For Love of Country

by William C. Hammond

  “You did fine, Doctor,” Richard said. “Just fine, thank you. Are the others in the hospital eating as well?”

  “Those able to, yes.”

  Richard understood that Brooke meant no criticism, but guilt stroked through him nonetheless—guilt for enjoying such fare while others under his command could not, either because they were too injured or because they were dead. He set his fork down.

  “Have you made the rounds this morning, Doctor?”

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  Inexplicably, Brooke bowed his head. “Mr. Crabtree is progressing,” he said, avoiding Richard’s questioning gaze, “though it will be a while before he’s back on his feet. That shot that glanced off his leg fractured his kneecap. As painful as it is for him, it will heal, over time.”

  “How much time?”

  “It’s difficult to say with that kind of injury. I’d give it four months, at a minimum. But his prognosis, overall, is good. The wounds to his neck and head are coming along. He lost a lot of blood, as you did, Captain, but you both will pull through. Thankfully, there’s no need to hurry things along. From what I’m hearing, it may take longer to repair Falcon than to repair her two senior officers. Since you and Mr. Crabtree aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, you may just as well settle in and enjoy the local flavor.”

  “Doctor, my family . . .”

  “I took the liberty of writing your father, Captain. I reported to him that we have been delayed in Toulon for the winter and that you and Mr. Crabtree have been wounded, though you both are recovering nicely. I did not give any other details. You can supply those later.”

  Richard let his head sink back down onto the pillows, yielding to a surge of relief and to the fatigue that had plagued him since the battle. Moments passed in silence save for the distant sound of a three-way conversation in French. Then a premonition compelled him to open his eyes and look at Dr. Brooke. “What is it, Doctor? What haven’t you told me?”

  Brooke had been staring down at his hands. He slowly raised his eyes. “I regret to report, Captain, that we have lost another shipmate. He went during the night.”

  “Peter Chatfield.”

  “Yes, but how ...?”

  “Go on.”

  “He fought hard to the end,” Brooke said, blinking. “It’s a blessing he went, for he could never have recovered from his injuries. I didn’t want to tell you this, Captain, not in your condition. I know how fond you were of Chatfield.”

  Richard slumped back onto the pillows. “And the others?” he murmured.

  “The others will pull through, Captain. You may depend on it.”

  THOSE FIRST FEW WEEKS in Toulon passed calmly, quietly. Richard remained in the naval hospital, drifting in and out of consciousness, largely oblivious to the passage of time or to specific dates. It was not until the crisp air of autumn was yielding to the frost of winter that his condition improved sufficiently for him to go outside and take the air, although he was still unable to stand for more than a few minutes at a time. His strength returned slowly but surely.

  One day in late November the port captain of Toulon came to visit him at the hospital. He had come on official business, document case in hand, to determine the sequence of events prior to Falcon’s arrival before the guns of Fort St. Louis, which guarded the southern approaches to Toulon’s harbor. Dressed in a white uniform with gold trim, the bespectacled port captain introduced himself as Capitaine Antoine-Pierre Mercier.

  Mercier sat down on the chair next to the bed and removed several sheets of paper from his satchel. “It is easier,” he observed wryly, “to get past the Swiss guards at the Vatican or at Versailles than past your ship’s surgeon.” They were conversing in French, the post captain having been informed that Richard was fluent in that language.

  “I can imagine,” Richard replied. He took a sip from the mug of the hot Ceylon tea that Captain Mercier had kindly brought in for him.

  “I realize you are not entirely healed, Captain Cutler,” he mused as he searched through his papers, “so I will limit my time here today.” He put down one sheet of paper, picked up another. “I have but a few questions to ask . . . ah, here we are.” He scanned his notes before glancing up. “You sailed here to Toulon from Algiers, correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  “At your government’s request?”

  “At your government’s agreement to my government’s request to let us use these facilities.”

  Mercier smiled. “Yes, of course. My apologies. Now, then, if you don’t mind, let us go back to the beginning. What was your purpose in going to Algiers?”

