A Call to Arms Read online

  NAVAL ROUTINE for both Jamie and his father gave way in late September to Caleb Cutler’s long-heralded wedding to Joan Cabot within the magnificent confines of Trinity Church. This regal event was a mostly Bostonian affair; the Cutlers were among the few Hingham families in attendance. With his family’s permission, Jamie had invited Ralph Izard and Octavius Paige of Delaware, another of Constitution’s midshipmen. As a matter of protocol he had also invited Charles Gordon and Robert Greenleaf, the frigate’s recently arrived second lieutenant. Both officers had politely declined. Decked out for the occasion in their full dress uniforms, the three midshipmen looked like miniature versions of Richard Cutler—without the abundant embroidery and lace, longer lapels with nine gold buttons on each breast, four additional buttons on the cuffs and at the pockets, gold epaulet on each shoulder, and rich blue cloth cut to the waist in front and with tails behind that defined a captain’s uniform.

  Richard Cutler and Peter Cabot, brothers respectively of the groom and bride, took up position behind Caleb at the altar. Katherine Cutler, seated in a front pew with Diana, Caleb’s two sisters, and their husbands, looked on wistfully as the ceremony commenced. The Endicott family and Will sat in the pew directly behind them. Jamie, seated across the aisle from the Endicotts, sensed more than observed Frances Endicott’s furtive glances in his direction. He made a mental note to introduce her to his two fellow midshipmen at the reception and then make a graceful exit.

  The ceremony and reception were everything a grand wedding should be, and the newlyweds left afterward on a brief wedding trip to New York. For the others, it was back to what passed for normal these days. The war in the Mediterranean was going badly, and the national press was making sure that everyone knew it. To date, Commodore Morris’s squadron had accomplished little of note beyond sailing from one to another of the more appealing destinations along the north shore of the Mediterranean, setting a social standard a British admiral might covet. Accompanying Morris in Chesapeake were his wife—labeled tongue-in-cheek by the press the “Commodoress”—and their young son. It was the commodore’s wife, so the newspapers needled, who had set such high standards of social intercourse with a husband all too eager to satisfy her every desire.

  True, there had been some naval action. The frigate John Adams had blockaded the 26-gun Moroccan warship Meshuda in Gibraltar to prevent her from bringing aid to the sultan’s friend and ally, the bashaw of Tripoli. But that blockade had accomplished little beyond roiling waters that hitherto had been calm. In April 1803, James Simpson, the U.S. consul in Tangiers, received notice that Sultan Moulay Suleiman had declared war on the United States. Moroccan warships now threatened American merchantmen in both the Atlantic and the western Mediterranean.

  To the east the news was equally disturbing. In direct contravention of President Jefferson’s long-standing policy of refusing to pay tribute, Secretary of State James Madison had authorized James Cathcart, the American consul in Tripoli who had been summarily dismissed from the regency when the bashaw declared war on the United States, to offer Yusuf Karamanli $20,000 for a peace settlement plus an annual annuity of $40,000. Yusuf, enraged by the consul’s refusal to pay the $225,000 he had demanded and an annual tribute of $25,000, again showed Cathcart the palace door, this time for good. With the basis for war against America now reaffirmed, consulate dispatches from Algiers and Tunis warned that both regencies were reexamining their relationship with the United States.

  “Looks like everything’s blowing up over there,” Richard said to Agreen on a sunny, frosty, April afternoon on Long Wharf. His mood matched the brightness of the day. “According to this dispatch”—he held up an official document delivered several hours earlier—“President Jefferson is soon to recall Commodore Morris and is sending a more powerful squadron to the Mediterranean. Jefferson, Smith, and Madison are none too pleased with Morris. Odds are he’ll be facing a court-martial for what Secretary Smith refers to as ‘an absence of energy’ in his naval operations.”

  “It couldn’t happen to a worse man,” Agreen said, grinning at his own turn of phrase. “So Captain, what does all this mean for us? From that giddy look on your face, I reckon we’ve received orders t’ sail with the new squadron.”

  “You reckon correctly.”

  “When?”

  “In late July or early August. And we are sailing in company with the squadron’s flagship.”

  “Which is?”

