A Call to Arms Page 6

  “Yes, to both questions,” Katherine replied. She smiled at Diana’s friend, a shy, coltish girl with blonde curls. “Hello, Melinda,” she said, using the girl’s given name. “How are you?”

  “I’m well, Mrs. Cutler. Thank you.” She saw that Jamie was in the room and blushed.

  “How was school today?”

  Mindy giggled and glanced at Diana, who remarked with smug satisfaction, “Tommy Preston got his backside paddled good and hard by Mr. Evans. He was so mean to Debbie Patterson that he made her cry. He’s always doing that. He hates girls. He had it coming.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Katherine mused, recalling a similar incident when Will first attended the school. Derby Academy, which opened in 1791 as the first coeducational private elementary school in the country, was still very much an experiment. “You girls get some hot chocolate and then come back in and warm up by the fire.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cutler,” Mindy sang out as the two laughing girls raced to the kitchen.

  Jamie watched them go, then said, “Father, here’s a thought.” He folded his playing cards on the table; Will followed suit. “You want to sail to Portsmouth to inspect your ship, don’t you?” His father nodded. “Well, I want to accept Captain Preble’s invitation to visit him in Portland. You read his last letter. He’s quite anxious to meet you. Why don’t we combine the two trips into one?”

  Richard gave that notion only a moment’s thought. “That’s a capital idea, Jamie. I’ll write Captain Preble today and try to arrange a visit for mid-April. This cursed snow should have melted by then, even in Maine.”

  FEBRUARY AND MARCH crept by at an intolerably slow pace. That naval action was taking place across the Atlantic while he sat shore-bound on the other side was unacceptable to Richard. The Navy Department dispatch that confirmed a midshipman’s berth for James Hardcastle Cutler in USS Constitution under the command of Capt. Edward Preble was some comfort. The dispatch that confirmed the promotion of Agreen Crabtree to the rank of first lieutenant, to serve in USS Portsmouth under the command of Capt. Richard Cutler, actually made him smile.

  The Boston newspapers offered some comfort as well. The Federalists were outraged that President Jefferson had allowed American sailors and Marines to sail into harm’s way in the Mediterranean without proper support and without the authority to engage an enemy that had declared war on the United States. Commodore Dale’s squadron was impotent to do much beyond a halfhearted blockade of Tripoli’s harbor. It was, the Boston press jibed, more a “squadron of observation” than a fighting force. Thus far, to what Richard privately confessed to Agreen came as a relief, there had been only one meaningful naval engagement: a single-ship action between Master Commandant Andrew Sterrett, captain of the 12-gun sloop of war Enterprise, and a more heavily armed Tripolitan corsair. Sterrett had taken the corsair as a prize, claiming after the fact that he was in compliance with the president’s orders to retaliate only if attacked. Dale had refused to convene a court of inquiry to investigate the incident despite a storm of protest raging from the bashaw’s castle in Tripoli.

  Jefferson, for his part, continued to insist that he had sent Dale’s squadron to the Mediterranean to chastise the bashaw of Tripoli, not to bribe him—or any other Barbary ruler who might also have a mind to challenge the United States. He had stated publicly that while America would pay ransom money to free captured American sailors, under no circumstances would the nation pay tribute to any Barbary state. And he was flexing American military muscle strictly on his own authority. Congress had been neither consulted nor informed about any of his decisions.

  “Is that legal?” Agreen asked one sunny April day when he and Richard finished reading an editorial on the subject.

  Richard folded the paper. “I have no idea, Agee,” he replied. “At the moment the answer probably depends on who you ask. I’m no constitutional scholar, but my understanding is that only Congress has the power to declare war. But if we’re attacked by some other country, the Constitution authorizes the president to act to protect our national interests. It was the same situation in the Caribbean, remember? President Adams acted entirely on his own accord. Congress never did declare war against France. And I don’t recall anyone in Congress protesting after the war was over. So the issue remains open to debate. I suppose it’s in the hands of future generations.”