  “My purpose was to ransom American sailors taken by Barbary pirates aboard one of my family’s merchant vessels. My brother is among those sailors.”

  “Yes, I was sorry to learn that. When did this attack on your family’s vessel occur?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “Your government supported you in this mission?”

  “Yes, it did. I was granted diplomatic status for the mission.”

  “Ah. Then as a diplomat, surely you must have met our esteemed consul in Algiers, Monsieur de Kercy?” Mercier’s face remained impassive, though Richard thought he detected a twinkle of mirth in the Frenchman’s eyes.

  “I met him,” Richard replied noncommittally.

  Mercier leaned forward, spoke in confidence. “As I have, Captain. Let me just say that in my opinion, and in the opinion of others, Monsieur de Kercy is not the flower of the French diplomatic corps. He is, in fact, more like a weed. Why he was appointed to such a critical post I cannot explain to you.” Mercier leaned back, cleared his throat, and resumed an official tone of voice. “Now please tell me, Captain, as best you can, exactly what happened in Algiers.”

  Richard told him, as best he could.

  “I see. And you sailed from there . . . one moment, please . . . ” Mercier checked his notes. “You sailed from there the evening of September the second?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Captain, please tell me what happened on the morning of September the third.”

  Richard knew that Mercier had been through all this with Micah Lamont and several other members of his crew who had emerged unscathed from the sea battle. He said as much to the port captain.

  “That is true,” Mercier acknowledged. “And I must add that they have been most cooperative. Their testimony is the basis for my notes.” He held up the sheets of paper. “But Mr. Cutler, you must understand that when it comes to the morning of September the third, what they told me was . . . well, shall I say that what they told me is an account I would appreciate hearing again from the mouth of the schooner’s captain.”

  As Richard conveyed the details of the battle in a matter-of-fact tone, Mercier chewed lightly on his lower lip. At the conclusion of the account he stared at Richard, mouth slightly agape. “You are telling me, Captain, that your schooner, a merchant vessel armed with six guns, was attacked by two Algerian xebecs, each armed with twenty guns, and that in the ensuing battle you succeeded in destroying both of them before sailing on to Toulon. Is that what you are telling me?”

  “That is what I’m telling you, sir.”

  “Monsieur . . . Forgive me for asking . . . I do not mean to doubt you . . . Your mate and surgeon have collaborated every detail . . . but my dear man . . . how?”

  Richard shrugged, and instantly regretted it as pain knifed through his arm. “I sail with good men, Captain.”

  Mercier shook his head repeatedly as he busied himself rearranging the papers on his lap. “You will appreciate, Captain Cutler, that my report on this subject will be met with some skepticism by my superiors. At the very least, they will think my brain has become addled with too much wine. And who could blame them, after hearing such an account?” He gave Richard a weak smile.

  Richard smiled back.

  “Well, Captain Cutler, I suppose that must do. Now, what is next for you? Once you have fully reco
vered.”

  “I must see to repairs of my schooner.”

  “Yes, of course. Those repairs will take time—and money.”

  “I have funds to pay for repairs. Can you recommend a good shipwright in Toulon?” When Mercier nodded, Richard continued, “I will remain here until my ship is almost ready to sail, then I will travel to Paris while my men remain with the ship. “My crew will be allowed to remain here, Captain, until the repairs are made?” Again Mercier nodded. “Thank you. Once I reach Paris, I will visit Captain John Paul Jones. You know of him, I trust?”

  Mercier held up the palms of his hands in French fashion, as if to say, “Who in France has not?”

  “Captain Jones will be leading a delegation to Barbary,” Richard said. He saw no point in being secretive about Jones’ mission. It seemed to be common knowledge in several parts of the world. “I have information that may prove useful to him.”

  “Yes. It is what I read in a dispatch from your consul, Mr. Jefferson, when he requested permission for you to use our medical facilities here. I had wondered if you still planned to travel to Paris.”

