After exchanging the usual pleasantries with the coxswain, Richard sat in silence as the oarsmen rowed the boat over to the naval squadron’s anchorage. Only the steady creak of oars rising and dipping, rising and dipping broke the silence. Richard took advantage of the lull to survey the western face of Gibraltar, now revealed to him by an evening sun streaking through broken clouds. Through the dissipating fog and mist he saw what appeared to be a gargantuan battle cruiser of mythical proportions pointing north, the magnificent height of the Rock looking like an old-fashioned poop deck rising high above the Mediterranean. There was even what seemed to be a ship’s hull, a substantial wall running close to the water’s edge from as far north as he could see all the way south past the fortress to Europa Point at the southern tip of the rocky promontory. Interspersed along the wall every fifty feet or so were clusters of star-shaped batteries housing cannon of various firepower standing in defense of official and private buildings of Spanish, British, and Italian construction. And, to his surprise, he saw Moorish construction too: holding a commanding position where a gentle slope gave way to a steep escarpment a third of the way up to the top of the Rock loomed a massive stone castle in a triangular shape resembling an Egyptian pyramid. Attached to the castle was a square-turreted redoubt replete with merlon battlements and a huge stone archway flanked on both sides by thick stone walls that zigzagged down along the embankment to the wall at the water’s edge.
The coxswain followed Richard’s gaze. “The Tower of Homage, sir,” he explained, his seasoned tone suggesting prior experience acting as tour guide to visiting dignitaries. “That’s what we English call it. The Moors call it Al Qasabah. It was built in the fifteenth century after the Moors recaptured Gibraltar from the Spanish. Quite a sight, isn’t it? The British governor lives on the top floor of the redoubt.”
“I’ll be damned,” Richard marveled, awed by the sight and wondering what it must have cost the Spanish to finally wrest this fortress away from the Moors.
A glance to the right or left of the castle confirmed how heavily fortified Gibraltar was, and why the Spanish had failed during the Great Siege of 1779–83 to take back from the British what was, geographically if not by the Treaty of Utrecht, Spanish soil. All along the escarpment were natural caves of various sizes, giving the impression of an enormous, two-mile-long honeycomb of gun ports. The iron black of cannon muzzles protruded everywhere like the dark tongues of unseen beasts lurking in their dark depths. In areas devoid of caves the British had erected additional gun batteries, armed to the teeth with 64-pounders—some larger, it seemed to Richard, if guns of such enormous size existed. And from his current vantage point out on the waters of Algeciras Bay, away from the dominance of the fortress and the sheer rock cliffs, he could see high up on the very peak of the Rock what he would have deemed to be impossible: silhouettes of mammoth cannon arrayed in back-to-back formation. One rank faced north toward Catholic Spain, the other south across the eight-mile Strait toward the empire of the Prophet: the North African realm of Islam.
When the coxswain ordered his crew to ease on their oars, Richard turned his attention to the ships attached to the Mediterranean Squadron lying at anchor dead ahead. All the ships he made out were frigates save for two: a 74 with a long white pennant fluttering from her foremast truck identifying her as the flagship; and another, a 64, Jeremy’s ship. Richard was familiar enough with British ship construction to know that 64s had become the orphans of the Royal Navy: too large and cumbersome for frigate duty but not large enough in this modern age to take position in a line of battle during a major fleet engagement. Still, these ships held their own in special assignments, and the mere threat of her broadside—thirty-two guns firing mostly 24-pound shot, or roughly 750 pounds of iron per broadside—was enough to keep all but the mightiest of predators at bay. Compare that weight, Richard brooded, with Falcon’s broadside: a puny 18 pounds.
The reception awaiting him aboard HMS Invincible was entirely in keeping with a Royal Navy ship. Once he had climbed the steep steps built into the frigate’s tumble-home and was standing at the larboard entry port, a side party of ship’s boys, dressed in finery from their polished buckled shoes to the clean white tips of their cotton gloves, piped him aboard, the high-pitched squeals of their bosun’s whistles continuing until a petty officer gave a quick chopping motion with his hand and they ceased abruptly.
