A Call to Arms Read online

  The interior was even more impressive than the exterior. A number of doorways branched off the grand hallway, at the end of which a sweeping stairway similar in design to the outside front steps led up to God only knew what lap of luxury abided there. A dining room off to the right hosted a long, brightly polished table with numerous place-settings arranged in meticulous fashion before Chippendale chairs. Each setting was a paragon of impeccable good taste in the china, silverware, pyramided salmon pink napkin, and multiple crystal glassware it displayed. Bouquets of freshly cut roses in elegant porcelain and glass vases proceeded in regal procession down the table, which was so long that it seemed to diminish into the distance. Platoons of pantry-boys, cooks, maids, and other domestic staff bustled about to ensure that this affair—as was true, Richard suspected, of every affair hosted by Sir Alexander Ball—rose to the highest levels of social etiquette.

  “I’ll say one thing for the Brits,” Agreen mused privately to Richard as he gazed about the vast chamber. “They sure know how t’ throw a party.”

  “Amen to that, Agee.”

  “Captain Cutler, I presume?”

  Richard turned to find yet another elegantly attired gentleman, this one, he assumed, acting in the more official capacity of le maître.

  “I am Captain Cutler,” he confirmed.

  The man showed a leg. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Captain. And yours, Lieutenant. If you gentlemen will please follow me. Two rather distinguished guests are eagerly awaiting you,” he said as he led the way across the broad hallway toward a room on the opposite side.

  “Richard, are you sure you want me around?” Agreen whispered as they followed behind. “Jeremy is your kin.”

  “So are you, Agee,” Richard whispered back. “Besides, they’re expecting you.”

  Le maître rapped gently on the closed door and then opened it to allow Richard and Agreen to step inside. It closed behind them with a soft click.

  “Richard! By Jove, look at you! It’s been what, fifteen years? In the future we absolutely must do better with our calendars!” Jeremy Hardcastle smiled with delight as he crossed the carpeted room and took Richard’s right hand in both of his. “By God, sir, you look well. Not a day older than when I last saw you. Tell me: how do you keep yourself so fit?”

  “Clearly by following your example, Jeremy,” Richard quipped. “You look as prime as anyone our age I’ve ever seen.”

  “Our age? I have a few years on you, old boy, but I’ll take that as a compliment.” His ice-blue eyes shifted to Agreen. “Welcome, Lieutenant. Now you I have seen more recently. You were on your way to Algiers, wasn’t it, to bring your shipmates home at last.”

  Agreen nodded. “That’s correct, Captain Hardcastle. I’m honored to see you again, sir.”

  “The honor is entirely mine. And please do away with the ‘sir’ business and call me ‘Jeremy’ in the confines of this room. We’re all friends and family here, and men of the sea. Sir Alexander was so kind to allow us this time alone together before le grand fête. Once the other guests arrive we shall be hard-pressed to find one another. We shall instead find ourselves shipwrecked on the reefs of idle chatter and silly gossip.”

  Richard grinned. “Well put, Jeremy.” His eyes swung inevitably to the man who had stood when the door was opened but had not yet come forward. Unlike Jeremy, who was clad in a blue cloth jacket with wide white lapels, shiny gold buttons, and a gilt-fringed stand-up collar—much like Richard’s own dress uniform but with more accoutrements and gold trim—Horatio Nelson wore a coat of dark blue wool cloth, and only a splash of white showed beneath the black silk stock he wore around his neck. Gold embroidery was readily noticeable in the buttons of his coat, in the epaulette he wore on each shoulder, and in the trim on the crest of his uniform hat, which he had placed on a side table. Pinned to the left breast of his coat was the elaborately decorative silver star of a Knight Commander of the Most Honorable Military Order of the Bath.

  When Nelson caught Richard’s gaze, he stepped forward and offered Richard his left hand. Richard took it in his own left hand.

