For Love of Country (21 page)

“I am therefore prepared, out of respect for you and to show the mercy and love of Allah, to make a certain . . . how shall we say . . . accommodation. We understand, you and I, why I am unable to release all of the American prisoners at this time. However, for the value of two hundred thousand
muzunas
—five thousand of your American dollars—I will release your brother to you. He is a fine young man. I see pride and accomplishment in him. Perhaps you are aware that I once offered him a position as a servant in my residence. I meant it as a high honor, though he was delighted to refuse.” Bin Osman chuckled at his
turn of phrase. “So you see, Captain Cutler, for his sake and for yours, I am willing to bend the rules, as you Americans like to say. You may take your brother to Paris with you, if you wish.”

Five thousand dollars, Richard realized, was twice the amount a sea captain fetched in the ransom market, and three to four times the price for a common sailor. This was extortion on a grand scale. However tempting the lure thrown out to him, Richard forced himself to ignore the bait. He at once understood what message his acceptance of the dey's offer would convey to the rest of the world about Americans' values and the sanctity of the freedom for which they had shed so much blood. The fledgling United States would be seen as something Richard fervently believed it was not: another platform for duplicity and treachery on the world stage, its citizens as subject as the citizens of other nations to the deceit and betrayal of those in positions of power and influence. Of more immediate concern, what message would his ransoming Caleb send to the rest of
Eagle
's crew, all of whom were relying on Cutler & Sons for their well-being and the well-being of their families back home? Richard could well imagine their reaction to watching Caleb sail off to freedom while they remained abandoned to their fate in Algiers.

Richard could hardly keep his fury in check. “Your Excellency,” he managed in a tight voice, “may I propose another solution?”

Bin Osman arched his thick eyebrows. “By all means do so,” he replied.

“I propose,” Richard said, “that for the same sum of two hundred thousand
muzamas
I be granted two requests. First, that I be allowed to meet privately for one hour with my brother and Captain Dickerson at a location of your choosing. And, second, that my surgeon be allowed to examine every American prisoner held in Algiers.”

Bin Osman's jaw fell. “That is
all,
Mr. Cutler? You are willing to pay so much for so little?”

“It is no small matter to me, Your Excellency, to see my brother and his shipmates alive and well.”

Bin Osman glanced questioningly to his left, at his
khaznaji
and
vekil kharj,
and then to his right, at the sea captain who stood with arms folded across his chest, the bulge of arm muscles visible under his thin shirt. He, too, returned the dey's glance without comment.

“Done,” the dey announced. “Your requests are granted, Captain Cutler. At 4:00 this afternoon I will send guards to the jetty to escort you and your surgeon to the prison.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Richard said with glacial formality. He bowed once, quickly, then turned sharply on his heel and began walking out of the royal chamber, motioning to Chatfield to follow him. The two guards at the door made no move to stop him. Kercy, aghast at the breach of diplomatic protocol, hastily took his leave with a series of bows and backward steps. Once out of the royal chamber, he hurried after Richard.

“
Capitaine
!
Capitaine
Cutler!” he panted as he caught up with him. “You have insulted His Majesty by leaving so. You must go back and apologize.
Maintenant! S'il vous plaît, monsieur!
You must!”

“Fuck His Majesty,” Richard threw over his shoulder. He rounded on the consul, his lips curled in contempt. “
Je crois que tu comprends très bien ce mot ‘fuck,' Monsieur de Kercy, non?
”

The consul stood speechless as Richard and Chatfield made their way down the narrow, dirty streets of Algiers toward the Gate of Jihad and the harbor where
Falcon
rode peacefully at anchor.