Lieutenant Cobb, there to greet him, snapped a crisp salute. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Cutler,” he said hospitably.
Richard returned the salute. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Allow me to escort you aft, sir. Captain Hardcastle is eagerly awaiting you.”
Richard was eagerly awaiting his first meeting with Jeremy, too, but he could not resist giving the ship a quick once-over as he followed Lieutenant Cobb aft toward the captain’s cabin lodged beneath the quarterdeck. Not surprisingly, he found nothing even remotely in violation of the strict code of seamanship demanded by the Royal Navy. What did command his attention, and caused him to slow his pace, were the stubby 32-pound carronades mounted on traversable slides that he could see up through the open serpentine railing on the quarterdeck. They were the same sort of guns he had admired aboard HMS Boreas in Antigua. These and the long guns on the weather deck featured the new and more efficient flintlock firing mechanism set off by yanking a lanyard. This recent innovation in the British navy had reduced the linstock and powder quill to backup status in case a flintlock misfired.
Just then, a small, tail-less, brown creature with a furry white chest scampered out from beneath the quarterdeck overhang. It stopped abruptly at Richard’s feet and stared up at him with an arrogant “what the hell are you doing aboard this ship” look. The creature then launched into a tirade of furious scolding chatter before wheeling about and scampering back whence it had come.
“There’s a monkey on deck!” Richard shouted out incredulously to Lieutenant Cobb, who turned around to grin back at him. He realized how absurd his words must have sounded, but taken aback as he was, he didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s a rock ape, actually,” Cobb informed him. “They’re from Morocco. Every ship in the squadron has one. They make interesting pets, or so I’m told.”
Richard joined Cobb under the overhang. “You could have fooled me,” he said, glancing warily to starboard as if expecting another assault. “I don’t think that fellow likes me.”
“That fellow doesn’t like anyone,” Cobb said.
If the sentry standing at ramrod attention before the captain’s cabin found anything amusing in that exchange, his face did not show it. It remained as blank as the spotless white of his trousers and pipe-clayed belts, and the faultless blood red of his dress uniform coat. Two black chevrons on the lower sleeve identified him as a Royal Marine corporal. He snapped his sea-service musket to his side and banged its bronzetipped butt on the deck as the lieutenant approached.
“Captain Cutler of the American schooner Falcon to see the captain,” Cobb declared.
“Sir!” the sentry replied. He pivoted on his heels and knocked on the cabin door.
“Yes?” a voice called from inside.
“Captain Cutler to see you, sir,” the sentry announced. “Of the American schooner Falcon, just arrived.”
“Very good. Please show him in.”
“I shall leave you now, Mr. Cutler,” Cobb said, as the sentry opened the door and stepped aside. “I hope you enjoy your evening.” He gave Richard a final salute, which Richard returned.
“Mind your head, sir,” the marine corporal cautioned as Richard ducked into the grandeur of a post captain’s day cabin. He heard the door close gently behind him as he entered the room.
“Richard! By God! How delightful to meet you after all these years!” Jeremy Hardcastle, decked out in the blue, gold, and white of a senior officer’s dress uniform, rose from his chair at a small desk by the larboard galley windows and strode over with hand outstretched.
“Wonde
rful to meet you too, Jeremy.” Richard shook his brother-in-law’s hand firmly. “Katherine has told me much about you. Be warned: she has you sitting high on a pedestal.”
“Does she now!” Jeremy smiled. “Well, at least I’m in good company up there. It’s where you’ve been perched ever since the day she met you.”
Jeremy’s effusive greeting dispelled any tension or unease Richard might have felt before meeting his in-law as quickly as the fog had earlier dissipated in Algeciras Bay. Gripping Richard’s upper arm gently with his right hand, Jeremy guided him toward two blue-on-yellow wingback chairs set this side of the small desk where he had been sitting, near the edge of a deck covered with a decorative black-and-whitecheckered canvas carpet.
“May I offer you a glass of sherry?” he inquired. “It comes from Jerez and is really quite excellent. I do credit the Dagos for producing such a fine spirit.”