  “Congratulations on your promotion, Richard,” Nelson said with a twinkle in his pewter-gray eyes and a tone of genuine admiration. Richard noted that the British admiral’s hair had turned silver, and his five-foot-six frame retained an appearance of frailty that even the splendor of his uniform could not conceal. Yet, here before him stood a legend—a sea officer who had lost sight in his right eye at Calvi and his right arm after an assault on Santa Cruz. Once again Richard had the sense that just being in Nelson’s presence was a priceless gift, and that Britain’s foremost naval commander was yet willing to sacrifice a great deal more in service to God, country, and duty.

  “Congratulations on yours, Horatio,” Richard replied with a warm smile of his own. “And congratulations as well on the birth of Horatia. You must be very proud.”

  “I am indeed,” Nelson confirmed.

  “Shall we all sit?” Jeremy said. “Richard, Agreen, will you join us in a glass of Madeira? Yes? A wise decision, since I have already poured a glass for each of you.” He fetched two glasses half-full of the rich golden liquid from a sideboard. “Agreen,” he went on. “I hope you don’t mind if Richard supplies a few details of his family. It is, after all, my family as well. Horatio has already graciously agreed.”

  “Of course,” Agreen said, happy to settle back and sip his Madeira before facing the social wolves prowling outside.

  For the next half-hour Richard brought Jeremy current with Katherine and the children. Hardcastle and Nelson took particular interest in James Cutler’s service aboard Constitution and asked numerous questions about him, his frigate, and his commanding officer. When he deemed it appropriate, Richard steered the conversation back to other family matters. “You understand, Horatio,” he concluded, “that Katherine has threatened me with public flogging if I fail to deliver her warmest personal regards. She remembers you very fondly. We talk of you often.”

  “I send Katherine my warmest regards in return,” Nelson immediately responded. “And please tell her, for me, that she has done exceptionally well in marriage. As a husband and father, Richard, you are to be commended. Your sons and your daughter are clearly exemplary citizens. As for Katherine, she is as lovely and dear a woman as has ever walked upon this earth. It is her great fortune and her great wisdom in life to have tied her star to yours.”

  Richard was so moved by that last sentence that he had to fight to find his voice. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you for those very kind words, Horatio. I shall pass them on verbatim to Katherine when I write her tomorrow. She will be as deeply pleased to hear them as I am.” He looked to his brother-in-law to help stem the emotion that threatened to undo him. “How are Hugh and Phoebe, Jeremy? And how are your parents?”

  Jeremy gave Richard a small nod in appreciation of his questions. “Father, alas, is not well, nor is my mother, although, bless them, they both seem to be hanging on to a decent sort of life. I fear that when one goes, the other will soon follow. They have had their share of squabbles, and you know as well as anyone that Father can be rather headstrong, but despite that, they are as close a couple as ever you will find.” He paused before continuing in a more positive tone. “The big news is that Phoebe and Hugh are expecting a child in March. For a reason I do not fully understand, Hugh still threatens to migrate to America. He seems to be under the impression—dare I say, the delusion?—that you are prepared to offer him a rather handsome sum to join your family’s merchant company. He talks about it whenever we’re together.”

  “We’ll sign him on no matter what it takes,” Richard said, adding, with a grin, “The same offer, of course, applies to you and Horatio.”

  The British officers glanced at each other and chuckled. Jeremy said, “I daresay it’s a tempting offer now that your country had doubled in size.” He was referring to the much-publicized Louisiana Purchase, in which the French had sold their posse
ssions west of the Appalachian Mountains to the United States for fifteen million dollars that Napoléon desperately needed to wage war in Europe. “That transaction should add a pretty penny to Cutler & Sons’ coffers, what? You may actually be able to afford Hugh. And see that he earns his money. Send him off to the frontier to sell your family’s firewater to those Indian chaps. See if he comes back with his scalp intact. That should bloody well teach him to abandon His Majesty’s service.”

  “An intriguing notion,” Richard said, sharing in the mirth.

  As their time together grew short, the conversation veered onto a more serious course.

  “How goes the war, Richard?” Jeremy asked. “We hear bits and pieces from our intelligence service, of course, but nothing substantial.”

