The Power and the Glory (11 page)

“Do tell. With what? Spanish gold?” The man guffawed at his own wit and whacked a shroud with his mallet. Shards of ice clinked onto the deck and splashed into the water.

“No. With something better than Spanish gold.”

“And what would that be, pray?”

Richard pointed his thumb back at the large wooden cask. “West Indian rum.”

The man paused in his work. For several moments he stared down at Richard and the cask set behind him.

“Rum, you say?”

“Aye. Barbados dark rum, the best you've ever tasted. As you and your mates will agree once you sample it.”

Early the next morning
Elizabeth
set sail for home, her crew content with full stomachs.

NORTHWARD BOUND, they could see evidence ashore that the blizzard had struck the mainland of Cape Cod with the same devastating force as it had the islands. Each picturesque coastal village they
passed—Chatham, Wellfleet, Truro, Provincetown—lay entombed in white, and hardly a glimpse of human activity was to be seen anywhere. The fishermen and tradesmen of these seaside communities sat huddled inside their homes before the hearth, taking what comfort and solace they could from human fellowship and a crackling fire, in the same way their Saxon and Celtic ancestors had done when confronted with such a calamity. Aboard
Elizabeth
, as she sailed past wintry scenes that were at once spectacular and horrifying to the eye, every man prayed that his own family was safe and warm and somehow managing to cope.

As it turned out, the storm had only grazed the South Shore of Boston before it howled eastward into the Atlantic. Because every member of his crew lived in or near Hingham, Richard decided to bypass Long Wharf and steer directly for Crow Point. It would be late in the evening by the time they arrived there, too late for those who lived farther away to get home that night. But at least those who lived near the docks could be with their families.

“Goodnight, lads,” Richard said later that evening to the four sailors remaining on board. It was 9:30, and
Elizabeth
lay snug against a Hingham quay. “I'll be back in the morning with horse and carriage to take you home.”

“Thank ye kindly,” one of the four replied. “An' Cap'm, seeing as how we're off duty, do ye mind a-tall if me and the boys nip into that last cask of rum?”

“Nip to your heart's content, Pulley,” Richard urged. “Lord knows you've earned the right. Tomorrow I'll bring along some extra hands in case we should need to carry you and your mates aboard the carriage.”

The full moon cast an amber glow as Richard trudged through several inches of freshly fallen snow to his home on South Street. He hoped his family would still be up, although he realized that was not likely. The black shroud of winter closed in early over New England in December, and the one sure way to keep warm during those long, bitter hours was to wrap up inside thick woolen blankets and sleep through the night.

At the entry to his home he paused, listening. No sound. He creaked open the door and stepped inside. Still hearing nothing, he closed the door gently behind him. He removed his seaboots and struck a spark on a tinderbox to light a candle kept on a shelf near the door. A quick survey of the downstairs confirmed that his family had indeed gone upstairs to bed, although not long ago, judging by the low fires still
burning in the parlor and kitchen. He tossed several fresh logs onto each hearth. Flames crackled up, adding warmth to the rooms downstairs and, to a lesser degree, those above.

He unbuttoned his sea coat and shrugged it off, placing it on a wooden peg in the foyer above his boots. Candle in hand, he climbed the stairs in stocking feet. On the second floor he paused outside the first room in the hallway to the right, cracked open the door, and peeked in. Will was curled up asleep on one bed, Jamie on the other. He was tempted to wake them but decided against it, imagining their surprise the next morning when they came downstairs for breakfast and found him at the kitchen table. He closed that door and clicked open the next one down the hall.

“Is that you, Mommy?” a sleepy voice called from the shadows.

Richard placed the candle in a sconce on a side table and sat down on the edge of the bed. “No, Poppet. It's me.”

“Father!” Diana mumbled with sleepy delight. She sat up, now fully awake. “When did you get home?”

“Just now.”

“Does Mommy know?”

“Not yet.”

“Well you must go and tell her, Father. Right away.”

“Why, Poppet?” Richard asked with concern.