“I’d welcome a glass, thank you.”
As Jeremy fetched two cut-crystal glasses and a decanter of sherry from the selection of spirits available in fitted racks directly above an ornately carved mahogany sideboard, Richard glanced around him. During his years at sea he had been privileged to witness the splendor and dignity of a British captain’s after cabin, as far removed from the stench and squalor of the crew’s quarters forward in the forecastle or the roughand-tumble of the midshipmen’s berth four decks below on the orlop as Kensington Palace was from the slums of East London or the carnival air and whores of Southwark Fields. This cabin was as opulent and commodious as any he had seen, simply because this was the largest British warship he had ever been aboard. A large, rectangular ebony chart table dominated the center of the room; beyond it, on the starboard side, was another sitting area with a brocade couch and chairs set beneath another set of gallery windows just aft of a 12-pound gun bowsed up against a closed gunport, the blood red of its carriage and truck a bold complement to the gleaming black of its muzzle. A formal dining alcove beyond was balanced on the larboard side by the captain’s sleeping alcove, its door closed. In between, in the stern windows, thick glass panes afforded a blurred view of the Tower of Homage at sunset. Arrayed upon the walls of the day cabin were a number of nautical paintings as well as an impressive number of books arranged on shelves specially designed to prevent them from falling out during rough weather.
Jeremy walked over with a glass of sherry in each hand to where Richard was standing. “So tell me,” he said as he handed a glass to Richard, “how is my darling sister? It’s been too long since I last saw her.”
“She’s well, Jeremy. She sends her love to you.”
“And my two nephews, whom I am sad to say I have never met?” He clinked his glass against Richard’s. “Cheers, my good man.”
Richard sipped his sherry and took a moment to savor the delectable taste. “They’re just what you’d expect of two strapping lads,” he replied. “Full of mischief and a constant worry for their poor mother. And I’m pleased to report that you now have a niece. Her name is Diana, born just before I sailed. She’d make you proud. A lovely little lass.”
“No surprise there, if she takes after her mother.”
“Which, praise God, she does.”
“Then I believe congratulations are in order.” He raised his glass. “To Diana Cutler: may she forever serve as the apple of God’s eye and the pride of her mother’s fleet.”
“To Diana Cutler,” Richard said, raising his own glass. “But if you don’t mind, Captain, I’d prefer the word ‘squadron’ to ‘fleet.’”
Jeremy laughed. “Done, Commodore, by your leave.”
Each man took the measure of the other as they sipped their sherry. As Richard had expected, Jeremy was as physically striking as his siblings: as tall as Hugh and as graceful as Katherine, with Hugh’s wavy brown hair and finely chiseled features, and an easy air of authority about him that seemed more a birthright than anything gleaned along the pathway to the quarterdeck. Only his eyes, ice blue and piercing, seemed uniquely his own, inevitably drawing one in toward him. Like his brother Hugh—and, Richard had to admit, like their father—everything about Jeremy Hardcastle exemplified how the British Admiralty desired its officers to appear and act in public.
Before Jeremy sat down on one of the wingback chairs, as if sensitive to their stark difference in dress, he removed his uniform coat and hung it on a hook by the door leading into his sleeping cabin. Richard took a small canvas satchel from a side pocket before removing his own coat. With both men now similarly clad in white trousers, shirt, waistcoat, and navy blue neck stock—notwithstanding the more elegant cut of clothes fitted by a London tailor—they at least appeared to be equals.
Richard placed the satchel on the small round table between them. “I have several letters with me,” he said. “One is to you, from Katherine. Another is to her parents. A third is from Lizzy Cutler to her parents. I am hoping you can have the two letters to Fareham sent by naval courier. I also have letters from me and my crew to our families back home in Boston. Might I ask you to see to them as well?”
“I will attend to them personally, Richard. And I have a package for you, which you must remind me to give you later this evening.” Without further explanation, Jeremy steered the conversation back toward family news. “I heard that Lizzy is in America. I must say, I have felt sorry for that poor girl during all these years. So much to live for, so lovely, yet never truly happy. She is a living tribute to Jamie, but I fear it’s a sacrifice offered for no real purpose. It’s not what my brother would have wished for her. It’s certainly not what I might wish for her.”