  Richard put down his glass. “From what I understand, it’s going rather well. Morocco has sued for peace, and the war drums in Tunis have subsided. Tripoli, of course, remains our primary enemy, and no doubt Commodore Preble has a new strategy in mind. I suspect we shall hear about it when we see him in Syracuse in two weeks.” He decided not to raise the matter of Eaton’s proposed overland assault on Tripoli. The notion still seemed far-fetched to him, and besides, British intelligence probably knew more about it than he did. “My ship Portsmouth had a run-in with a Tripolitan corsair last week,” he added.

  “Do say! May we trouble you for details?”

  “Indeed you may, Horatio. I shall ask my first lieutenant to relate them.”

  After Agreen had summarized the battle, Jeremy said, “We had a rather similar experience not two months ago, although on a somewhat different scale.” He glanced at Nelson. “By your leave, Horatio?”

  Nelson nodded.

  “It started right here off Malta,” Jeremy explained. “For no apparent reason two Algerian corsairs attacked one of our sloops of war. The sloop managed to escape into Grand Harbor, and a frigate was dispatched with orders to hunt down the corsairs and sink them. Which she did. The dey of Algiers, a chap named Mustapha, was so enraged that he ordered British citizens in Algiers imprisoned and their property confiscated. When Horatio learned of that, he led Victory and a squadron of seven frigates from Toulon to Algiers and immediately started bombarding the city. Within an hour, the dey sent out a boat to the flagship under a white flag. Horatio paid it no mind. He kept his guns hot until the outer wall of Algiers had collapsed and fires were burning within the city. Finally, the dey had himself rowed out to the flagship, pleading to Horatio and Allah for mercy. I can’t speak for Allah, but Horatio agreed, on the condition that he release the British citizens from prison, restore their possessions, and compensate them for their trouble. And on the condition that Mustapha promise never again to impugn England’s honor. Thus far, he has acted every bit the angelic schoolboy bowing and scraping before a stern schoolmaster. Is that a fair summary, Horatio?”

  “I daresay it is,” Nelson responded.

  “And I daresay the dey learned a hard lesson that day,” Agreen added, setting off a round of chuckles.

  “I agree with you, Agreen,” Nelson said gravely, “and I am not trying to be witty in saying that. Mustapha learned the same lesson as your corsair captain. And those with Western minds must learn one as well: that the one thing these Arab thugs seem to understand is brute force. That is the only antidote to their tactics. They use diplomacy as either a tool to gain what they want or as a delaying tactic. That is one reason I would not have an Arab in my fleet, except as a prisoner.”

  The clicks of hurried footsteps and the muffled voices of arriving guests in the hallway signaled the end to the friends’ intimate visit. Richard was engulfed by a wave of regret. Horatio and Jeremy were to leave Malta in the morning to return to station off Toulon, their business on the island, whatever it was, having been concluded.

  Nelson surprised Richard with an unexpected comment. “I’ve heard it bandied about, Richard, that the Mediterranean Sea is proving quite the training ground for your young navy. And that many of your hot-headed compatriots are now itching for another go against England.”

  The image of Able Seaman Cooper being forcibly removed from Barbara D two years earlier off the coast of Bermuda flashed through Richard’s mind. Flashing with greater intensity was the still painful image of Midn. James Makepeace Hardcastle, Jeremy’s youngest brother, dying in his arms on the deck of HMS Serapis in the North Sea in September 1779. “I have heard that said as well,” he said soberly. “God forbid, it should ever come to that. If it does, I shall resign my commission. I will never again fight at sea against my own family.” He gave Jeremy a meaningful glance, and another to Nelson. “Nor against men like you, Horatio.”

  Horatio Nelson met Richard’s gaze. “I say, Richard,” he said in a casual tone of voice as he picked up his uniform hat, “if it should indeed come to war, and you stay out of it, I give England better than even odds of winning this time around.” He stood up. “Shall we, Captain?”

  Richard rose with the others. “Lead on, Admiral,” he said. “I forever follow in your footsteps.”

  Eight

  Syracuse, Sicily, November 1803–January 1804

  NOVEMBER 24 dawned clear, with a brisk northeasterly breeze that during the night had dissipated low-lying rainclouds and summoned warm, dry air to the central regions of the Mediterranean Sea. Stationed amidships in Constitution, Midn. James Cutler glanced aloft at the complex network of standing rigging profiled against the brightening sky and then walked aft toward a cluster of sailors who were on their knees scouring the weather deck with holystones. Two others stood by to man the pump and hose, ready to wash down each section of deck with seawater until it glistened. It was backbreaking work, but the end result was what the ship’s senior officers—and their division commander—wanted to see: a smooth, blanched deck.