Nine

Algiers, September 1788

T
HE AGE-OLD TRADITIONS OF Christmas had always been faithfully observed by the Cutler family. Early on Christmas Eve, friends and neighbors gathered at the Cutler home on Main Street to sing the songs of the season and to enjoy mulled cider or a drink of hot rum, water, and sugar. Later, after supper, the family dragged the Yule log through the front door and into the sitting room hearth, sprinkling it with spiced cider just as their Saxon ancestors had done and later setting aside a burnt fragment to tie to next year's log, thus carrying the tradition forward in perpetuity. Later still, with his brood huddled before the fire and his wife seated beside him, Thomas Cutler read by candlelight the familiar passage about the decree from Caesar Augustus as Caleb and Lavinia, the youngest of the five children, stifled yawns, determined to carry the magic of this evening as far into the night as their parents would allow.

The next day, Christmas, was the only morning of the year that the children eagerly attended the First Parish service, for they had placed bets among themselves on how long Parson Gay's sermon would last. Halfway through the diatribe, inevitably, Will would set his younger siblings to quiet giggling when he covertly stretched out his mouth with his middle fingers to mimic the austere facial features of the good reverend. And they knew that a present or two awaited them after the service, as well as a Christmas feast of roasted venison, sweet potatoes, fried onions, candied apple rings, and pies so choice with buttery crusts that even the adults rubbed their stomachs and groaned contentedly when the meal reached its reluctant conclusion.

There was nothing merry, however, about the Christmas of 1775. Will was with his family in spirit only, as he forever would be, and the revolution that had claimed his young life was spreading like a wildfire throughout the colonies. Elizabeth Cutler did what she could to inject a sense of purpose into the family's traditions. Richard, approaching sixteen and now the oldest child, understood the role he must play for the sake of his siblings, especially sweet Anne, whose grief over Will's death seemed inconsolable. But it was a role he could not play. He missed Will terribly. There was no reconciling his sorrow and rage. Caleb tried to cheer him; time and again during those days leading up to Christmas he begged Richard to play checkers with him or go outside in the bracing air for a game of sticks and hoops. Richard always put him off, promising to play some other time.

So it was that Christmas morning in 1775 that Caleb approached Richard as he sat alone at the kitchen table where the family would soon gather for supper. He held a package in his hand, wrapped simply in paper, and this he gave to his older brother. Richard separated the folds. Inside was a wooden model of a ship. He balanced it in his hand, immediately aware of the significance of the gift. Will had been a master whittler, and for each of the past three years he had given Richard a model ship as a Christmas present. Richard kept the collection upstairs on his dresser as a shrine to his brother's memory, the intricate detail of the masts and yards, and the standing rigging fashioned from their mother's sewing thread testifying to the loving care Will had invested in each model, a gift to a brother whom he, in turn, loved.

What Richard now held before him, however, was no masterpiece. It was the crudest of ship models, essentially a block of wood with its center cut out to form a quarterdeck in the stern and a forecastle in the bow. Two twigs were stuck in holes knocked in the wood with a nail: one a bowsprit, the other a single mast rising from the center of the hacked-out section.

Richard looked at his brother, at eye level with him because Richard was seated. “Thank you, Caleb,” he said. “I like it. But . . . why?”

Caleb's lips began to quiver. Tears sprouted from the corners of his eyes and coursed down his smooth cheeks. He choked on his reply; when finally he was able to speak, his words came out as a high mournful wail that was at once both accusation and supplication.

“I'm your brother too, Richard. I'm your brother too!”

A GENTLE RAP on the cabin door broke the reverie. “Yes? Enter.”

Micah Lamont stuck his head inside. “Seven bells,” he announced, adding, when Richard appeared nonplussed, “You asked me to come to you at seven bells, Captain.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Lamont.” Richard glanced down at his watch to confirm the time of 3:30, a motion that allowed him pause to collect himself. “We will weigh anchor as soon as Dr. Brooke and I are back aboard. Please prepare
Falcon
for departure.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Richard's mood had eased somewhat since his return from the dey's palace. Once aboard, he had gone below to his cabin and shut the door, remaining there, alone, for nearly two hours. When he emerged, he summoned his two officers and the ship's surgeon to his cabin, reviewed with them what had transpired at the royal court, and advised them that they would be departing for France that very evening. They would not, however, be sailing to Toulon. The medical facilities there were no longer needed. They would sail instead to Lorient, a French seaport on the Bay of Biscay. Lorient was considerably closer to Paris, he explained, and it was a seaport with which both Richard and Agreen were well acquainted. From there they would travel to Paris to meet with Captain Jones.

