How Dark the Night (27 page)

“Surrendering the ship will not be necessary, sir,” Larkin said tactfully. “Captain Humphreys insists that the only surrender we require today is that of the three seamen. I have orders to personally assure your commanding officer of this.”

“Commodore Barron was wounded. He has been taken below to his cabin and is being attended to. Captain Gordon is with him.”

“I am very sorry to learn of the commodore's injuries,” Larkin said sincerely. “Nonetheless, I have my orders. I would be ever so much obliged, Lieutenant, if you would assemble your ship's company on the weather deck. Whilst you are doing that, my Marines will conduct a thorough search belowdecks that will include your sick bay and orlop. We know the culprits involved, so we should have no trouble identifying them.” His lips creased in a trace of a smirk. “Especially since two of the three are Africans.”

The American ignored the stab at humor. “We shall do as you request,” Meyers said, resignation and disgust registering in his tone. The two officers exchanged stiff salutes.

“Thank you,” Larkin said. “Now, if you will kindly have one of your midshipmen lead the way belowdecks, I should like to have a word with Commodore Barron.”

As the American officer passed word for a midshipman and boatswain's mates, Larkin ordered Jeremiah Cartwright and four Marines to go belowdecks through the forward hatchway, and Boatswain Kenneth Duggan and four sailors to go belowdecks through the aft hatchway. Seth Cutler remained on deck with two Marines and two armed sailors to see
to the rounding up of the American crew. When Cartwright and Duggan reemerged twenty minutes later, two Royal Marines were dragging a sailor behind them. They dumped him unceremoniously at the feet of Lieutenant Larkin, who had returned to the weather deck after a brief visit to the after cabin.

Larkin gazed down at the sailor lying prone on the deck. The man lifted his face to his captor, his lips moved wordlessly and his bloodshot eyes pleading for mercy.

“And who, might I ask, is
this
god-forsaken soul?” Larkin sniffed.

“His name be Ratfort, sir,” Boatswain Duggan replied. “Jenkin Ratford. I know him. He's as English as me own blood. Ran from
Halifax
, 'e did. Found 'im cowering behind the manger.”

“Good show, Duggan.” Larkin gazed down with curled lips at the sailor trembling before him. “Well, Ratford, it's the hangman's noose for you if there's any justice in this world—and I can assure you there is.” To Duggan: “We have Martin, Strachan, and Ware.” He indicated the three wretched-looking men standing alone near the base of the assembled ship's company, their hands tied behind them and closely guarded by two musket-wielding Marines. “Our work here is concluded. You may see the men and the four prisoners into the boat.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Duggan said. He saluted and set about to carry out the order.

Larkin turned to the sandy-haired American sea officer. “We shall be leaving you now, Lieutenant Meyers,” he said. “Speaking on behalf of my captain and my country, may I express my deepest regret and condolences over what has transpired here today. It was certainly not our wish to fire into your ship. But we did give you fair warning, did we not?” His tone in what he said next was emphatic. “This unfortunate incident
could
have and
should
have been avoided. The policy of My Lords of the Admiralty is quite clear on the issue of desertion. It
cannot
and
will not
be tolerated under any circumstances. I repeat, sir: under
any
circumstances. Let one deserter retain his freedom and England is in danger of losing a war. It is hardly my place to lecture you, Lieutenant, but surely you and your superiors should understand by now just how seriously His Majesty's government views this issue.”

“We do indeed understand,” Meyers replied as the four prisoners shuffled slowly behind him, their eyes glued to their feet, unable in their despair to give their former shipmates so much as a glimpse. “And
you
should understand, Lieutenant,” he said defiantly, “that the United States does not take kindly to the illegal impressment of its citizens.”

“Illegal? Well, I have my doubts about that. But we shall leave it to the courts to sort it out. Regardless of the decision, the fate of these three so-called Americans was in their hands yesterday just as your fate was in your hands today. Can you possibly deny that?”

“That is hardy the point, Mr. Larkin.”

“And what is the point, Mr. Meyers?”

“The point is that your ship has committed an act of war against the United States. For that, God help you.”

“No, Lieutenant Meyers,” Larkin said. He bowed slightly from the waist and insolently tipped his bicorne hat in a farewell salute before climbing down into the pinnace. “If it should come to war, God help
you
. And God help your country.”

Eleven

Boston, Massachusetts

Summer–Fall 1807

P
UBLIC REACTION
to the unprovoked attack on a U.S. Navy frigate by a British man-of-war was swift and violent. It was as though a towering tsunami had washed across the American continent, leaving every citizen gasping and spluttering in a stupefied rage.

The repercussions began soon after
Chesapeake
limped back to her home port at Norfolk, Virginia. On the very day of her arrival, Mayor Luke Wheeler signed a resolution denying the Royal Navy access to provisions, water, and repair docks that formerly had been theirs for the asking. He also made it ominously clear that American magistrates could no longer guarantee the safety of British naval personnel who dared to come ashore. Mayors of other major ports on the Eastern Seaboard followed suit when word of the national disgrace reached them. Finding themselves
personae non gratae
wherever they went, most Royal Navy officers took Wheeler's advice to heart and remained on their ships. Those reckless enough to venture into cities and towns often found themselves turning tail and running for their lives in front of angry mobs brandishing pitchforks, knives, and tree limbs—and anything else that came to hand.

The honor of the United States had been besmirched by three British broadsides, and Americans demanded an explanation. Commodore Barron and his officers held the keys to such knowledge, but those keys they kept close to their vests by order of Secretary Smith, who forbade any of
Chesapeake
's crew to speak publicly about the incident until a court of
inquiry had been convened and witnesses interrogated. Even the most isolated South Carolina cotton planter understood a “court of inquiry” to mean a court-martial, and the promise of its ultimate justice helped to keep the lid on a pot threatening to boil over.

