A Call to Arms (5 page)

MacIntyre slowly shook his head and allowed a thin smile to spread beneath his bushy mustache. “Do I hear correctly? Are you, Mr. Cutler, a man of such high connections and credentials, attempting to bribe a Royal Navy officer? I should think your esteemed family would be shocked—I repeat, sir,
shocked
—to learn of such an impropriety. Perhaps it is
you
who should be tossed into the brig. Good day to you, sir!” He turned again to the sergeant and said, with regal authority, “Into the boat!
Now
!”

As Cooper was hauled off into the launch, Richard turned on his heel. “Get her under way, Mr. Wesley,” he snapped before disappearing below. Moments later, those aft on the weather deck heard the sound of his cabin door slamming shut.

A
WEEK LATER,
on an invigorating October morning of yellow sunshine dancing off an indigo sea, John Wesley steered
Barbara D
close-hauled under shortened sail through the autumn-tinged islands of Boston Harbor, careful, as always when entering the harbor on a northwesterly breeze, to hug the waters off Deer Island and the Winthrop Peninsula before shooting into the channel between Governor's Island and Castle Island. Every member of the crew save for one, her master, was on station either on deck or in the rigging. The sheer beauty of this homecoming helped to mitigate their collective outrage at having to watch a popular shipmate forcibly taken from them.

Wesley felt those emotions as much as any man, but his immediate concern was for his captain. He had never seen Richard Cutler so despondent for so long a period. The captain clearly blamed himself for what had happened, although there was nothing that he or anyone else could have done to save the man. Cooper understood the risk he was taking. He was, after all, a sailor of British origin. Richard had not delved into
the man's background when he signed on with
Barbara D
in Bridgetown, Barbados. The questions he had asked, and Cooper's answers, suggested that Cooper had served as a topman aboard several American merchant vessels. He had demonstrated his skill in his trade, and it was certainly a skill that he could have learned while in the employ of the Royal Navy. But Richard had said nothing beyond stating the risk Cooper was taking. Cooper had signed his name in the muster book nonetheless.

Wesley ordered stations for anchoring and searched for a suitable spot, always a challenge in an expanse of harbor teeming with sailing craft of all sizes and descriptions. Long Wharf—a quarter-mile-long wooden and stone structure thick with countinghouses, storage sheds, coopers, rope walks, smithies, sail lofts, deckhands, riggers, dock workers, casual onlookers, and merchant traders—was their ultimate destination. But they would have to wait their turn to offload. Merchant vessels occupied every spot along the wharf, the bowsprit of one nudging the stern of another, the vessels often nested three or four abreast, their yards a-cockbill to avoid entanglement. Wesley was continuing his search when he noticed the flash of a yellow hull.

“Turner!” he called out to a sailor standing nearby.

A wiry youth with a plaited queue and a gold ring in his right ear lobe hurried over. “Mr. Wesley?” he inquired.

“Go below and report to the captain that
Falcon
lies yonder and I aim to anchor next to her.”

Turner instinctively glanced forward. “Yes, sir!” he responded enthusiastically. “Right away, Mr. Wesley!”

Turner's report had the desired effect. Richard Cutler was quickly up on deck and striding forward to the bow. He clenched a forestay in his left hand as he examined the waters ahead. Yes, there she was, her bow facing him as she pulled and pranced against her mooring in the fresh breeze and light chop. Richard slammed his fist into an open palm and glanced aft, grinning. Wesley grinned back. Everyone on deck, to a man, grinned back as well.

All was right with the world again.

More good tidings were to follow.
Barbara D
had hardly secured her anchor in the thick mud of Boston Harbor when Richard spotted his brother Caleb waving from the Cutler & Sons shipping office on the wharf. Geoffrey Hunt, the highly competent administrator of Cutler & Sons who had been with the company since its first day in Boston, was with him. Richard waved back happily, but what truly pleased him was the sight of his son Will making his way through the crowd toward a
clutch of boats tied up near the landward end of the wharf, hard by a ship's chandlery. These small boats were public property, there for the use of anyone needing to row out to a merchant vessel anchored in the harbor. Richard watched as his son stepped aboard a clinker-built boat, let fly its tether, took a seat facing aft on the center thwart, and fitted the two oars between their thole-pins. Will back-oared away from the dock, expertly turned the boat around, and began pulling hard.