  “Constitution, Jamie’s ship.”

  “Constitution? Well, damn me. That means . . .”

  Richard nodded. “That means that Captain Preble is commodore of the squadron. Richard Dale was offered the post, but he declined because the Navy wouldn’t make him an admiral. The fact that the Navy doesn’t confer that rank made no difference to him. Commodore Barry”—referring to the Continental navy hero and the U.S. Navy’s first flag officer—“was also considered but is deathly ill in his home in Philadelphia. So the honor has fallen to Captain Preble.”

  “And I’d wager he’s as happy as a clam in the sand at high tide.”

  “I’d say so. Preble’s connections in Washington have apparently paid off. But he’s also the best man for the job. Now, finally, we’ll get something done over there. Mark my words, Agee: under Preble’s command, we’ll show the bastards!”

  Five

  USS Constitution, August–September 1803

  ENLISTING A CREW turned out to be a hell of a mess,” commented Agreen Crabtree over supper one evening at the home of Will and Adele Cutler on Ship Street in Hingham. The other guests at the young hosts’ table—Richard, Katherine, and Diana Cutler and Agreen’s wife, Lizzy—nodded their agreement. Will and Adele had meant to hold a family dinner, but Jamie was unable to join them because Constitution’s officers and crew were denied shore leave in anticipation of weighing anchor on Friday, August 12, five days hence. Caleb and Joan were attending a social event in Boston that evening but planned to see Richard and Agreen off from Long Wharf the next day.

  “At least Portsmouth has her full complement,” Agreen concluded. “Constitution is still short a few hands, including a midshipman and a fourth lieutenant,” he explained to his wife. “Preble will likely have them transferred from another ship in the squadron. And from what Jamie tells us, her crew contains a bucket-full of foreigners. Her officers may be Americans, but her muster book has Spaniards, Dutchmen, Malays—you name it—and a few British tars who don’t take kindly t’ the Royal Navy and don’t trust merchantmen t’ protect ’em. Captain Preble will have himself a grand old time with that rabble. He’ll be talkin’ as much with the whip as with his voice. So you might say, my darlin’, that the cat’s got his tongue!”

  Lizzy did her best to smile at her husband’s feeble stab at humor. Yesterday’s post had brought devastating news from her brother John Cutler in England. John’s letter told her that their father, William Cutler, had suffered a debilitating stroke and would likely have passed away by the time she received the letter. Richard understood and shared Lizzy’s pain. His uncle was a much-beloved man who had shaped the lives of many people, including Richard. Lizzy had agreed to accompany Agreen tonight only because two of those present at the table would be gone by noon tomorrow. One of them was the man to whom she had pledged her life, the other a cousin she had held dear since those early days together in England a quarter-century ago.

  “Is that why Captain Preble denied shore leave to his crew?” Adele inquired. “To keep everybody aboard, lest anyone has a mind to desert?”

  “That’s a fair assumption,” Richard said, giving her an appreciative smile. Adele was not only a good wife for his son, he thought, she was also an excellent business partner. Her grasp of numbers, on the one hand, and of human nature, on the other, reminded him often of his cousin Robin Cutler in Barbados.

  “Where are you sailing first, Father?” Will asked. “I’ve heard Gibraltar. Is that true?”

  “I believe so, Will, although I won’t know until I open my
orders at sea. Each ship is sailing independently to the Mediterranean rather than as a squadron, as I had expected. Presumably we’ll join up at the Royal Navy base at Gibraltar. While I’m there, I intend to visit your uncle Jeremy. And who knows?” he added with an arch look at his wife. “Perhaps I’ll find Lord Nelson at Gibraltar as well. He is Jeremy’s commanding officer.”

  “Horatio is in the Mediterranean?” Katherine asked.

  “In grand style,” her husband informed her. “He has been appointed commander-in-chief of British forces there.”

  Katherine smiled. “Most impressive. And you will see him?”