“We will be gone less than a week,” Richard concluded, glancing at his mate, who would be in command of the vessel during their absence.

“Understood, Captain,” Lamont replied.

“Are you ready, Dr. Brooke?”

“Ready, Mr. Cutler,” the frail, gray-whiskered surgeon replied. He patted his brown leather medical bag for emphasis.

“Good. Agee?”

“Five thousand dollars in gold coin accounted for,” Agreen assured him, “and secured in the gig.”

“Thank you. Gentlemen, it's time.”

On deck, Richard motioned to the surgeon to step down into the gig. Ashore, by the jetty, ten Muslim soldiers, dark as mahogany and heavily armed, waited by a mule-drawn wagon.

“Good luck, brother,” Agreen said. He squeezed Richard's shoulder.

Ashore, the mayhem so palpable in the morning was by now far less in evidence. Perhaps that was the natural way of Algiers, Richard mused as he sat in the gig's sternsheets and observed the relative tranquility outside the walls. Earlier in the day, before his audience in the royal palace, this area had been crammed with herdsmen and traders
and government officials and exotic beasts. At this hour, only a few individuals were walking about, each dressed in the flowing white robe and turban of an ordinary Arab citizen, none of them paying much attention to the gig or its passengers. Perhaps, he speculated, the relative quiet and lack of visible humanity were due to the soldiers standing at attention by the jetty. The soldiers were clearly on His Majesty's business, and judging from their iron demeanor, God help any man stupid or unlucky enough to get in their way.

When the two Americans stepped ashore into the blazing late-summer heat, they were searched for weapons and then escorted through the intricately decorated Gate of Jihad. Once inside the city walls, the party split in two. Four soldiers headed straight up toward the Qasbah with the treasure wagon. The six remaining soldiers guided the two Americans along a dirt pathway set between the city's east-facing wall and a long row of what Richard assumed were administrative buildings, set so close together that there was hardly enough space to walk between any two of them. The sights and smells and sounds that had assaulted Richard's senses earlier in the day were here less noticeable, as if this area had been declared off-limits to ordinary citizens and the ruckus and stink that they and their animals generated.

When they arrived at the last building, a dreary one-story, whitewashed affair featuring narrow, glassless slits for windows, the officer in charge of the detail ordered a halt and signaled to the Americans to stay put. Richard watched the officer enter the building and then examined, to the extent possible, the area directly behind it. He could see the first prison barrack clearly enough—it rose two stories higher than the administrative building set in front of it—but he noticed no movement either inside or outside its walls.

The turbaned officer reemerged and summoned the Americans inside. The building's interior was refreshingly cool, though it took awhile for Richard's eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. Two Muslim soldiers took up positions by a wooden doorway to his right, one on each side, as the officer indicated to Lawrence Brooke that he should follow three other guards through another door on the other side of the building leading outside to the prison compound. He spoke emphatically in Arabic to the two remaining guards before holding up one finger to Richard: one hour, the time he had purchased. He then followed Brooke and his escort outside.

Richard stepped between the guards, opened the door. Caleb was up in an instant and walking toward him with a noticeable limp. A second
man rose to his feet but remained standing beside a thick wooden table where he and Caleb had been seated.

Caleb was thinner than Richard had ever seen him, his skeletal frame only partially concealed by the large shirt with open sleeves that he wore along with baggy cotton trousers and sandals. He was bearded, unkemptly so, and his eyes and cheeks were hollowed. But his embrace was firm and unflinching, and his deep-set blue eyes glistened as he embraced his brother. “Richard! By God, I feared I would never see this day!”

Richard was so overcome that words utterly failed him. He held Caleb at arm's length and stared at him, then clasped him to his chest. So frail was Caleb that Richard could feel his ribs through his shirt. Still he could not bear to release him. It took several minutes, several precious minutes, for the severity of the moment to ease its bite.