“No,” Richard agreed. He thought he detected in Jeremy’s tone a sentiment for Lizzy that went beyond brotherly love or concern, and offered nothing further.
“So,” Jeremy interrupted his own thoughts, “to the business at hand. You are sailing to Algiers. As you are aware, we have chests of gold and silver waiting for you in the hold, sent here by your uncle. In value, it is roughly £7,500. That sum does not include another £2,500 worth contributed by my father. If my math is correct, that totals $45,000 in American currency.”
“Your father?” Richard exclaimed, stunned to his core.
“Yes, my father,” Jeremy confirmed.
“But . . .” Richard hardly knew what to say. “Was this Katherine’s doing?”
“No. Not directly. Your uncle informed my father about your plan to rescue Caleb, and my father offered to help. It’s that simple.”
Richard shook his head. “Forgive me, Jeremy, I mean no disrespect, but it can’t be that simple. Your father has had it in for me since the day I first laid eyes on his daughter.”
“That is true,” Jeremy admitted. “But I suspect there are things you don’t fully understand about my father, Richard. He’s a proud man, and he’s Royal Navy to his core. Perhaps saltwater does run through his veins, as some people say. But be assured that he loves his daughter. He loves her very much. And he was quite clear in his own mind what he wanted for her in life and in marriage when the two of you fell in love.”
“Whatever it was, it did not include me.”
“No, it did not. You were, after all, a colonial. Admittedly, a colonial from a good family with good English connections, but a Jonathan nonetheless who would deny his daughter her rightful place in English society.”
Richard grimaced. “Did love never enter his equation? Did he not care who Katherine might actually desire for a husband?”
Jeremy chuckled. “Never, Richard. In my father’s view, if love comes about, it does so as the result of doing one’s duty. It is not something to be sought out or coveted, such as a title bestowed by the king. Yes, I can see you don’t agree with that perspective, but think on it: is his view so outlandish? Whatever his social class, every father wants his daughter to rise a notch or two as a result of marrying well. I should think your father would want the very same thing for your sisters, Anne and Lavinia. You will want the same for Diana someday.”
“W
ell, if it’s fancy titles your father admires,” Richard blurted out, “you should remind him that I am master of an American schooner.” Instantly he regretted uttering something so inane.
Jeremy chose to ignore it. “What my father may have believed back then, Richard, is not necessarily what he believes today. Old age tends to mellow a man. He is retired, as you well know, and could hardly be considered wealthy. His gift to you and your family is his way of saying that perhaps he was wrong about you, that he recognizes the joy and comfort you have given his daughter. So really, in a way, it is Katherine’s doing. Her letters home speak volumes.”
Richard struggled to accept the incomprehensible. “Your father is apologizing to me?”
Again Jeremy chuckled. “Don’t press your luck, Commodore. In his prime, my father would have told the Almighty to sod off did He try to force an apology out of him. I daresay, though, that what we have here is as close to an apology as you or anyone else is ever going to get.
“Now then,” he continued, his tone turning serious, “tomorrow, or whenever it suits you, we will need to transfer the chests we hold here on Invincible over to Falcon. I have detailed some men to help. I also have a lighter standing by to supply you with water and victuals.”
The first warm glow Richard had ever felt for his father-in-law was suddenly doused by a cold, sinking sensation. Jeremy’s words hit him like a thunderbolt.
“Excuse me, Jeremy. Perhaps I was misinformed, but I thought it would be the other way around. I thought that we would be transferring chests from Falcon onto Invincible. You’re escorting me to Algiers, are you not? I had understood that we would sail there together.”
Jeremy shifted uneasily in his chair. For several long moments he contemplated the glass he held at his lap. When his eyes came to Richard’s, they were filled with regret. “You were not misinformed,” he said softly. “That was both my plan and my most devout wish.”
For Love of Country Page 11