  THE PICTURESQUE TOWN of Portland, Maine—or Falmouth, as it was originally called—held a special place in Richard’s heart. It was where his older brother, Will, had taken his last steps on this earth before being flogged and hanged for striking a king’s officer on a Royal Navy frigate into which he had been impressed. It was also where he and Agee had renewed their friendship after the war with England, and where Agee had signed on as Falcon’s sailing master for the cruise to Algiers. To Richard, Portland had always seemed like a smaller version of Boston, but with cleaner air and water and an ever-present aroma of pine-scented forests mixed in with heady scents of the sea.

  On a day in mid-April, as the Cutler sloop Elizabeth sliced through the island-studded waters of Cape Elizabeth and Casco Bay, Richard and his son Jamie stood together on each side of a forestay that they clutched for balance. The air was bitterly cold despite the bright sunshine, and Jamie shivered in his thick woolen sweater and wool-lined sea jacket. But he would not go below and risk losing the exhilaration singing in his veins.

  “That’s the port dead ahead, isn’t it, Father,” he said, as a statement more than a question. The contours of the coastline and of the town itself were becoming ever more distinct. Directly ahead they could make out a wharf similar in design, though less imposing in structure, to Long Wharf in Boston, with a multitude of bare masts and yards clustered close by. They could see only one vessel under sail—a brigantine with two square sails on her foremast and a massive fore-and-aft sail on her mainmast—and she was standing to eastward, making for Bath or Castine perhaps, or maybe the Canadian Maritimes.

  “It is, Jamie,” his father replied. “See that tall, white steeple over there?’ He pointed it out. “It’s on Congress Street, near where we’ll be meeting with Captain Preble. It’s an easy walk from the docks. Let’s hope he has a fire going.”

  In fact, Edward Preble had three fires going downstairs in the dwelling he and his wife used whenever they came to Portland from the family farm in rural Capisic. When Mrs. Preble showed the Cutlers into the parlor where her husband held court, Jamie reveled in the delicious warmth.

  “May I bring you something hot to drink, gentlemen?” she inquired.

  “Tea for us both, thank you, Mrs. Preble,” Richard answered.

  She turned to her husband. “And your usual, my dear?”

  “Yes, please, Mary.”

  Edward Preble rose from a chair. “Welcome to Portland, Mr. Cutler.” He offered his right hand, which Richard took in his. “I am honored to meet you.”

  “The honor is mine, Captain,” Richard said.

  “And it’s good to see you again, my boy.” Preble shook Jamie’s hand. “I must say, Captain Cutler,” he said as his gaze lingered on Jamie, “your sons are two fine, strapping young men. I imagine they send the young ladies of Boston into quite a tizzy.”

  “That they do, Captain,” Richard confirmed, much to Jamie’s embarrassment.

  As Preble took stock of Jamie, Richard took stock of Preble. What he saw was a plainly dressed man of about his own height and age with a rather thin face, thin lips, and a tapering chin. He had a prominent nose, and his brown hair was combed forward as if to conceal advancing baldness. Thick sideburns grew down below his ears to a clean-shaven, square jaw. The skin on his face and hands was fair, almost sallow, the mark of a man who had spent too many recent months indoors. But the look about him, as his dark blue eyes swung from Jamie to Richard, bespoke intelligence and experience that served to justify his reputation as a hard-bitten sea officer who demanded the highest levels of loyalty and performance from his officers and crew. “Tough but fair,�
�� was how those in the know described him.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said, adding, after the Cutlers had complied, “You had a swift voyage from Boston. I was not expecting you until tomorrow morning, although you are most welcome here today.”

  “We had unusually fair winds,” Richard acknowledged. “Fifteen-knot westerlies. If this wind holds, we’ll have a harder time of it tomorrow beating down to Portsmouth.”

  “Where is your crew?”

  “On our sloop. I brought three men with us. I should say four, since Jamie did much of the sail-handling.”

  Preble glanced at Jamie. “So you’re at home in the high rigging, are you, son?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamie said proudly.

  “That is to be commended. It’s imperative for every midshipman to have that ability and confidence, although many find it difficult.” He turned to Richard. “Your crew can spend the night in the sailors’ home by the docks, Captain Cutler. It’s warm, and there are cots for sleeping. As for you and your son, I hope you will stay here with Mrs. Preble and me.”