  “That is my devout hope, Katherine. It will depend on circumstances, of course.” In years past, an encounter with Vice Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson would not have been Richard’s devout hope. But he had finally come to terms with his wife’s former betrothal to the man. Left unstated this evening—because it was being discussed ad nauseam in nearly every city, town, and village in the English-speaking world—was Nelson’s extramarital love affair with Lady Emma Hamilton, the young and vibrant wife of elderly British diplomat Sir William Hamilton. Sir William had been ambassador to the kingdom of Naples in ’01 during the French invasion and the subsequent evacuation by sea of the court of King Ferdinand VI and key British personnel, including the ambassador and his wife. It was aboard Nelson’s ship Agamemnon that the seed of love between Horatio and Emma, already well rooted, had burst into full blossom.

  But while the British press excoriated Nelson for abandoning his wife, Fanny, and for siring a daughter out of wedlock with Lady Hamilton, the British public remained steadfastly loyal to England’s foremost naval hero. Nelson’s popularity had ballooned after he sailed in and defeated a combined Norwegian and Danish fleet in the Battle of Copenhagen, later claiming he had not seen the signal from his squadron’s flagship to withdraw. When it was rumored that Nelson had not seen Admiral Hyde Parker’s signal to withdraw because he was holding the spyglass to his blind eye, his fame soared to dizzying heights. Jokes were bandied about—in the press and elsewhere—that the sixty-two-year-old admiral had no desire to withdraw because the old goat had recently married an eighteen-year-old English girl.

  “If you do have the good fortune to meet up with Horatio,” Katherine said sternly, “you will send him my warmest personal regards.”

  “Of course, my dear. I have been well trained.”

  IN EARLY JULY Constitution was moved from her quay on the Charles River to May’s Wharf in Boston for the final stages of her fitting out and provisioning. On August 8 the pride of New England cast loose her moorings to land and was towed to a temporary anchorage in the deep waters off the northern tip of Long Island.

  At six bells in the morning watch on Saturday, August 13, Capt. Edward Preble, having deemed the northwesterly breeze sufficient for steerage way and fair for sailing out, ordered his first lieutenant to take her to sea.

  Charles Gordon touched his hat. “Aye, aye, Captain!” He brought a speaking trumpet to his mouth. “All hands! Stations for weighing anchor! Up anchor! Man the bars!” Shrill boatswain’s whistles relayed his orders. “Sailors aloft! Lay out and loose! Man topsail sheets and halyards! Hands to braces! Stand by . . . Stand by . . . Let fall!” Sailors leapt to their posts, the laggards among them earning a whack on the back from Boatswain John Cannon’s rattan cane.

  Three great billows of topsails fell like white curtains from their yards, and topgallants rose above them in nearly perfect synchrony, as though a single jack-block hoisted all three. Below and forward, the ship’s best-bower was hove short, then raised and fished from the harbor waters and double-catted against the starboard bow. With her afteryards braced for a larboard tack and her headsheets hauled over to larboard, her helm to starboard, the combination of helm and canvas caused her stern to swing around. First gathering sternway, she quickly gathered headway as her helm was righted, her headsheets were hauled over, and her great trapezoidal spanker filled with wind.

  Hailed by a thirteen-gun salute from Fort Independence on Castle Island, Constitution coasted by Boston Light on Little Brewster Island and shaped a course due eastward on a quartering breeze. She made a grand spectacle to those looking on from shore and from small boats. She was bedecked in multicolored flags and pennants, and forty thousand square feet of pure white canvas billowed like great clouds on her three masts. Her hull glistened a rich black with a wide streak of ochre running nearly two hundred feet along the gun-port strake. By the end of the second dogwatch, at 8:00, the only sign of the Massachusetts coast those aboard her could see was the beacon shining from Cape Cod Light in Truro. Soon that too dipped below the horizon, and Constitution sailed on into the dead of night under reduced canvas beneath an overcast, starless sky.

  The next evening at 7:30, after inspection of divisions, Edward Preble convened what he announced would be a nightly meeting in his after cabin of his four lieutenants, eight midshipmen, senior warrant officers, and captain of Marines. Only officers in sickbay or assigned to watch duty were exempted, for it was a hard-and-fast rule aboard ship that a lieutenant or the sailing master plus two midshipmen and a quartermaster were to be on the quarterdeck at all hours of the day and night.