“Mr. Wesley,” Richard said, when his mate walked up beside him, “I'll be going ashore with my son. I am certain Mr. Hunt has already requested that a space be cleared for
Barbara D.
He will pay off the crew once she is warped in and her cargo offloaded. Thank you for your assistance on this cruise. And your wise counsel. Please apologize to the men for my . . . bad mood these past several days. I regret burdening you with that.”

“Pay it no mind, Mr. Cutler,” Wesley said. “And don't fret a fig about
Barbara D.
She'll be as shipshape as can be before anyone is dismissed.”

“Of that I am certain, John.” They shook hands.

As Will's boat approached, Richard looked fondly about the harbor, happy at that moment to see even the screaming gulls soaring and wheeling overhead and the tidal flats covered with rotting fish, their stench covered by the clean scent of sea air born aloft by a surprisingly warm southwesterly breeze. Minutes later he was in the small boat shaking hands with his son, who moved to the forward thwart for the row back to the wharf as his father settled on the after thwart.

“I want to hear all about your cruise, Will,” Richard said after they had shoved off from the brig.

“There is much to tell, Father,” Will said as he guided the boat shoreward through heavy traffic. “But I am under strict orders not to say anything until this evening. Mr. Hunt has sent word of your arrival to Hingham, and he has a packet standing by to take us home whenever you are ready to leave. Until tonight, mum's the word.”

“So be it.” As Richard watched his son deftly ply the waters of Boston Harbor, the thought came to him that Will had done some maturing during the past few months at sea.

I
T WAS A FAMILY REUNION
to remember. These days it was rare to have so many Cutlers assembled in one place at one time. Only Richard's sisters, who lived in Duxbury and Cambridge with their own families, were not present. The family had gathered at the former home of Richard's parents on Main Street, which Richard had conferred on Caleb along with the responsibility of managing Cutler & Sons after their father's death.

Edna Stowe, the housekeeper who had devoted the best part of her adult life in service to the Cutler family, worked her magic in the kitchen with the help of Katherine and Diana Cutler and Lizzy Cutler Crabtree. The feast of roast venison and potatoes, freshly baked breads, fruits and vegetables from the garden, and two silky-crusted grape pies topped any meal ever prepared in that kitchen.

“Caleb,” Lizzy said, after they had said grace and were happily eating, “it must be a nice change to have so many of us here tonight. I suppose you're lonely sometimes, living alone in this big house. You need to find yourself a nice woman and get married and fill these rooms with children. Zeke needs playmates.” She was referring to her young son, the only child she and Agreen could ever hope to have. She glanced at Katherine and then at Richard, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

Richard agreed with her, unaware that he was the pawn in his cousin's game. “I've been saying that for years.”

Diana Cutler stifled a giggle.

“Well, my good man,” Caleb announced magnanimously, “you need say it no longer. Although I shall miss them dearly, my bachelor days are over. I'm striking my colors.”

Richard laid down his fork. “You're getting
married
?” he exclaimed so incredulously that those seated around the table burst into laughter. “
You
? God's mercy, will wonders never cease! Who's the lucky girl?”

“Joan Cabot. From Boston.”

“A
Cabot
? From
Boston
? You've gone right to the fount of Boston society, haven't you? Are you trying to best your nephew?” He gave Will a quick grin. “How long have you been seeing her?”

“Oh, off and on for a year or so. Most definitely ‘on' in recent months.”

A quip came to Richard's mind, which he quickly dismissed as inappropriate for mixed company. “So that's why you've been spending so much time in Boston. I thought you were tending to family business.”

Caleb smiled. “I was.”

