A Call to Arms Read online

  Richard glanced in Agreen’s direction. “Well, yes, he does, except for one member of that family.”

  Agreen gave his son a woeful look. “Damn me, Zeke,” he said. “I do believe your Uncle Richard is referrin’ t’ you.”

  Even as Lizzy reproved Agreen for swearing she had to giggle at the blank look Zeke gave them. When Richard scraped back his chair, she put a hand on his shoulder. “Must you go, Richard? Do stay a little longer.”

  “I’d love to, Liz, but I can’t. Katherine and Diana should be getting back soon from their ride out at World’s End. This weather can’t last forever, and they’re making the most of it. Katherine and I are leaving for Boston tomorrow, and we have a lot to do to get ready. We have a wedding to plan, remember. Two weddings, actually.”

  “When are you comin’ back?”

  “Probably next Friday, Agee. We’ll be staying with Anne and Frederick in Cambridge,” referring to his elder sister and her physician husband. “And Caleb will be introducing us to his fiancée on Thursday. We’re more than a little curious to meet the woman who sweet-talked Caleb into marriage.”

  “Don’t forget your snuffbox,” Agreen reminded him.

  RICHARD AND KATHERINE awoke the next morning to decidedly different weather. Gone overnight were the summer-like days of early November that just yesterday had been warm enough to work up a fine lather on the bay hunters Katherine and her daughter had ridden hard together in joyful synchrony. The light blue sky had yielded to a dreary overcast that matched the gloomy gray of skeletal trees that had long since shed their bright autumn foliage. To the west, darker clouds were gathering, summoned forth by cool Canadian air that carried an ominous omen of harsher days to come.

  The Cutlers had decided to take an enclosed coach-and-four to Boston rather than a packet boat. It seemed more appropriate under the circumstances, but it was hardly more comfortable. The thickly upholstered interior and the latest in leaf-spring suspension technology did little to cushion the bumps as the hackney coach jounced and juddered along the dirt road winding northwestward through the neighboring villages of Weymouth, Milton, and Dorchester. At a Roxbury crossroads, the coachman took a sharp right onto a better-maintained road that led straight into the heart of Boston along the narrow causeway connecting the shops and stables and single-dwelling homes of Boston Neck to the mainland. The coach finally shivered to a halt at Fourteen Belknap Street, in front of an attractive four-story house perched high atop Beacon Hill that offered a panoramic view of the pastures and walkways of Boston Common and the mast-studded harbor beyond. The three-hour journey had blessedly come to an end.

  “We’re taking a boat home,” Richard grumbled to his wife as the driver stepped down to open the larboard door for his passengers and place a footstool under the three-rung disembarkation ladder. “To hell with formality.”

  As Richard assisted Katherine down from the coach, the front door swung open and a servant dressed in liveried splendor walked briskly down the short flagstone pathway. When he reached the carriage he bowed low in courtly fashion, his left leg out and his right hand over his heart. “Welcome to Boston, Mr. and Mrs. Cutler. Mr. and Mrs. Endicott are awaiting you inside. May I carry anything for you?”

  “No, thank you,” Richard said to him. To the coachman: “See to the horses, Robert, and be back here by three o’clock. We’ll be departing for Cambridge at that time.” He glanced skyward. “Looks like rain. Or sleet or snow if it gets any colder.”

  The coachman tipped his tricorne hat. “At your service, Mr. Cutler.”

  After they had stepped inside the freestanding red brick building and the servant had taken their coats, John Endicott appeared from a side room that Richard knew to be a parlor. At least it had once served as a parlor. Soon after the launch of C&E Enterprises, the Endicott residence had been transformed from a fashionable Beacon Hill home into something more like a French château or a British manor house. The furnishings and accoutrements were magnificent—the best that money could buy from the most sought-after designers and manufacturers in Europe.

  Richard glanced at his wife, who rolled her eyes at him—whether a reaction to the pompous display of opulence or a signal that she was not entirely comfortable being in the home of his former mistress he could not determine.