“She's very upset, Father. I saw her crying this afternoon. I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn't tell me. I told Will, and he said to mind my own business. But she's worried, Father. She's worried sick, I just know she is.”

“Worried sick about what?”

“Why, I should think about
you
, Father.”

A lump formed in Richard's throat. He swallowed hard. “Well,” he managed, “Mommy's a very lucky mommy to have a daughter like you who cares about her so much. I'll go see her right away, all right?”

“All right.” When she had settled back, Richard pulled the comforter up to her chin and kissed her forehead. As he did so, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Father?”

“Yes, Poppet?”

“I'm so happy you're home. I've missed you. We all have.”

Another lump. Another hard swallow. “I've missed you too. Go to sleep now. Promise?”

“I promise. Good night, Father.”

“Goodnight, Diana. I love you.”

At his own bedroom at the far end of the hall to the left, he opened the door and crept inside. Katherine was asleep on the far side of the bed, her back to him, her chestnut curls flowing across the checkerboard coverlet. He set down the candle and watched her sleep as he stripped off his clothing, a hundred thoughts, memories, desires infusing a mind beset by what his daughter had told him. It was one thing for a man to face the dangers of the sea, but quite another for his family to suffer because of it.

He lifted the blankets and slipped in naked beside her, nestling close, savoring her body heat and feminine scent, allowing his body to warm before touching her. She stirred when she felt him nuzzling her ear and cheek.

“Mmm, Richard?” she murmured dreamily.

“Yes, my love. Were you expecting someone else?”

Her eyes flew open. “
Richard!”

She turned about and was upon him in an instant, kissing him, running her hands over him, clawing at him with frantic intensity. “I thought you weren't coming back,” she wailed. “I thought you were gone!” Weeping openly, she clutched him to her, squeezed him, touched him everywhere, her wild ministrations inspiring more pain than pleasure.

“Gone where? Don't you know that I'll always come home to you?”

She stopped short, as if slapped. Then, as though emerging from a hypnotic trance, she brought her hand to his cheek and gazed deep into his eyes, convincing herself that, yes, she was awake; yes, he was home; no, this was not a dream; yes, the nightmare was over. “I heard tell,” she half-whispered, “of a terrible storm south of here. I heard tell of many ships lost at sea.”

“Who told you that?”

“Captain Bennett,” she said in that same faraway tone. “I heard him talking to people in a village shop on Monday. He said it was the worst storm he had ever seen, by half. He said that his was the last ship to escape hell. And he said that no ship could survive such a storm, that any ship caught in it must be presumed lost. I hurried home, but I didn't say anything to anyone except Agee and Lizzy. I
had
to tell them, Richard. I know I shouldn't have. Lizzy is so close to her time and mustn't be made to worry. But I had to tell
someone
.”

He tucked a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. “Well, Frank's a good man, not one to spread panic. And he was right; there
was
a fierce storm off the Cape. But we were in no danger. We rode it
out in Nantucket, which is why it took us so long to get home. We'll set Agee and Lizzy straight in the morning, after I see to my crew.”

She let out a long, heartfelt sigh that sounded more like a lament. “Oh, dear God, Richard, you must forgive me. I don't know what possessed me. I've never reacted this way with you away at sea. I—”

He brought a finger to her lips. “Ssh, Katherine. It's all right. It's all right, my love. We're together now. We shall always be together, you and I.”

“Oh yes, my dearest, my darling! Oh yes!”

She closed her eyes and brought her lips softly to his as her hand slid down to fondle him with a gentle, willful touch born of carnal knowledge and a thousand nights as his lover. They held each other, pleasured each other, loved each other until long after the candle had guttered into darkness, and the warmth that sustained them through the cold of that long December night was theirs and theirs alone.