  “That is most kind, Captain.”

  Mary Preble appeared just then carrying a pewter tray that held two steaming mugs of tea and a glass of white liquid. She gave the glass to her husband and handed the mugs to her guests, then smiled and left the room.

  Preble held up the glass. “Warm milk,” he explained, “for what ails me.” He took a sip. “My diet consists mostly of milk and vegetables. It’s a hell of a note, but it’s about the only tune I can sing these days.” He smiled ruefully at what Richard suspected was an oft-repeated witticism.

  “How is your health, sir?” Richard inquired. He was aware that Preble suffered from multiple disorders, including typhoid, which he likely contracted while imprisoned aboard the notorious British prison hulk Jersey during the war with England.

  “Depends on the day. Some days I actually feel like my old self. Then there are days so bad that I want nothing more than to resign my commission and be done with it. I actually did that not long ago, but Secretary Smith refused to accept my resignation. He granted me a furlough instead. In retrospect, I am glad he did. I am feeling better now that spring is in the air, and I long to get back to sea. The Navy lifestyle suits me.”

  “When might you be coming to Boston, sir?” Jamie asked.

  “As soon as I am able. I am informed by my first lieutenant that Constitution is in need of major repairs. That should come as no surprise to anyone. She has been laid up in ordinary for years. In the meantime, I intend to man her with a caretaker crew. My first lieutenant is Charles Gordon from Connecticut. He has signed on ten sailors and a boatswain’s mate—I should say, kept them on, since they’ve served as her caretaker crew in recent months. I also want two midshipmen as part of that crew: you, James, and a lad your age named Ralph Izard. He’s from South Carolina and comes highly qualified. He’ll be joining you in a month or two. Now, I warn you,” he added sternly, “you will likely not find the superintendent of the Charlestown Navy Yard very cooperative. His name is Samuel Nicholson, and for a reason that escapes me he holds the rank of captain. I’ll stop at saying that he has a rather large chip on his shoulder and an ego that could fill this room.”

  Richard was not pleased to hear Nicholson’s name. He knew the man’s reputation. Nicholson was the first commander of USS Constitution during the war with France, and Agreen had served under him as third lieutenant. He accomplished nothing of note during his tenure as captain, and Navy Secretary Benjamin Stoddert replaced him with Capt. Silas Talbot. Ignominiously dismissed to shore duty, the embittered Nicholson retained considerable influence among the rich and powerful in Washington nonetheless. And he was the uncle of the wife of Treasury Secretary Albert Gallatin.

  “If he makes trouble for you,” Preble concluded that topic of conversation, “he will have to answer to me. And I assure you he will not find that a pleasant experience. But under no circumstances are you to cross him. Leave that to Lieutenant Gordon. He will deal with him until I arrive. Is that understood, James?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With that, the conversation drifted inevitably toward the war in the Mediterranean. And on that subject Preble had surprising news.

  “Commodore Dale’s squadron is being recalled,” he announced. “A second squadron is now on its way across the Atlantic. It’s a more powerful squadron and it most definitely has the authority to wage war. Chesapeake is serving as flagship to Commodore Richard Valentine Morris. I don’t know much about him. Do you, by chance?”

  Richard shook his head. “I’ve heard of him, sir, but that is all. I believe he served with some success in Adams during the war with France. He has a good reputation, as far as I’m aware.”

  “Yes, well. Apparently that reputation involves an appreciation of the good life, which he is able to maintain due to the ‘interest’ he commands in Washington. Much like our friend Nicholson, I fear. These days and all days, that’s the quickest way up the promotion ladder. So we’ll just have to wait and see about the man. By the bye, your former ship Constellation is part of that squadron.”

  Richard had heard rumblings of this but as yet had received no official dispatch from the Navy Department. Preble, apparently, had. The fact that Constellation sailed with the squadron inspired a question.

  “Was Captain Truxtun offered the post of commodore, sir?”

  Preble nodded. “He was, for the second time. But again he declined the honor. He insists that if he is to serve as commodore of a squadron, he must have a captain assigned to his flagship. To allow him to devote full time to a commodore’s duties, you understand.”

