they wished in the Maghrib.

  To add to America’s woes, when the Spanish signed what appeared to be a permanent peace with Barbary in 1783, after fighting with the Moors off and on since 1492 for control of the Mediterranean Sea, America could no longer rely on Spain to protect its merchant fleet. Nor could they rely on Portugal or Britain; those two allied powers had their own commercial interests to consider. Americans did assume, however, that they could rely on the French. Article 8 of the Treaty of Amity and Commerce signed in 1778 compelled France to use its good offices with North African rulers to protect American shipping. With France as a de facto ally in the Mediterranean, and Britain not actively meddling in U.S. affairs in that part of the world, the relatively few Americans who followed current events had cause to be optimistic.

  “So you see, Anne,” Richard summed up, “there is room for hope.”

  Anne bit her lip. “Do you think Mr. Lamb will be successful?”

  “God willing, yes,” Thomas Cutler replied. “We know nothing about the man, but the point is, as Richard said, at least our government is doing something. Which, considering its makeup, is an achievement all by itself.” He leaned forward in his chair and asked, rhetorically, since he already knew the answer: “Have we heard from anyone besides Mr. Hamilton?”

  Silence indicated they had not.

  “It’s too soon, Pappy,” Katherine encouraged, though it was discouraging to the extreme to have received thus far only one response to the many letters sent out. “We need to give them more time.”

  “I pray you’re right, my dear. I pray you’re right.”

  ONCE THE SHOCK of Eagle’s capture had passed, the Cutler family had called in every chit and favor it had to its credit until the likes of John Jay, John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, and George Washington were made aware of the family’s plight. Whether such individuals could do anything beyond what was already being done was doubtful even under the best of circumstances. And these, the Cutlers realized, were hardly the best of circumstances. Congress was focused on itself these days, absorbed in heated debate on whether or not to dissolve the Articles of Confederation and replace them with a more viable form of government. In October, in Annapolis, a convention of nine states had ended with a call to convene a second and more inclusive meeting of all the states the following May in Philadelphia. It would be a truly national convention whose primary purpose would be to resolve the decisive and divisive issue of sovereignty. The delegates would address one central question: Did the Great Declaration grant the states independence from each other as well as from England, or was its purpose to gain independence from England but establish a central government that would have both the authority and the power to act on behalf of all the states? With that question answered, a new national government might then be installed, and the United States could take a more decisive role on the world stage.

  “It could take months to decide,” Katherine pointed out gloomily late one afternoon in January. She and Richard were huddled before a flaming hearth as she worked on a red woolen sweater she was knitting for Will. The two needles clicked purposefully together, gleaming in the reflected firelight. Outside, homes across South Street appeared as magical structures in a world turned white by whirling cascades of tiny flecks falling silently from an ashen sky. Will and Jamie sat at the window, impervious to the chill, mesmerized by the silent beauty of snow mounding and curving along hedgerows, tree limbs, and on the flat-bottomed, square-ended punt that their father had begun crafting in November for his sons to take out fishing the following spring. “Perhaps years,” she added. “What will become of Caleb in the meantime?”

  “I wish I knew,” Richard replied, hating each word of that oft-used refrain, sick to death of his inability to do something tangible that might lead to the freedom of Eagle’s crew.

  Christmas had come and gone, and what should have been a happy holiday and a respite from emotional stress had proved to be neither. Try as everyone might to make it so for the children, the forced good cheer had ebbed, inevitably, into undercurrents of foreboding once the boys were a-bed. Even the wisdom and joviality of Benjamin Lincoln, an old family friend who had served as Washington’s second-in-command at Yorktown, could not help. Lincoln, who had just returned home to Hingham after quelling a rebellion of disgruntled farmers led by a former army officer named Shay in Springfield, did his best to dispel the gloom. But Caleb’s empty bedroom in the house on Main Street proved too somber a reminder of where Caleb was—and where he was not.

