How Dark the Night (12 page)

“So, with regard to our products, we're damned if we do and damned if we don't,” John Cutler said on another occasion. “If we ship to America, our cargoes must remain in America, no matter what flag we sail under. We are forbidden to re-ship them to Europe without first passing through a British port. And there is considerable risk in trying to defy the order, although I grant you, there is profit in doing that as well. Our countrymen are prepared to pay a fair price for the goods we sell, but not nearly as good a price as the French or the Dutch or the Spanish are prepared to pay.

“And even if our intention is indeed to ship directly to England and thus avoid any possible violation of the broken voyage rule,” he continued, “our vessels in the Caribbean often run into French privateers eager to claim them as a prize. In all my years on this island I have never seen such rampant piracy go unpunished. The Royal Navy has always escorted our merchantmen until they were well clear of these islands and out of danger. But thanks to Napoléon, it no longer has the ships to do that. The Windward Squadron is a far cry from what it used to be—here and on Antigua, Saint Kitts, and Port Royal. Whitehall has called many of our protectors home to England, and we are left to look after ourselves.”

“It would seem so,” Richard had to agree.

“Nor is that the worst of it,” John Cutler added, his dander up now. “Not by half. The worst part is what is happening with those warships
not
being recalled to England. Rather than remaining here in the Indies to protect British trade from French privateers, they are instead being dispatched, one by one, to the North American Station to harass American merchantmen and to make the bloody point that those poor blighters
must obey the mandates of the British government. It is as though Britain is trying to reduce America back to colonial status!” He laughed bitterly. “What folly! What utter nonsense!

“I am proud that my nephew is willing to join in the fight against England's enemies. But
which
enemies, by God? France and Spain? No sir! Seth's squadron has been ordered to intercept neutral merchant vessels whose only act of war is trying to scratch out a decent living for themselves and their families, just as
we
are trying to do. Yes, I agree that Europe is in a bloody awful mess. And who knows into what black abyss Napoléon might take us? But that is all the more reason for England and America to forge an
alliance
with each other in this war. Whitehall turning everything topsy-turvy makes no bloody sense. It is downright preposterous!”

As John ranted on, Richard stole a glance at Robin, whom he knew from earlier conversations agreed with everything his brother was saying, however differently he might express his opinions. He too held serious reservations about the wisdom of deploying British warships off the American coastline. Those tactics of search and seizure were clear violations of a country's neutrality and sovereignty. And the outright blockade of New York Harbor by the British frigates
Cambrian
and
Leander
was, to Robin's mind, tantamount to a declaration of war.

“While these practices continue,” he had quoted from an article that appeared in the
Bridgetown Gazette
, “America cannot consider itself an independent nation.” The quote was from a leading member of the Foreign Relations Committee of the U.S. House of Representatives. Robin feared where Britain's current policies might eventually lead not only his country and his company, but also his eldest son, currently serving as a midshipman in HMS
Leopard
, one of several British frigates out on patrol off the Virginia Capes and Chesapeake Bay.

“What is more important to Whitehall?” John demanded more quietly, his fiery passion finally expending itself. “Nipping a few British deserters and impounding a bale of cotton or protecting the economy of an island whose bloody high taxes are
paying
for its campaign against Napoléon?”

It was a rhetorical question, but one for which there was only one rational answer.

S
PRINGTIME ON
Barbados offered an intoxicating mélange of warm sunshine, gentle sea breezes, and sweet-smelling flowers, each delicate bud the start of a new life. For the Cutlers, one day flowed appealingly into another until the summer-like days of May signified the time for Richard
and Katherine Cutler to return home to America. During a last ride together, Katherine and Julia plodded along an unspoiled stretch of sea-shore on the Caribbean side of the island, where as newlyweds Richard and Katherine had loped and laughed and loved during the early-morning hours as the sun peeked above the deep blue Atlantic to spread its golden warmth across glistening white sands and the dewy jade of sugarcane fields.

The two women dismounted near a patch of grass up where the sand ended and the rich foliage of the interior began. As the horses grazed, Julia and Katherine gazed out across the glistening sea, each absorbed in her own thoughts. At the water's edge, perhaps thirty feet away, sandpipers scurried about in search of sand fleas and other morsels hidden within the scattered clumps of sargasso and other refuse washed ashore during the last high tide. As she looked out upon sweet memories, Katherine smiled. She could almost see Richard in the surf, her young husband of not yet twenty years trudging toward her, holding in one hand a rock lobster he had plucked off a reef and wiping the stinging salt from his eyes with the other. The sight of his strong, lean, sunburned body had never failed to ignite her passion. They had known such hunger for each other back then, she mused, a raging appetite that seemed impossible to sate. The fires of youth had subsided to a warm, comfortable blaze, but the abiding love that had sustained them through twenty-five years of marriage lived on, deeper today than it had been even during those first glorious years of discovery and delight. The images of their entwined bodies vanished as Julia asked a simple and not unexpected question.

“Will I ever see you again, Katherine?”

Katherine looked at Julia, trying to think of a reassuring response.

“I cannot bear the thought of not seeing you again,” Julia said as tears welled in her eyes. “I realize that we promised beforehand not to talk about this, but I simply must. I hate what has happened to you, what you have had to endure. No matter how little we have seen each other over the years, you remain my very dearest friend. These past few weeks have been among the happiest of my life.”

“Of mine too, Julia,” she quietly agreed.

“And so you must agree,” Julia said firmly, “that we cannot just say good-bye. I plan to come to see you in Hingham. I have already talked to Robin about it, and he is in complete agreement. Cynthia is too. We have, in fact, agreed to come together. We both want to see Hingham, especially now that Joseph will be there.” She clasped Katherine's hands tightly. “It is so very kind of you to invite him, and such a splendid opportunity
for him! I have never seen him so thrilled about anything! You have given him a wonderful gift.”