  “Richard! How very nice to see you! And Katherine! How beautiful you look! Marvelous to see you both!” Endicott’s booming voice and the hard soles of his silver-buckled shoes echoed off the diamond-shaped tiles as the stout, balding, ruddy yet not unattractive man bustled up to them. He bowed from the waist before Katherine, then took her right hand and kissed it. “Welcome, my dear,” he said, glancing up. “Welcome.” He straightened, turned to Richard, and took his hand with a firm grip. Behind his back Katherine rolled her eyes again.

  “Good to see you, Jack,” Richard said. “You and your family are well?”

  “Tiptop, thank you. As you are about to see for yourselves.” He gestured down the hallway. “Charles,” he said to the servant standing by, “please fetch a bottle of our very best Madeira.”

  “Right away, Mr. Endicott.”

  Jack Endicott led the way into a book-lined study graced with camelback sofas, Oriental rugs, stylish wingback chairs, seascapes and European landscapes in oils, and an attractive desk made of East Indian teak. Silver weights held down neat piles of papers stacked on the desk next to two goose quill pens set in decorative glass inkwells. A fire crackled agreeably within a deep marble hearth, beside which stood three women, two of them younger, all three dressed in the fashions of cultured good taste. The dark-haired beauty of the older woman was reflected in almost mirror-like fashion in her elder daughter.

  “Richard! Katherine!” Anne-Marie welcomed them, her French accent giving her voice a charming lilt. She gave Katherine a formal embrace, which Katherine returned. Drawing close to Richard, she brought a hand to his left cheek, closed her eyes for a moment, and kissed him tenderly on his right cheek. She then stepped back, smiling at both Cutlers, and motioned to her daughters.

  “Adele, Frances, you may greet Mr. and Mrs. Cutler.”

  Adele and Frances Endicott bent a knee in respect to their mother and stepped forward in unison. They stopped side-by-side before the Cutlers, bowed their heads, and swept graceful curtseys that their biological father, a marquis of the Ancien Régime and the last royal governor of the Bastille, would have applauded. Richard bowed low in response, but as she had done in the past, Katherine cast formality aside. She bade Adele rise and then embraced her warmly. She did the same for Frances. Both young women responded rather cautiously to the overt display of affection—until they noticed their mother smiling at them.

  “We have much to discuss, my dears,” Katherine said.

  “We do,” Adele agreed eagerly.

  “Then perhaps we can begin. Will is on Long Wharf but has promised to join us for dinner. He should be here very soon.”

  “I know,” Adele gushed. “Mother and I often walk down to the docks to visit him. I find it so fascinating: the ships and their cargoes and the goings-on. Will even invited me aboard one of your family’s merchant vessels. Oh, what a delightful day that was! I do hope that someday he will take me to sea with him!”

  “I have no doubt he will, Adele, if you wish it. And it warms my heart to hear you talk so enthusiastically about the family business. You make your fiancé and his parents very proud.”

  Adele blushed. “Thank you, Mrs. Cutler. I can honestly say that there is nothing about Will or his business that I do not find fascinating.”

  “My son is a most fortunate young man,” Katherine replied, “to have a fiancée of such beauty and charm who understands and appreciates his heritage and can support him in so many important ways.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cutler,” Adele said from the heart.

  “Is Jamie joining us for dinner too?” Frances asked casually, a bit too casually to Richard’s ear. She was a pleasant-looking young woman, although as she matured
she had assumed more of her father’s traits than those of her mother. Her hair was ginger-colored and lank rather than thick and dark, and her bearing and characteristics were less beguilingly feminine than her older sister’s.

  “I’m afraid not,” Richard put in sympathetically when Katherine hesitated. He was well aware that Frances’ interest in his younger son was not—as yet, anyway—reciprocated. “Perhaps he will be able to join us on our next visit.”

  As the others proceeded to the formal dining area, Anne-Marie drew Katherine aside. “Thank you,” she said softly, “for being so affectionate with my daughters. Jack can be . . . well, rather stiff and formal, especially when it comes to Adele and Frances, and I’m afraid I reflect some of that formality. It is, after all, part of my own heritage. But it does Adele a world of good to know that her husband’s parents are normal people who care so much about her. You and I may have had our differences, Katherine. But please understand how terribly grateful I am. My daughters mean everything to me. They are my joy, my life.” She stepped closer. “And understand this as well: I have never been, nor could I ever be, a threat to you. I love Richard in my own way for my own reasons, and I always will. But you are the great love of his life. He told me that himself, years ago, as we were fleeing Paris with Gertrud, God rest her soul. He has told me that many times since. And I have seen with my own eyes how very much you mean to each other. Truly your union is one blessed by God.”