  “I do know this,” Richard complained bitterly. “Unless Mr. Hamilton prevails in Philadelphia, this country will have neither the will nor the means to do much of anything to anyone anywhere. As he once said, our country is despicable in its weakness, and if that doesn’t wake Congress up, we fought the revolution for nothing. It’s one reason why Lamb’s mission failed, though I still hold the man himself primarily responsible for that.”

  Although Thomas Barkley had succeeded in part in his mission to Morocco, John Lamb had failed completely in Algiers. As reported in Boston newspapers and confirmed by the London Chronicle, Dey Baba Mohammed bin Osman had dismissed Lamb from the royal palace and refused to have any dealings with him. Among the reasons given: the only language Lamb could speak was English; his crude mannerisms and lack of diplomacy offended the dey; and—the reason that dwarfed all others—he brought no money with him, simply a promise to draw funds from a bank in Paris on a note co-signed by America’s recently installed plenipotentiary minister to France, Thomas Jefferson. The Chronicle had also verified, in a report that seemed to Richard downright condescending, that the French foreign minister, Comte de Vergennes, had refused to honor France’s commitments to the United States as called for in the 1778 treaty. America stood alone with but seven hundred ill-equipped soldiers to defend it, and no navy whatsoever.

  “What I can’t understand,” Richard groused, “is why Mr. Jay recommended Mr. Lamb in the first place,” referring to John Jay, the secretary of foreign affairs of the Congress. “What in God’s name was he thinking? How does trading mules and horses in Tangiers qualify a man to represent our government? How could an intelligent person like Jay have made such a dreadful decision? Had Congress sent Barkley to Algiers instead, Caleb might be home today.”

  Katherine dropped her knitting into her lap. “It’s the same in England, my love. Take William Pitt. When war broke out in America, he stood alone in Parliament in opposition to British policy. And today he is one of the few to contest trade restrictions with America. He believes what we believe, in free trade and open markets. But such men are rarely given their due even if what they have been saying for years turns out to be correct. Self-interest and expediency are the coins of every realm. And that, I’m sorry to say, includes the United States.”

  “I can’t disagree with you, Katherine, though I still hope for better here. Let’s pray that what is decided in Philadelphia bears me out.”

  Katherine waited while Richard got up to drop another log into the flames. When he was beside her again, she said, “I’m mostly through a letter I’m writing to Jeremy. You can read it if you like. Perhaps he can help us.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s a ranking post captain in the Royal Navy. Hugh tells me he’s one of the most respected officers in the Mediterranean Squadron. For another, he often goes out on patrol along the Barbary Coast. Perhaps he has seen something there or has contacts that might p
rove useful.”

  Richard did not respond right away. An idea had struck him as Katherine spoke about her brother, and he needed time to think it through. He sat concentrating on the fire, weighing both her words and the possibilities they engendered. When he responded, he kept his tone conversational: “It’s worth a try. Please send Jeremy my regards. Tell him I look forward to meeting him someday. Now, tell me about Hugh. What word from him? Is he still in England?”

  “He is. ‘Sitting on the beach,’ as he puts it, though a beach is hardly where he wants to be. Until he’s assigned a ship, he’s living on half pay at home with our parents in Fareham. His last letter mentioned the possibility of service on the North American Station. Wouldn’t that be a treat for us all? Halifax is just up the coast and . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “Richard, what are you thinking?”

  He gave her a startled look. “Nothing.”

  “Yes you are, and I want to know what.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything,” he insisted.

  “Not true, my love. I’m married to you, remember? You’re onto something.”

  “It’s nothing. A passing fancy.” He inclined his head toward their sons standing watch by the window. “Shouldn’t you be getting supper ready?” he asked innocently. At the back of his mind he was already framing the contents of yet another letter he would write tomorrow to Alexander Hamilton in Philadelphia.

