The Power and the Glory (33 page)

“I see.” Richard's voice and facial expression held a faraway quality as he remembered Toussaint's promise of an
exclusif
to Cutler & Sons.

“I congratulate President Adams for picking the winning side,” Hugh added, “and you for being a part of it. I doubt that either of you will gain much from it in the long run, however. As much as I respect General Toussaint, I cannot envision a country in this hemisphere governed by black Africans. In any event, perhaps now you understand why I am so eager to retire from the service and settle my affairs elsewhere.” He added, “But not before I bestow a gift upon you and
Constellation
.”

“A gift?” Richard was at sea.

“Yes, a gift. One I believe that you and Captain Truxtun and your entire ship's complement will quickly come to appreciate. My gift—I should say, the gift of the Royal Navy for services rendered on His Majesty's behalf—is ten carronades, delivered at cost to your Gosport Navy Yard in Virginia. Arrangements have already been finalized between my Navy Board and your Navy Department. My understanding is that they are being installed on board
Constellation
even as we speak. May you have occasion to use them. The French call these guns ‘devil guns,' and for good reason. I must say, giving the French a good pasting at sea is one thing I'll miss when I leave the service.”

Richard's elation about receiving Hugh's “gift” was superseded several weeks later when, just as he was preparing to book passage north to Saint Kitts, word came to the Cutler compound that USS
Constitution
had sailed into Carlisle Bay under a thirteen-gun salute.

Marie-Galante, French West Indies September–October 1799

R
ICHARD CUTLER lost no time getting to Bridgetown. John offered him a horse and carriage, but Richard did without the carriage. Not an equestrian by nature, and made skittish by a fall from a horse in England many years ago, he had learned to ride quite well under Katherine's patient tutelage. Within an hour of receiving word of
Constitution'
s arrival, he had his horse munching feed in a stable on Front Street and the American frigate in sight.

She was anchored in Carlisle Bay on the periphery of the Windward Squadron. His first impression was what he had expected. She looked very much like
Constellation
, only longer—thirty feet longer, he recalled. Her hull was ink black, save for a band of white painted along her gun-port strake. Her beam was comparable to
Constellation'
s in width, but she carried a thousand tons heavier burthen, three dozen sails, and a sail plan exceeding 42,000 square feet. With those great clouds of white canvas now furled tight to their yards and booms, she looked a beauty for the ages as she lay out there beam-on to him. High above, on her three masts, pennants fluttered in the breeze alongside the Stars and Stripes.

A scan of the ships in the squadron and of the pedestrians lining the shore confirmed that many others, sailors and civilians alike, were equally drawn to the graceful lines and stark majesty of the pride of the U.S. Navy.

The immediate question was how to get out to her. The western half of Carlisle Bay housed the ships of the Windward Squadron. Access to those vessels was restricted to ships' boats and to lighters commissioned by the navy yard to transport food and water to the squadron. For the moment, Richard could see no such boat tethered to the quays nearby or coming ashore from the ships. He thus had two choices: he could either wait for one to become available or hire a wherry at the commercial wharves on the eastern half of the harbor. He decided to wait. A wherryman would likely be challenged by a guard boat and ordered to turn back, and the wherryman, his fare already paid, would not likely object.

A half-hour elapsed before Richard noticed a jolly boat being swung out from
Constitution
and lowered into the water. Eight sailors clambered down the frigate's side, followed by the coxswain. He was followed in turn by an individual Richard knew to be an officer, both by his uniform and by the distant squeal of pipes accompanying him off the ship. A sailor in the bow cast off the line, those positioned at the larboard side backed oars, and the jolly boat made for shore, her oars rising and dipping, rising and dipping, moving the boat forward in steady pulses.

Richard moved along the docks toward the point where the coxswain was aiming, an open space along a stone wharf not far away. As it approached, he strained to identify the officer sitting in the stern sheets, but he could not make out the man's features even as the jolly boat bumped gently against the quay a few feet from him.

“Boat oars!” the coxswain cried out.