  As Jamie approached, the sailor named Simpson whistled softly. His mates ceased work, arose, and stood at attention.

  “As you were,” Jamie told them. He squatted down, ran his fingers lightly along and across the planks, and then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Well done, lads,” he proclaimed, rising to his feet. “Well done indeed. Your work reflects well on you and me and our entire division. For that I thank you.” He returned their salutes, then turned to go forward.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cutler,” Alan Simpson shouted out.

  “And joy o’ the mornin’ to ye,” another sailor cried.

  Jamie gave them a brief wave before continuing on. At the mainmast chain-wale he jumped up on the bulwark, swung himself onto the thick hempen shrouds, and began climbing the ratlines. Halfway to the fighting top he paused to gaze eastward over the shimmering waters of the Ionian Sea, then southward into the vast reaches of the Mediterranean. Finding nothing of consequence in either direction, he started descending to the deck just as a quartermaster’s mate struck the ship’s bell in three segments of two strikes, followed by a single strike. Almost in perfect synchrony, seven bells chimed in the other vessels of the Mediterranean Squadron: Argus and Syren, sleek 16-gun brigs of war; Vixen and Nautilus, 12-gun schooners; and the 12-gun schooner Enterprise lying at anchor close to her captured prize, the Tripolitan ketch Matisco, renamed Intrepid.

  Back on the deck, Jamie greeted Henry Wadsworth, a midshipman from Portland, Maine, transferred from the frigate New York in August after two of Constitution’s midshipmen had fallen from grace, one as the result of a severe illness, the other after taking a foolish risk while skylarking in the rigging. That plunge from the fore course yard while trying to prove his mettle to his shipmates had broken Tom Baldwin’s right leg and several of his ribs. He was fortunate to have escaped with his life.

  “Any sign of Portsmouth?” Wadsworth asked hopefully.

  “Not yet,” Jamie replied, adding, after a moment, “Why on deck so early, Henry? It’s not your watch. Shouldn’t you be below writing your latest opus?” Wadsworth’s work on a book about his cruise aboard Constitution in the Mediterranean, its basis a series of letter
s he had written home to friends in America, had gained the enthusiastic support of his fellow midshipmen. He had written a similar narrative about his cruise aboard Chesapeake with Commodore Barron. Several prominent newspapers in the United States had featured certain of those letters, and Wadsworth was hoping that exposure might persuade a book publisher to have a look at the entire manuscript. Such writing, of course, was in addition to the daily diary every midshipman was required to maintain for the captain’s review twice a week.

  Wadsworth grinned. “This morning I am seeking inspiration rather than word count. At eight bells, Octopus, Ralph, and I are going ashore at Ortygia”—he indicated a small landmass off the eastern end of Syracuse separated from the mainland by a narrow inlet—“to visit the Fountain of Arethusa. They say that Pindar and Aeschylus often went there for inspiration. If that fountain could inspire a Greek poet and a Greek dramatist to reach the very peak of literary achievement, I should think it could inspire an aspiring American author. Why not join us, Jamie? You’re off duty in another twenty minutes. The ladies will be out at this hour,” he added temptingly, “giggling and waving handkerchiefs at us. Who knows what might happen?”

  “Nothing will happen,” Jamie said with conviction. “Every unmarried young woman in Syracuse has five older women and a priest keeping a close eye on her. While ten beggars keep a hopeful eye on us. But you’re on,” he added, intrigued by the notion of visiting the oldest section of a metropolis once described by Cicero as the greatest city in Magna Grecia and the most beautiful of them all, including Athens. At last, he thought with bittersweet satisfaction, he could find a practical use for the Greek classics he had soldiered through in Mr. Getty’s class at Governor Dummer Academy.

  Just then, a cry came down from the single lookout perched high aloft on the mainmast crosstrees: “Deck, there!”