  “I do. After what happened in Algiers, nothing is more important to me.”

  “I understand, Captain. But I feel I must warn you . . .” Mercier paused.

  “Warn me about what, monsieur?”

  Mercier removed his eyeglasses and began wiping them with a handkerchief drawn from an inner pocket of his uniform dress coat. Richard waited in silence for the man to collect, assess, and finally articulate his thoughts.

  “You are aware of . . . the difficulties we are having in France?”

  Richard understood generally what Mercier meant, though he had little specific knowledge. Even before leaving home he had read in the Boston newspapers about the unrest in France and the disastrous state of the French economy. It was caused in no small part by excessive spending on the French military, specifically the French Royal Navy, by the government of King Louis XVI, who hoped to avenge the loss of French prestige and overseas possessions following the Seven Years’ War against England. France’s hatred for England had been the basis of the military alliance between France and America during the Revolutionary War.

  Hunger and unemployment in France had been exacerbated by severe droughts in the south and bizarre summer hailstorms in the north that had all but destroyed the harvest for 1788. The price of bread had soared, and the government’s efforts to stimulate the economy and get things back on an even keel had been badly bungled. Famine had gripped the nation with such severity that food riots had broken out in many cities. Peasants who could no longer afford to buy bread demanded relief from well-to-do landlords who continued to demand rents and other vestiges of feudal privilege. Those dressed in rags and barely able to scrounge together a few sous resented paying high rents to a landlord who spent the money on snuff to clear his nostrils and perfume to scent his powdered wig.

  When the gathering storm finally broke and angry mobs began sacking Bordeaux and other French cities, shock waves of disbelief reverberated all the way across Spain to Gibraltar. Jeremy Hardcastle had informed Richard during his visit there that French citizens fueled by hate and desperation were breaking into bakeries and seizing shopkeepers accused of price-fixing or hoarding bread, lynching them on the spot or bludgeoning them to death in a fury of lawless retribution that enlarged to include local officials and tax collectors guilty only of doing their jobs. King Louis had pleaded for calm, promising reforms in a bankrupt system that had failed nearly everyone. He vowed to convene the États Généraux, a government body encompassing the three estates of the French societal pyramid that had not sat since 1614, during the reign of the Sun King, Louis XIV. The king’s promises and the respect he still commanded among his subjects succeeded in restoring a semblance of order. But it was a tenuous truce at best, with dark whispers of insurrection continuing to threaten France like a fire-arrow of destruction aimed from the vast underbelly of the third estate, up through the heart and soul of French culture—the chevaliers of the second estate and the clergy of the first—all the way to the very tip of the pyramid: the court of Versailles where King Louis resided with his despised Austrian-born queen, Marie Antoinette.

  “I regret that your country is suffering, Captain,” Richard said, with a sincerity he truly felt. “France was a loyal ally of my country during the war. We could not have won our independence without your help.”

  Mercier bowed. “France was pleased and proud to help, monsieur.” He gazed beyond Richard, his eyes misting with pride as if he were recalling an earlier age when the power and prestige of La Belle France had stirred the hearts of all Frenchmen, from the lowliest of the low to the grandest of nobles fêting one another in their magnificent châteaux.

  He snapped to when Richard asked, “Is it safe to travel to Paris these days, Captain?”

  “What? Oh. You are asking me if it is safe to travel to Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  “The journey itself is safe, I should think. The danger is what may await you once you arrive there. Whatever is coming, it will begin and it will end in Paris. You are an American. Your country is much admired by my people, rich and poor alike. Ironic, is it not, that France fought for America’s independence and now finds herself threatened by what America achieved. Those who would limit the powers of the monarchy, or abolish it altogether, call themselves ‘patriots,’ as you Americans did during your revolution. The marquis de Lafayette, a nobleman of ancient blood, is leading the call for reform in France, seeming to care nothing for his own class and privileged status.” He smiled without humor, a man who had far more than privileged status to lose if l’ancien régime collapsed.