  It took Katherine several moments to respond. “Thank you, Anne-Marie,” she said quietly. “I have to admit, you have caught me a bit off my guard. But I do appreciate your words.”

  “You are most welcome, my dear. I only wish I had said this years ago. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll go on ahead. That knock we just heard on the front door is no doubt my future son-in-law. Charles will see him in.”

  RICHARD”S PREDICTION that Jack Endicott would not be able to resist talking of business matters proved incorrect, though he contributed little to the wedding conversation. The discussion that began over dinner continued on into the early afternoon. It was decided, once and for all, that because the Endicotts had only a loose affiliation with King’s Chapel in Boston, the Reverend Henry Ware of the First Parish, the Cutler family’s church in Hingham, would perform the ceremony. The adults agreed, further, that the wedding banns would be published in both churches for three consecutive Sundays beginning in mid-May, and the ceremony itself was set for 11:00 on the morning of June 24. A reception would follow at the Cutler home on Main Street.

  In the midst of the excited chatter, Will leaned over to Adele, who was listening intently to the conversation, and offered a suggestion of his own. “I can’t wait until June,” he whispered in her ear. “Let’s sneak out of here and set sail this afternoon for some deserted island in the Bahamas.”

  Adele clapped a hand over her mouth. “Will Cutler,” she gasped. “For shame!”

  She glanced furtively about, fearful that someone had overheard him, her rigid patrician upbringing at odds with some very plebeian desires. “Don’t you ever tempt me like that again,” she admonished in a stern whisper when she realized there was no cause for alarm. He slid his hand over to hers in apology. She took it in hers and squeezed it tenderly.

  It was not until Thursday—the day Richard and Katherine were formally introduced to Joan Cabot in her home on Beacon Street, where Katherine was invited to spend the afternoon getting to know Joan and her family—that Jack Endicott broached the subject of business. He and Richard, together with Caleb and Will and Geoffrey Hunt, were together in the Long Wharf shipping office of Cutler & Sons, which doubled as the North American headquarters of C&E Enterprises. Clerks worked busily at desks set against two windows through which they could see the firms’ ships tied up a few feet away, taking precise note of what cargoes were going where and to whom, careful to keep the accounts of the two companies separate. To date, the not-inconsequential earnings posted by the sugar and rum production of Cutler & Sons had been dwarfed by the commercial juggernaut that defined the spice trade of C&E Enterprises. The net earnings due the Cutler family from C&E Enterprises were distributed in equal shares to family members in Massachusetts, England, and Barbados, just as the earnings from Cutler & Sons were distributed. Although C&E comprised a much larger number of shareholders, the Cutler family’s 50 percent share of C&E’s annual earnings significantly exceeded the annual net earnings of Cutler & Sons.

  “What effect do you think the war will have on business?” Endicott asked with concern. “I am referring specifically to the business of C&E Enterprises, although I am mindful of the implications to Cutler & Sons.”

  “None that I can see, Jack,” Caleb replied. “The war, such as it is, is confined to the Mediterranean. Our customers in Europe are not affected. We can still serve them through Antwerp and Rotterdam and London.”

  “I was actually speaking of the war in Europe,” Endicott said brusquely. “It has far greater ramifications for C&E. Bonaparte may decide at any moment to close the Dutch ports. Who’s to stop him? The Batavian Republic,” referring to the successor to the Republic of the United Netherlands, “is nothing more than a French puppet state. Napoléon could shut down the spice trade at any time, notwithstanding the British victory at Copenhagen.”

  Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson’s victory over a combined Danish and Norwegian fleet at Copenhagen the previous year had effectively destroyed the League of Armed Neutrality engineered by Tsar Alexander I of Russia to enforce free trade with France, and had kept the Baltic Sea open to British ships.