“Well done, Oates,” the officer said admiringly, his voice edged with a Highland burr. Gingerly he stepped onto the quay. To the coxswain he said, “Stand by. I shan't be long, I shouldn't think.” To the oarsmen he said, “You men are free to walk about. Just remember my warning. Stay close to the docks and steer clear of the taverns and doxies. I will have no man coming down with the pox.” He turned to go but stopped short before the tall blond man blocking his way. “Excuse me, sir, might I be of service?”

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Richard said. “My name is Richard Cutler. I serve as first in USS
Constellation
, currently being refitted at the Gosport Shipyard. I am hoping that—”

“My God
,
sir!” the officer exclaimed. “
You
are Lieutenant Cutler?”

“I am.”

“Well, I'll be snookered,” he declared, shaking his head in wonder. “This is a most extraordinary coincidence.
You
, sir, are the very man I was sent ashore to contact.
Constitution”
—he unnecessarily indicated the frigate at anchor—“is at your service. We were ordered to Bridgetown to convey you to Saint Kitts on our return cruise from the Leeward Antilles to the Santo Domingo Station.”

“My Lord. Truly?”

“Truly,” the officer laughed. He lifted his black fore-and-aft cocked hat. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Robert Hamilton,
Constitution'
s second.”

Richard returned the salute. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant,” he said. “Are you by chance related to Mr. Alexander Hamilton? I believe I have heard him mention your name.”

“I am, sir,” the handsome, dark-haired officer replied. “I am his cousin. On the Scottish side of the family.”

“I see. Well, congratulations on your appointment, Mr. Hamilton. Tell me, is Lieutenant Crabtree on board?”

“He is, sir. He has a slight ailment, else he'd be here in my stead. Nothing serious, I should think, and he seems to be well on a course to recovery. He is most anxious to see you.” Hamilton swept an arm toward the jolly boat bobbing up and down along the quay. “Shall we be off to the ship? I see no reason to linger here.”

“I'm all for that.”

The dirty looks and subdued mutters of the jolly boat's crew as Richard settled into the stern sheets next to Hamilton suggested that they were not as “all for that” as the two officers.

As the boat pulled toward
Constitution
, Richard locked his gaze on the American frigate ahead, taking in the entire ship from her jaunty stern lines to the figurehead at her bow: a scroll, representing the Constitution, guarded on both sides by dragons. He recalled the day when he and his father and brother first approached the fully rigged
Constellation
in Baltimore Harbor. Just as he had back then, he felt a surge of pride that a vessel of such power and glory sailed under the flag of his country.

“Boat ahoy!” a youthful voice cried out from the frigate.

“Aye, aye!” the coxswain shouted up in reply, signifying that he had an officer on board.

With the jolly boat secured at
Constitution'
s larboard fore-chains, Richard, the higher-ranking officer, grabbed hold of the twin hand
ropes and stepped onto and up the eleven steps built into the hull. At the entry port he saluted the quarterdeck as a hastily assembled party of ship's boys piped him on board, followed by a second undulating shriek as Lieutenant Hamilton stepped onto the deck.

“This is Lieutenant Cutler, Mr. Sayres,” Hamilton said when the shriek was cut short by the boatswain. The young man he addressed appeared to be a midshipman serving as officer of the deck. “We shall go below to visit with the captain. Please pass word to Mr. Hull and Mr. Crabtree to join us.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

As the two lieutenants made their way down the broad wooden steps amidships onto the gun deck, Hamilton asked, “How do you find her, Mr. Cutler? Compared to
Constellation
.”

“Very much the same,” Richard replied, looking about. He stooped slightly when he reached the deck, his eyes sweeping along the array of glistening black 24-pounder guns mounted on blood-red trucks bowsed up one after another against the larboard and starboard bulwarks. He did not need to count them. Every officer in the U.S. Navy knew what armament each of the newly built frigates carried. There would be twenty-six guns to his view on this deck, and four additional guns mounted in the captain's day cabin aft, just as in
Constellation
. “I watched her being built in Boston,” he explained, adding, in a softer tone of confidentiality, “Lieutenant, is there anything you can tell me about Captain Nicholson before I meet with him?”