  WITH THE MELTING of the snow, the mood of the Cutler family took a turn for the better. Reports from Philadelphia confirmed that every state had sent its full contingent of delegates to the National Convention. This was important, Thomas Cutler explained to those who would listen, for that gave the convention the legitimacy it required to rule on the critical issues that would decide America’s future. Further, it was reported by the press that the northern-dominated Federalist Party led by Hamilton, Jay, and Adams was gaining political ground against the Jeffersonian Republicans, southerners, mostly, who clung with an almost religious tenacity to the principle of states’ rights. Such individuals viewed any form of shared sovereignty as anathema. Under no circumstances, they insisted, should the integrity of the individual states be compromised by a national government, whatever its form; that was the core principle for which the war with England had been fought. Hamilton countered with his oft-quoted conviction that independence backed by a weak military is nothing more than an empty promise.

  As Americans awaited the outcome of the debates, William and Lizzy Cutler arrived unexpectedly early in Boston after a swift passage of just eighteen days, the result of steady southerly breezes more typical of Caribbean trades than the perverse westerly winds that normally blew upon the Atlantic in springtime. Soon after the Cutler brig docked at Long Wharf, a flustered George Hunt walked out from the offices of Cutler & Sons and bowed low before William Cutler, apologizing profusely for being caught unawares.

  William Cutler put a hand under Hunt’s elbow and bade him look up. “There is no need for that, Mr. Hunt,” he said with a chuckle. “This is America. No one bows to anyone here.” He placed his hand at the small of Lizzy’s back. “Unless, perhaps, to a lovely young woman. Mr. Hunt, may I introduce you to my daughter, Elizabeth.”

  “Ma’am,” Hunt said humbly, bowing again and avoiding her eyes as though dazzled by the image of golden hair and delicate feminine splendor standing before him in an ankle-length dress of rich brocade with a richly decorated silk shawl draped across her narrow shoulders. He did manage to collect himself when Lizzy swept him a brief curtsey. “I am honored to meet you, Mr. Hunt,” she said. “We have often heard your praises sung in England.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Hunt said, adding in a stab at gallantry, “and I have often heard tell of your lady’s grace and beauty. Now I understand why.” He turned to her father. “Sir, I shall have a boat ready to take you to Hingham within the hour. Please make yourself comfortable in our offices. I shall have tea or coffee brought in, some food, perhaps, whatever you and Miss Cutler might fancy.”

  “That is kind of you, Mr. Hunt. But I think my daughter and I would prefer to explore your city while we wait.” He pointed his cane up State Street to where a gold-domed cupola rose above a substantial red brick building with a prominent balcony built halfway up its east side. “Is that what is now called the State House? Yes? Then it’s what we English used to refer to as the seat of royal authority in Boston. Pity it still isn’t.” He gave Hunt a jovial wink. “Back in an hour,” he called over his shoulder. He offered his arm to his daughter, and the two set off at a brisk pace.

  Hunt immediately set about to find a small, swift vessel to carry word of the Cutlers’ arrival to Hingham, and a larger, more accommodating one to convey them there.

  “LIZZY! YOU’RE HERE! You’re really here!”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance and seagulls mewed and circled overhead as Katherine and Lizzy Cutler flew together in a tight embrace on the Hingham quays, their inbred propriety and correct upbringing cast joyously aside in the exhilaration of seeing each other after so many years. It was the same for them all. William Cutler had not seen his brother since Thomas and his wife sailed for America many years earlier. Nor had he met any member of his brother’s family here today except Richard, who had visited William Cutler’s family in Fareham in 1774 and had lived with him in 1778 after William had pulled every string in his grasp to get his nephew released from Old Mill Prison and into his custody. He was particularly intrigued by his grand-nephews and took great joy in gripping little Jamie firmly at the waist and lifting him high in the air as the boy screeched with delight. “A fine specimen,” he announced, setting Jamie down on the ground and gravely offering a serious-looking Will his hand to shake. It was an unguardedly joyful reunion. People passing by on Broad Cove Lane smiled at the Cutlers and at each other, caught up in the family’s happiness.