  The after cabin, which ran the full 43½ feet athwartship and had a 7-foot deckhead, afforded ample space for the gathering. Captain Preble lived in a veritable palace compared with every other officer in the ship, from the first lieutenant’s berth a deck lower in the wardroom down another deck to the dank underbelly of the midshipmen’s quarters in steerage. The after cabin was actually two cabins: the larger one in which the ship’s business was conducted, and a smaller cabin aft that comprised the captain’s personal quarters and included a private dining alcove and a sleeping cuddy set between plain-glassed windows at the very stern of the ship.

  The main cabin contained a long, rectangular table that accommodated, on three sides, the more senior officers. Midshipmen sat in chairs behind them. On the aft side of the table, Captain Preble stood in full undress uniform. In a wingback chair near to him sat an exquisitely attired civilian who casually stroked his double chin as he met the stares of those watching him.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Preble proclaimed. His sharp tone brought an instant halt to undercurrents of quiet chatter. “I have the distinct honor this evening to introduce our honored guest, Tobias Lear.” He nodded toward the civilian. “Colonel Tobias Lear. You perhaps noticed him and his wife strolling about the deck during the day and may be wondering why he has joined us on this cruise. I will let him explain the details. But before he does, because he is such a modest individual”—those officers seated closest to Preble detected a rare dance of humor in his eyes—“I will tell you this: Colonel Lear has had a most distinguished career in our diplomatic corps. Not only did he serve as personal secretary to our beloved President Washington, he was at the president’s bedside when he died. He subsequently served as President Jefferson’s envoy to Saint-Domingue when Napoléon attempted to quell the Negro uprising and restore the colony to France. Because of his accomplishments, President Jefferson has appointed him consul general to the Barbary Coast. He is replacing Consul O’Brien in Algiers and has full authority to superintend all American consular activities in North Africa. His authority, gentlemen, includes the negotiation of a peace treaty with Tripoli when and if that becomes appropriate. He has a unique perspective on the war that I daresay will greatly influence our naval strategy in the Mediterranean and our mission there.” With that he turned to the newly appointed consul general. “If you please, Colonel, you have my officers’ undivided attention.”

  As Tobias Lear rose to his feet to shake the captain’s hand, Jamie Cutler reflected on what he knew about the man. Lear was the nephew of Hingham’s own Gen. Benjamin Lincoln, a relationship so meaningful to Lear that he had named his only son Benjamin Lincoln Lear. It was Lincoln who had recommended Lear to serve as George Washington’s personal secretary. Jamie also was aware that Lear had never
served in the military and therefore held no official military rank. He had, in fact, entered Harvard in ’76 rather than join the Continental army. The aging Washington had bestowed the honorary rank in recognition of Lear’s fifteen years of service. Nonetheless, Lear had clung to it, as Agreen had once put it, “like white on rice.” Jamie smiled at the recollection.

  “Thank you, Captain Preble,” Lear said formally before turning to face the officers. “Gentlemen, I am honored to be in your company this evening. As you may be aware, my wife, Frances, and I had originally intended to sail to the Mediterranean aboard Philadelphia, but that fine frigate had the good sense to sail without us.” That remark prompted a round of polite laughter. “So we were reassigned to Constitution, to our great joy and privilege, I must add. No more graceful or powerful a frigate has ever sailed the seven seas.”

  His audience agreed with smiles and nods.

  Lear drew himself up to his full six feet. “Our mission,” he went on in a sterner voice, “is to gain nothing short of total capitulation from an enemy who has for too many years violated our neutrality, harassed our merchant vessels, and imprisoned our sailors. Suffer no illusions, gentlemen: our enemy is not just the regency of Tripoli. Our enemy is all four Barbary states. If we are victorious over one, we are victorious over all. These states, every one of them, rely on piracy and extortion to realize their goals. They are ruled by petty tyrants who wrap themselves in the cloak of holy war to justify their atrocities and their demands for tribute from Christian states. But theirs is a house of cards, gentlemen. To the rulers of Barbary, religious dogma and the teachings of Muhammad are always—I repeat, always—tempered by economic realities. In negotiating with them, the sticking point is always—I repeat, always—money, not theology. In this war we intend to dismantle that house of cards and see it topple over.”