  Under the circumstances, Richard thought it best not to mention that he was well acquainted with the marquis de Lafayette. He had served under him at the Battle of Yorktown, and his parents had met the Frenchman at a reception held at the Anchor Inn in Hingham when Lafayette traveled there during the war to confer with Brigadier General Benjamin Lincoln, Washington’s second in command.

  “Excuse me, Captain Cutler,” Mercier said, rising from his chair. “I have kept you longer than I promised. I must take my leave. But first I must add that you needn’t worry about the safety of your schooner or her cargo. The quays are patrolled night and day, and I have ordered a detail of marines to stand watch over her. Before I go, is there anything I might do for you? Or have sent to you?”

  “Just the repairs to my schooner,” Richard reminded him. “And I would be obliged, Captain, if you could have pen and paper sent to me. I have many letters to write.”

  “Of course. I will see to your requests immediately. Adieu, Captain Cutler. I have enjoyed our conversation and I wish you good luck.” He offered a salute.

  “Bonne chance à vous aussi,” Richard said, saluting in turn. “Et, capitaine?” he added as Mercier was about to make his exit. Mercier glanced back. “Vive la France!”

  Mercier held Richard’s gaze. “Vive le roi!” he said softly, passionately, before turning and disappearing through the folds of the curtains.

  THE WEEKS ROLLED ONWARD. Though the calendar indicated that spring was approaching, the weather claimed otherwise. The winter of 1789 was the coldest in memory, the chill of Christmas descending to outright frigid conditions in January that heaped misery upon misery on the hapless French peasantry. Unable to procure food and firewood to keep themselves alive, many families died in their sleep, huddled together in scraps of clothing and blankets. Nor did winter’s wrath spare the southern provinces. Throughout Provence, delicate grapevines and more sturdy olive trees remained encased in tombs of ice until the warming rays of April finally released them from the death grip—too late; the produce on which so many people relied had been destroyed.

  In Toulon, windows of buildings designed to welcome in, not shut out, the soothing breezes of the Mediterranean remained shuttered for weeks on end. If one looked down toward the harbor and the massive La Bagne prison at the bas
e of the mountains on the eastern shore, one could only imagine the suffering of the French radicals and other accused enemies of the state shivering inside in the cold while awaiting transport to some distant penal colony from which they would never return.

  Richard saw a different view as he walked slowly alongside the quays of Toulon early one morning in May: a cloudless sky and glints of sunshine reflecting off Falcon’s newly rigged shrouds. She was tied to a dock nearby, a tiny vessel compared with the mammoth ships anchored out in the harbor: an array of battle cruisers the likes of which Richard had not witnessed since the summer of ’74, when he and his brother Will had sailed past the British naval base at Spithead. Falcon had only recently come out of dry dock, her repairs delayed by the weather and the turmoil sweeping France—and thus extending by several months the time granted her crew to remain in Toulon. But her repairs were nearing completion; Richard had been informed just yesterday that she should be ready for sea trials within a fortnight. As he slowed his step still more to keep pace with Agreen limping along beside him, the thought again occurred to him that whatever else might be said about the French, they knew how to build and repair ships. Falcon had never looked better. He said as much to Agreen.

  “Careful, matey,” Agreen groused. “Ben Hallowell would have you flogged for speakin’ such heresy,” referring to the shipwright in Boston who had designed and built Falcon. “He’d set up a grate on the Common and invite all your rich friends up from Hingham t’ come watch you get yours.”

  A glint shone in Richard’s eye when he asked, “Do you think Lizzy would be there?”

  “Damn right she’d be there. She’d be first in line, given what-all you’ve made me put up with ever since I signed on with your outfit. And I haven’t even told her the bad things. I don’t want her angrier at you than she already is.” He shook his head. “Mark my words, matey, mark them well: if by some miracle we ever do get back t’ Boston, I have half a mind t’ quit your employ.”