  “You look a fright, Tom,” William announced with a twinkle in his eye. “A good deal less hair, more girth around the middle, a peg-leg limp, skin that looks more dead than alive—my God, you poor bloke, you look just like me!” They laughed together before William asked, his brow creasing with concern, “How is Elizabeth? You wrote that she isn’t in the best of health.”

  “Much better now. Anne’s wedding gave her a lift. And the warmer weather helps. But what really made the difference was the anticipation of you and Lizzy coming to Hingham. It’s just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Glad to be of service,” his brother replied. “I must say, I look forward to getting to know her. You two were newlyweds when you sailed for America.”

  They watched as Lizzy and Katherine wiped away tears, each giggling at the other caught up in the overflow of powerful emotions. Richard laughed along with them, delighted to be once again in the company of people he held so dear.

  Only young Will appeared standoffish. Like many boys his age, he regarded shows of personal affection as girlish spectacles to be avoided at all costs. He leaned against a tree with his hands in his pockets, attempting to appear aloof. “Pappy, shouldn’t we be getting home?” he said at length. “Father says we should. It’s about to rain.” As if on cue, there came a louder, closer clap of thunder.

  “We shall hop to it, Your Grace,” his grandfather said, saluting in a Royal Army fashion that always made Will giggle. He turned toward his brother. “Sir William, pray have yon squire draw up the prince’s chariots and we shall be on our way.”

  A CUTLER FAMILY gathering had to await the arrival of Richard’s sisters and was set for the following week. The few days’ respite suited everyone, the weight of family issues to be discussed notwithstanding, for the older Cutlers had half a lifetime to catch up on, and Lizzy was eager to lavish affection on her best friend’s children. In due course, Stephen and Lavinia Starbuck arrived from Duxbury, though Anne Seymour traveled alone by carriage from Cambridge. Frederick sent his regrets, she announced, but was too busy to take leave of his budding medical practice.

  The next day, the family’s mood
turned somber as they gathered in the parlor of the Cutler home on Main Street. The weather had turned surprisingly cool for late May, and a thick mist hid the sun, adding to the solemnity. Everyone took a seat, the matriarch Elizabeth beside the hearth where a fire popped and crackled, the others flanked out in a wide semicircle around William and Thomas Cutler holding court in the center. Upstairs, in what used to be Richard and Caleb’s room and was now occupied by William Cutler, Will and Jamie played war games on the floor under the attentive eye of Edna Stowe, the family housekeeper.

  Thomas Cutler led off. “I suggest we postpone discussion of Caleb’s release for the moment, though of course that is the most important reason we are here today. Richard has something to say on the subject that I think you will find compelling. Let us first review the state of our business. This is not a separate issue, as you will soon come to realize. It is closely linked to our efforts to free Caleb and the rest of Eagle’s crew.” He turned to his son. “Richard, you were the last to be on Barbados. Might I ask you to recount for us your observations there?”

  Richard was prepared for that question. The previous afternoon he had reviewed today’s agenda with his father and uncle. He didn’t have to relate much about his voyage to the Indies; everyone present realized what was at stake there and the ramifications of the threat posed by Captain Horatio Nelson. The question was, how should the Cutler family respond to that threat? Richard deferred the answer to his uncle.

  “Our original assumption,” William picked up the thread, “was that there was no substance to any of this. As Richard pointed out, there is considerable opposition to the Navigation Acts in every British colony and at every level of society. So we chose to do nothing and wait for the storm clouds to blow over, so to speak. Alas, we were wrong. It seems clear, in retrospect, that the Royal Navy intends to follow the letter of the law on this matter, whatever the consequences. Captain Nelson is even now carrying out his threat. There are more British agents on Barbados than ever before, and we are being closely watched in England as well.”