Hingham, Massachusetts Winter 1798

T
HE CUTLERS celebrated the Yuletide of 1797 in customary fashion. Thomas Cutler invited friends and neighbors to come to his home on Main Street early on Christmas Eve to enjoy a round of spiced punch and seasonal tunes orchestrated by Anne and Lavinia, who were holding forth at the piano. Later that night, their guests gone, the Cutler family settled in to listen to the family patriarch read Scripture by the light of red Christmas candles. At ten o'clock they gathered close by the fire and went around the room, each adult in turn relating his or her best memory, first, of Elizabeth Cutler, then of Will Cutler, the eldest son who had been brutally flogged and hanged on board a Royal Navy frigate in 1775 for striking a king's officer. It was an emotional ordeal for those who spoke, the passage of years notwithstanding. But it was a meaningful way to hold the family matriarch and her eldest son in the sacred light of Christmas, and for the budding branches of young Cutler cousins to learn more about their family tree.

The next morning, after attending the service at First Parish Church, the Cutlers attacked platters of roast venison, candied fruits, squash, and potatoes. This feast was followed, to the children's delight, by a smorgasbord of pumpkin, raisin, grape, and apple pies baked by the indefatigable Edna Stowe. As the Christmas meal drew to its gratifying conclusion, Jeffrey Seymour commented that his aunt must
really
have gorged herself on pies; just look at the size of her belly—a comment that
ignited a round of giggles from his cousins and a look of censure from his mother. Before Anne Cutler Seymour could reprimand her son for his crude remark, Lizzy Crabtree spoke up.

“It was those last two pies that did me in, Jeffrey,” she said solemnly, patting her swollen stomach. “I should have quit after the third one.” Her comment set the adults to laughing and brought puzzled expressions to the faces of the other children. Agreen drew her close with one arm and planted a fond kiss on her cheek.

There were gifts to exchange, by tradition one gift per family member to each other family member. But the gift that had meant the most to Richard and Katherine had been given to their son Will eleven days earlier, on the occasion of his sixteenth birthday.

“What is it, Father?” he had asked as he took the small package wrapped in simple brown paper.

“Open it and see, Will.”

The boy opened the package to find a small, leatherbound book. Will flipped through the thin white pages. On each right-hand page was a date in the month of September 1781. Notes and observations had been written beneath each date in his father's bold handwriting.

“But what is it?” Will asked again.

“A journal I kept,” his father informed him, “before the Battle of Yorktown. I was serving at the time in an 80-gun French man-of-war. I wrote in that journal every night in my cabin until the sea battle off the Chesapeake. After that, I was stationed ashore with General Lafayette's division. My commanding officer was Colonel Hamilton.”

“Your father wants you to have this journal,” Katherine explained further. “You are our firstborn, so the honor falls to you. But it's really for all three of you. We ask that you keep it safe, Will, and share it with Jamie and Diana when they are old enough to appreciate what a truly precious gift this is.”

“Thank you, Father,” Will said with feeling, grateful nonetheless for the new bamboo fishing pole he had also received as a birthday gift.

JANUARY WAS UNUSUALLY MILD for southern New England. What snow there was either quickly melted or changed over to rain along the immediate coast, making it possible for the Cutlers to sail to and from Long Wharf whenever it suited their purpose. George Hunt rarely had good news to report, however. Increased raids on American commerce had by mid-January sent marine insurance rates rocketing as high as 27 percent of the estimated value of a ship's cargo. Each new report
strengthened Richard's resolve to find privateer captain Paul-Louis du Bourg and exact revenge.

“These rates are crippling us,” Hunt said, stating the painfully obvious to Richard, Caleb, and Thomas Cutler inside the Cutler & Sons counting house. Outside, a cold, dreary rain drummed against the window glass. “If they go any higher, well . . .” He threw up his hands.

“Father,” Caleb volunteered, “why pay for insurance at all? Since the Royal Navy protects many of our vessels in the Indies, what if we inform Mr. Church that we no longer intend to purchase insurance? Even if we lost a cargo or two, wouldn't we still come out ahead?”

Thomas Cutler shook his head. “No, Caleb. I understand what you're saying, and I know that other shippers are doing just that. But I will not. The risk is too great. If just one of our vessels is seized, that's the equivalent of a 100 percent insurance rate on her cargo. And bear in mind that we're not talking just about cargoes here. Men's lives are at stake. Men who work for us and whose families depend on us.”