Hamilton gave him a startled look. “Dear me, Mr. Cutler, you
have
been on the beach, haven't you. Captain Nicholson no longer commands this ship. He was relieved several months ago and assigned to shore duty.”

“Oh? Who's in command now?”

Hamilton motioned toward a Marine sentry standing at attention before the door leading into the captain's after cabin. “I suggest we see that you are properly introduced.”

The stone-faced Marine was dressed in a blue coat with scarlet trim, red cuffs, and a single white cross-belt, and blue trousers. His tall hat was trimmed in yellow and turned up on the left side with a leather cockade attached to it. At his side he gripped a finely polished sea-service musket.

“Lieutenant Cutler to see Captain Talbot,” Hamilton informed him.

The Marine sentry snapped a salute, wheeled about, and rapped on the door. He opened it when bidden and announced the visitors. Hearing acknowledgment from inside, he swung the door open and stepped aside.

At the mention of the name “Talbot” an image formed in Richard's mind of a man with whom he had served during the war in Old Mill Prison in Plymouth, England. Despite a ten-year difference in age, they had become close friends during their time in prison. Richard was a former midshipman in
Ranger
and Silas Talbot was a noted privateer captain and major in the Continental army. Such was Talbot's natural charisma that he quickly became the unanimous choice to serve as leader of the American prisoners, all of whom were captured seamen viewed by the British not as prisoners of war but as traitors deserving a traitor's death. Despite that sword of Damocles hanging over him, and a prison keeper who had no love for Americans, Talbot was able to negotiate better terms and conditions for his countrymen before engineering a daring plan that allowed most of the commissioned and warrant officers to escape from Old Mill and return to the war.

When the cabin door swung open, there he was, approaching Richard with a broad smile. Although twenty years had passed since they had last seen each other, Talbot carried his age well. He had gained little weight, his hair was only slightly grayer and flecked in white, and he had the same wide, sturdy cheekbones, the same thin nose with a crook at the end, and the same bright blue-gray eyes that shone either as welcoming beacons of light or as signal fires of danger, depending on whom he was approaching. He was dressed casually in buff breeches, light blue ruffled shirt, and a white linen neck stock. His blue undress coat, identical in design and trappings with the one Captain Truxtun wore, was draped over the back of a chair behind his desk.

“Well, I'll be damned,” he exclaimed happily, “if it's not Richard Cutler, here in my cabin. I must say, you lost no time in finding us.” He returned Richard's salute, then grasped his shoulders and gave him a jubilant smile.

“Good to see you, Captain. It's been too many years.”

“Indeed it has, Lieutenant. How are you? I must say you look fit as a fiddle.”

“As do you, sir.”

“Yes, well, shipboard fare does tend to keep one trim.” He patted his waistline. “Those land snails we lived on at Old Mill were
haute cuisine
compared to what my steward serves me most days.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, sir,” Richard said, recalling the snails' bitter taste that more than once made him vomit.

“As are my dinner guests.” He placed hands on hips. “So. Some years ago the world press announced that you had struck your colors and married that English lass you kept mooning over in prison. Katherine, wasn't it?”

“You have an excellent memory, Captain.”

“Actually, I have a wretched memory. It's just hard to forget a name carped out from a baying hound every night for a whole bloody year. One favor that bastard Cowdry”—referring to the prison keeper at Old Mill—“would not grant me, no matter how hard I pressed, was a transfer to the French barracks for one night. One bloody night was all I asked.”

Richard grinned. “Katherine and I have three children now, sir. We live in Hingham.”

“Yes, thank you. I am quite well versed in your comings and goings, compliments of Mr. Crabtree, who, as you will not be surprised to learn since you had the good sense to employ him, I find to be an excellent sea officer. He has been under the weather, poor fellow, though he's feeling better now. He'll be joining us shortly. It will be like old times, having the three of us together again. I was delighted to receive orders to return to station via Bridgetown and transport you back to Saint Kitts. We intend to weigh anchor just as soon as we're provisioned. And on our cruise northward we might just cause a bit of mischief.”