  “Why would he do that?” Caleb queried. “What would he gain? The French desire our spices as much as anyone else. And his taxes on those spices are helping the French finance the war in Europe.”

  “As do British taxes,” Endicott countered, “for the British, whenever we ship through London. Which to my mind is why Napoléon may try to close down the spice trade entirely.”

  “With respect, Mr. Endicott,” said Geoffrey Hunt, who often served as the voice of reason in business discussions, “that is something Napoléon cannot do. He may control much of Europe, but the Royal Navy controls the seas, and thus the trade routes to the Orient. If Napoléon were to cut off the spice trade to Europe, he would both enrage his own citizenry and lose the tax revenues generated by those imports. With virtually all trade then going through London, the British Exchequer would receive a bonanza in tax revenues. Napoléon would be cutting off his nose to spite his face.”

  “And there’s talk of peace,” Richard added. “Rumor has it that King George is finally willing to concede the British monarchy’s claim to the French throne. His government is also prepared to formally recognize the French Republic.”

  “I concede your points,” Endicott grumbled. “But it still troubles me.”

  CHRISTMAS CAME AND WENT, and the New Year delivered a hammer blow that dumped more than two feet of snow on eastern Massachusetts. After the raging nor’easter had howled its way offshore, it backed around off the southern coast of Nova Scotia, much like a mammoth first-rate wearing ship, and returned to blast the coast of New England with yet another broadside of frothing seas, dangerous winds, and layer upon layer of dry, powdery snow. For several frigid weeks travel by land became impossible and crews could not man their ships. When they were finally able to make it back aboard, they were faced with the laborious task of shoveling snow off decks and chipping away at ice layered thick onto standing rigging. The C&E merchant vessel China had departed Boston for the Dutch East Indies the day after Christmas, before the first storm hit. But the Boston-based vessels of Cutler & Sons would not be weighing anchor anytime soon, by order of Caleb Cutler.

  Richard Cutler did not need a formal notice from the Portsmouth Navy Yard to know that work on USS Portsmouth had come to a virtual halt as a result of the storms. He had seen her only once, and that had been seven months ago, prior to his cruise to Barbados. Her keel had been laid down on blocks and her stem and stern posts had been ra
ised into position. But her ribs still had to be set up, and the various knees and beams and angle pieces needed to support her decks were lacking. Planking along her hull and on her decks remained a distant dream.

  “At least she’ll be well seasoned,” he muttered to no one in particular on a day in late January. He was staring glumly out the parlor window at a winter wonderland. Screaming children were romping about. Several of the older ones were pulling toboggan-like sleds toward the hill on Lafayette Street, recently named in honor of the French marquis who had visited Hingham during the war with England. Their cries of delight when an impromptu snowball fight broke out only intensified Richard’s foul mood. His gloom lightened somewhat when he saw his daughter and her best friend approaching from the center of town along South Street.

  Katherine glanced up from her book. “What do you mean, Richard?”

  He jumped as if snapped out of a trance. “What?”

  “You said that someone will be well seasoned. To whom were you referring?”

  Richard had to smile. “To Portsmouth, my ship. Even if they do have her frame up by now, as well they should, it will be months before her planking goes on.”

  “Why well seasoned?”

  “Leaving a ship’s frame exposed to the elements helps to season her timbers. The harsher those elements, so goes the rule of thumb, the more seaworthy she becomes.”

  “Well, we certainly want that, don’t we? But how forgetful of me. I recall you telling me that some time ago. So, when will she be ready for sea?”

  “Late this year, I should think. By then this war in the Mediterranean may well be over. Agee and I will have missed the entire affair. Not to mention Jamie.”

  “Well, we certainly don’t want that either, do we?”

  He made a face in response.

  Just then, Diana Cutler and Mindy Conner walked in the front door, rosy-cheeked from the cold wind. “Hello, everyone,” Diana said as she closed the door behind them. She propped one hand on her friend’s shoulder and slipped off her snow-caked boots. “Mother, is it all right if Mindy stays for supper? It’s all right with her mother. And is there hot chocolate in the kitchen?”