More was to come. Secretary of State Madison filed a formal protest in London demanding an apology from His Majesty's government and release of the three American sailors. President Jefferson publicly urged calm while privately conferring with Secretary of War Dearborn and the governors of Virginia and Maryland. Ten thousand militia and a field of cannon were mobilized to ensure that supplies and provisions were denied to the British squadron in Lynnhaven Bay and to discourage the British from taking retaliatory measures. From the quarterdecks of their squadron, British sea officers gazed toward shore at a nation in arms watching them intently.

“Not since the British attacks on Lexington and Concord have I seen the American public so exasperated,” the
National Intelligencer and Washington Advertiser
quoted President Jefferson as saying in a cabinet meeting; it was a story headlined in most other American newspapers. “And never have I seen this nation so unified.”

Demands for revenge poured in from all sections of the country, including Federalist New England. Although the United States now found itself on a war footing, all but the most diehard fanatics realized that that footing lacked traction. America's military services remained ill prepared and ill equipped to go to war with anyone, least of all a superpower such as Great Britain. On this point Thomas Jefferson and the members of his cabinet suffered no doubts. Neither, of course, did the British.

E
NJOYING ANOTHER
delightful link in a week-long string of dazzling mid-August days—warm verging on hot ashore but cool out on the placid waters of Hingham Bay—Katherine Cutler sat on the windward side of a 40-foot sloop bound for Boston. The southwesterly breeze wafting over the cool surface waters of the bay and across the Cutler & Sons packet boat made her shiver, but she welcomed the stab of chill after the heat in the house, and the joy she felt at being under sail again trivialized all inconveniences. Her husband, nevertheless, had noted her shivering and went below to fetch her coat.

“Richard, you really needn't pamper me so,” she chided him when he returned on deck and draped the coat over her shoulders. “But I love you for it,” she added. He put his arm around her and she nestled in close, resting her head against his shoulder. “I sometimes wish,” she murmured,
“that we could sail on like this forever. Just you and me, in a boat like this, forever summer, and forever together.”

Richard gently squeezed her shoulder. “We can,” he vowed to the winds. “And we will.”

With his typical flair for efficiency, George Hunt was waiting for them with a carriage when they arrived at Long Wharf. Richard had the distinct sense that the aging Cutler & Sons administrator had something to discuss with him, but there was no time. It was already approaching eleven o'clock, and Richard and Katherine needed to be back at the wharf in four hours if they were to return to Hingham before the light breeze died out in late afternoon or early evening, as it often did during the sultry summer months.

The distance from Long Wharf to Beacon Hill was roughly a mile. With the congestion clogging the streets near the waterfront and around Faneuil Hall, and again along Beacon Street near the Common, Richard usually found it faster to travel on foot rather than inside a hired carriage. Today, however, walking was not an option, so Richard climbed into the coach after assisting his wife on board, and together they gazed out on a city that in 1807 encompassed a population of nearly 35,000. Boston had become one of the world's wealthiest and most important trading ports, its wealth reflected on Beacon Hill in the grand homes of the social elite as well in the far simpler homes of the dockworkers living in the North End and South End who provided the hard labor to ensure that the shipping companies earned a satisfactory rate of return.

The carriage rolled to a halt in front of the familiar four-story red brick townhouse at Fourteen Belknap Street. As if poised just inside the dwelling in anticipation of this very moment, a middle-aged man dressed in formal livery and a white peruke opened the front door and strode imperiously down the flagstone walkway leading to the cobblestone street. He opened the side door of the carriage with a flourish and bowed low in European courtly fashion. Offering a white-gloved hand to Katherine Cutler, he saw her properly out and then offered the same hand to Richard Cutler, who shook his head.

“I can manage quite well, Phineas, thank you,” he said in the same jovial tone he had once used with Sydney Simms, his officious yet highly competent steward in
Portsmouth
. “And a pleasant good day to you,” he said, adding with a grin, “You are especially well turned out this morning, Phineas. Is that a new outfit? I don't recall seeing it before.”

Phineas Chapman, Richard knew from experience, had adopted the importance and airs of the man he served. He expected social and business
discourse among people of consequence to be conducted within well-defined boundaries of propriety and protocol. Idle banter and verbal jousting not initiated by his employer were to be politely ignored.

“A most pleasant good morning to you, Mr. Cutler,” he said without changing his a deadpan expression. “Please allow me to welcome you and Mrs. Cutler to Boston. If you will please follow me.”

Richard offered Katherine his arm, and she took it with a look as if to say, “Can you not help yourself, my dear?” But her lips were twitching as they stepped up the walkway behind Chapman.

Will, looking tired but happy, greeted them in the front hallway. “Thank you, Mr. Chapman,” he said to the butler, who bowed and turned away to attend to other duties. “Mother, Father, how wonderful to see you,” he said, embracing his mother and shaking his father's hand.

“How is Adele?” his mother inquired eagerly. “And how is baby Katherine?”

“As well as well can be, I'd say. They're in the nursery. Adele is just feeding her.”

“Can we see them?”

“Of course!” Will laughed. “Isn't that why you're here?”

“I'll be in the study,” Richard said. “When the lass has drunk her fill, I'll come up.”

“I will not wait one second longer,” Katherine said to Will, excitement etched on her face in anticipation of meeting her first grandchild and namesake. “Lead on, oh father my son!” The babe had been born three weeks later than the family anticipated, but the worry that caused had vanished. Young Katherine was born wailing a healthy tune. Will and Adele had long ago chosen names depending on gender, but they had refused to reveal them until after the birth. Katherine had wept private tears of happiness when a letter from Will informed her that her first grandchild had been named in her honor. As Will had concluded in his letter, there were now two Katherine Cutlers in Boston society.