Richard shook his head. “Well that beats all. I suppose this means we'll have to make some changes around here.” He lifted his glass and crooked his little finger. “Assume fancier airs. Dress in the latest fashions. Commission a carriage or two with the family seal. Take snuff and wear perfumed wigs. When is this magnificent event to occur?”

“Next September. We don't want to preempt Will's wedding. And don't believe for a moment that Joan is like the other Cabots. She's more like Katherine, who, as you know better than anyone, stooped low from her lofty position in English society when she married a base commoner
like you.” He smiled at Richard's wife. “You haven't fared too badly, have you, Katherine?”

“That's
Lady
Katherine to you, Caleb,” she replied pompously, setting off another round of laughter and clinking wineglasses.

The evening wore on with each family member recounting events of the past six months. Richard was keenly interested in
Falcon's
cruise to Batavia and his brother's impressions of Jan Van der Heyden. As that was far too comprehensive a subject to cover in an evening, Caleb suggested that he, Agreen, Will, and Richard meet the next morning to review the business opportunities inherent in C&E Enterprises. The mood of the evening remained merry until Richard asked his son Jamie for his update. Jamie had been uncharacteristically quiet through dinner.

The brown-haired seventeen-year-old turned immediately serious at his father's question. As if on cue, the mood of the evening shifted from merriment to solemnity. Puzzled by this turn of events, Richard glanced around the table. Although everyone met his gaze, no one offered an immediate explanation. Agreen finally broke the silence.

“We're at war, Richard,” he said. “America is at war.”

“At war?” Richard said in disbelief. “With whom?”

“Tripoli.”

“Tripoli? The Barbary state? Why, for God's sake?”

“We don't know for certain. Details are slow comin' in. What we
do
know is that Tripoli declared war on us, not the other way 'round. Last May, Richard Dale left for the Mediterranean in
Congress
with a five-ship squadron. His mission was t' protect our merchantmen over there. I suppose that still
is
his mission.”

Richard Dale was an old friend: a fellow prisoner with Richard Cutler and Agreen Crabtree in Old Mill Prison during the war with England and subsequently their shipmate in
Bonhomme Richard.
It was Richard Dale who had secured the guns for
Falcon's
cruise to North Africa fourteen years ago when Caleb and the others of
Eagle's
crew were being held captive in an Arab prison and Richard Cutler was sent to Algiers to try to negotiate their release. Richard could think of no better man to command a squadron against those same Barbary pirates—except, perhaps, for Thomas Truxtun, his commanding officer in
Constellation
during the war with France. Richard's brain was whirling with the implications when Jamie said, with a sudden burst of pride, “Father, I think I may have secured a midshipman's warrant.”

Richard blinked. “What did you say?”

“I think I may have secured a midshipman's warrant,” Jamie repeated. He looked to Will for support.

“It's true, Father,” Will said. “When we were in Batavia, Uncle Caleb and I met with Captain Edward Preble aboard
Essex.
I told him about Jamie's desire to follow in your footsteps and join the Navy. Captain Preble was impressed, even more so when he found out that Jamie had studied at Governor Dummer Academy, just as he had. So he agreed to meet with Jamie in Boston when
Essex
returned.”

“And did he?” Richard asked Jamie.

“Yes, sir. We met six weeks ago in our shipping office. Mr. Hunt was there, too. During our conversation Captain Preble asked me if there was anyone of high office who might recommend me to the Navy. I gave him the names of Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Adams. I am hoping you will write them on my behalf.”

“Yes, of course I will, Jamie,” his father replied in a faraway tone. “You couldn't have picked two better references.” His mind struggled to encompass the evening's many twists and turns. The image of USS
Portsmouth,
his future command, still on her blocks at the Portsmouth Navy Yard in New Hampshire, sprang to mind. How would that piece fit into this puzzle? And Jamie a midshipman! The thought filled him with pride—and with apprehension knowing that war had been declared. But was it truly a war? Tripoli could hardly be conceived as a formidable foe. “Where is Captain Preble now?”