  “I so understand, sir, and I agree with him,” Richard said.

  “Do you? As it turns out, so do I. Tom Truxtun is a dear friend and a damned fine officer. He’s the right man for the job, as you have seen at first hand. But while you and I might agree on this, our opinions don’t carry much weight in the Navy Department, eh?” For the first time that day he smiled broadly.

  “Will Constitution and Portsmouth be joining Commodore Morris’s squadron?”

  Preble shrugged. “Any answer to that would be pure speculation at this point, Captain Cutler,” he said brusquely, but then added, with a curious glint in his eye and a twist to his mouth, “But I daresay it’s a speculation worthy of our mutual attention.”

  Four

  Boston, Massachusetts, June 1802–July 1803

  THE SOCIETY PAGES of Boston’s newspapers couldn’t say enough about Will Cutler’s wedding to Adele Endicott. Among those gracing First Parish Church—in such numbers that not everyone found a seat—were the elite of South Shore society decked out in Sunday finery. Intermingling among them was the more heady cream of Boston society, led in regal procession down Main Street by the Endicott and Cabot families settled imperiously in park drag carriages replete with coachmen, postillions, and footmen in immaculate livery. It was, most agreed, a sight never to be forgotten. Quipped Gen. Benjamin Lincoln, at nearly seventy years of age Hingham’s most distinguished citizen and war hero, as he took in the majesty of the occasion from the front steps of the church, “I have never so much as glimpsed royalty—until today.”

  Will and Adele remained oblivious to the rustling crowd and excited whispers around them as they faced each other at the altar. Adele had eyes only for Will, and Will for Adele, dressed in an elegant lavender taffeta dress with a white fichu and a delicate white lace shawl draped across her shoulders, her long ebony curls tumbling across it down to her waist. As the background rumblings, coughs, and throat-clearings quieted, the Reverend Henry Ware stepped forward and launched into a wedding service that many in attendance could recite by rote. As the questions were put to the bride and groom, and as they answered in firm young voices, Katherine, seated by the end of the front pew next to Lizzy and Agreen, stole a glance across the aisle at the Endicotts. Not to her surprise, she noticed Anne-Marie dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Even Jack Endicott seemed, for once, to
be moved by something other than black ink in an account book.

  Katherine glanced back to the altar, at her husband standing beside Jamie as attendant to the groom, and at Frances and Diana attending the bride. She gave Richard a brief nod and Richard gave her one in return, those two simple motions acknowledging the twenty years of trials and tribulations and untold joys that defined the unique privilege of raising a son like Will, from the day he was born on the island of Barbados to this sanctified moment.

  Soon after Reverend Ware had declared Will and Adele husband and wife in the sight of God, the wedding party proceeded en masse to Caleb’s house on Main Street. Tents had been erected on the lawn and pits dug to roast the meats and vegetables comprising a feast of gargantuan proportions, for the entire town had been invited and the entire town had accepted. They came for the food and drink, but mostly to take part in a grand affair hosted by one of Hingham’s most beloved families. Men, women, and children participated in the dancing and especially the games: lawn bowling for the seniors; quoits, sticks and hoops, and tag for the younger set.

  Will and Adele made the rounds greeting their guests, but they did not linger longer than propriety and etiquette dictated. Nor did anyone expect them to.

  “Well done, Will,” his father said as the Cutlers and Endicotts gathered by the elegant coach-and-two waiting on Main Street to deliver the bride and groom to the Hingham docks. There they would board a specially reconfigured sloop that featured an expanded galley and, in the after cabin, an accommodation that would please an English lord—a snug room with a large bed with choice linen sheets and goose-down pillows. Four hand-picked sailors, an experienced and discreet ship’s master, and a cook in the Endicotts’ employ—all hands paid triple wages for the next four weeks—would sail the bride and groom through the wonders of Chesapeake Bay, putting into whatever port and cozy inn the newlyweds might desire to visit. The entire expense, including the purchase and outfitting of the sloop, was Jack and Anne-Marie Endicott’s wedding gift.