Katherine shook her head. “The gift is from Joseph to us, Julia. As for you and Cynthia coming to Hingham, I can't imagine anything that would please me and my family more.”

“It's settled, then,” Julia said. “We shall do it.”

L
EAVING
B
ARBADOS
had never been easy—emotionally or logistically—and Friday, May 16, was no exception. During the three days prior, Richard had busied himself with the myriad details of the voyage home, first by having Frank Bennett recall
Dove
's nine-man crew from other work they were performing on Cutler vessels and in Cutler warehouses in Bridgetown, and then by reviewing the sail plan with
Dove
's master and mate. Richard endorsed Bennett's suggestion that
Dove
sail westward from Barbados and across the Caribbean, taking a sailor's advantage of the easterly trades until they hauled their wind near the western tip of Cuba and sailed around the island into the Strait of Florida. From there the Florida Current would carry the ship north to the point where it merged with the five-knot northerly flow of the sixty-mile-wide Gulf Stream. Such a course, assuming fair winds, could lop days off the three weeks or so normally required for a fast vessel to sail the twenty-five hundred sea miles between Boston and Barbados. The only significant danger in shaping such a course, aside from the possibility of running into extreme weather, which was unlikely during the spring, was the threat of piracy. Richard intended to significantly reduce that threat by stationing two lookouts throughout the day and night, and by keeping the four 6-pounder guns run out and loaded with grapeshot until they reached American waters off the coast of Georgia. Until then, he would also rotate watches every four hours, as in the Navy, rather than every six hours as had been the norm during the southbound cruise. Four-hour watches were more demanding, but over the short term they kept every man jack more alert.

Julia and Robin and their three youngest children were at the dock to see them off. John and Cynthia were there as well, of course, and despite their propensity to keep chin up whatever the circumstance, they were having a difficult time saying good-bye to their only child. It was Joseph who broke the embrace with his mother. He gently coaxed away her arms and slid his hands down to take hers. “I will see you soon, Mother,” he promised. “You are coming next spring—less than a year from now. Please do not worry about me. I'll be fine.”

“Of course you will, my dearest love,” Cynthia managed, “Of course you will.” Beside her, Katherine and Julia embraced for a final time.

“Good-bye,” Julia managed, ignoring the tears blinding her vision. “Godspeed.”

Katherine shook her head. “À bientôt, my sweet friend. I will see you again soon.” She turned toward the boat as Julia gave way to sobs.

Within less than an hour
Dove
was sailing westbound on a broad reach. The three Cutlers standing at her stern waved at those watching them from the dock, never stopping until the stretch of sea separating them became too great to distinguish one human form on shore from another.

Five

Grand Terre, Louisiana Territory

May 1806

R
ICHARD
C
UTLER
awoke with a start and stared up through the open skylight in the deckhead, listening intently. He heard nothing beyond the squeak of blocks, the hum of wind in the rigging, and the gurgle of water running along the clipper's hull. Uncertain what had roused him from a deep sleep, he reached out for the waistcoat watch that he kept during the night in an open compartment secured to the lower bulkhead. The feeble light of a guttering candle encased in a glass lantern allowed him to read the time: 3:50. Falling back on the double bunk that had been specially constructed for this voyage, he listened again—and again he heard nothing but the small sounds of a vessel rigged for night sailing.
Dove
was heeling slightly to larboard, which meant that earlier in the night she had hauled her wind and was now heading east on a starboard tack. Mentally calculating elapsed time and approximate speed, he estimated their position to be somewhere within the southern reaches of the Gulf of Mexico, northwest of Havana and approaching the Dry Tortugas, a group of sparsely vegetated islands located six hours or so, assuming fair winds, due west from an island the Spanish called Cayo Huesco. Legend held that the island, located at the extreme end of a hundred-mile-long coral archipelago stretching southwestward in an arc from mainland Florida, was an Indian burial ground. Not a particularly pleasing thought in the dark early-morning hours.

From long experience, Richard realized that sleep would not return once a sea sense had tolled its silent alarm. He tossed aside the light blanket
and sat up at the edge of the bunk, rubbing his eyes and stretching out his arms. When he reached forward for the shirt and trousers draped across a heavy wooden chair, he felt the warmth of his wife's hand on his naked back.

“What is it, Richard?” she asked groggily. “Why up so early? Is something the matter?”

He turned to her and took her hand. “No, nothing's the matter. I couldn't sleep, is all. I'm going topside for a few minutes.” He kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep, darling. It's hardly four o'clock.”

“I will, if you're sure nothing's wrong.”

“I'm sure.”

As Richard's head emerged through the aft companionway, the gentle caress of a southeasterly breeze ruffled his hair and loose-fitting cotton shirt. His eyes swept the deck.
Dove
's mainsail and two of her jib sails were set; overhead, a cloud-covered sky was just barely coming to light. Afore her mainmast, at deck level, two lookouts kept station, one to larboard and one to starboard. At the first spread of dawn they would climb aloft to more than double their range of vision across the slight chop of the Florida Strait.

Richard pulled himself up through the square hole at the top of the companionway and strode aft to where Robert Jordan was writing on a chalkboard, recording the four o'clock readings of wind direction, present course, and speed as indicated by the log line. Next to him, the helmsman of the watch kept a steady eye on the compass rose illuminated by a lanthorn secured to the binnacle.

Jordan glanced up as Richard approached the helm. “Good morning, Mr. Cutler,” he said, his voice registering no surprise at seeing his employer on deck during the graveyard watch. “A pleasant morning, it would seem.”