How Dark the Night (4 page)

The day dawned typically for November: raw, overcast, and squally. On the cruise in to Boston from Hingham, the single-masted sloop had to battle whitecaps and spindrift whipped up by stiff headwinds that forced the sturdy fifty-foot vessel to stay within the lee of the pearl-like string of Boston Harbor islands that formed the northern boundary of Hingham Bay. By the time the sloop had skimmed into the relative calm of Boston's inner harbor and doused her wings of snapping canvas, a bluster of rain and sleet dotted with flakes of wet snow was howling along the half-mile length of Long Wharf.

Thaddeus Hobbes, the sloop's helmsman, grabbed hold of a bollard and jumped up from the sloop's bulwark onto the wharf next to his mate, Tom Johnson, who had been first off the boat with the bow mooring line. Hobbes reached down toward the sloop to offer Richard a hand. “Mind your footing, Captain Cutler,” he cautioned. “It's a mite slippery.”

When Richard was up and standing close to him, Hobbes said over the moan of wind, his soaked oilskins flapping, “Foul weather to be sure, Captain. Tom and I would have been hard-pressed out there had you not taken command of the heads'l sheets. My apologies for the inconvenience, but I thank ye most kindly for your assistance.”

“Think nothing of it, Hobbes,” Richard shouted back. “You and Johnson did fine. And I must say, it felt good to feel wind on my face again.”

Hobbes grinned. “If ye say so, sir. Do ye still want to sail back to Hingham on the morrow?”

“Yes. Let's keep it at ten o'clock. I suspect we'll have the company of my brother on the voyage home.”

“Very good, Captain. Ten o'clock it is. Tom and I will be standing by.”

Richard took his leave and began picking his way down the massive wood-and-stone wharf to his family's countinghouse located at mid-wharf between another company's warehouse and a sail loft. Along the way he dodged ship owners and ship's masters, clerks and sailors striding purposefully, in and out of buildings built one against the other along the wharf's north side, and off and on merchant vessels of various rigs nested one against the other along the south side. These people went about their business as though oblivious to the inclement weather, and for good reason. During the past ten years Long Wharf had grown into a commercial juggernaut. The armada of merchant ships tied up there or anchored out in the harbor—a number of them Cutler & Sons vessels—defined the essence of a national merchant fleet that by now had blossomed into the world's largest neutral carrier of merchant goods.

As he opened the door to the countinghouse and stepped inside, Richard took a moment to enjoy the blessing of dry warmth provided by the large room's three cast iron wood-burning stoves. Caleb and Jack Endicott were engaged in a lively conversation at the far side of the square chamber, beyond the clusters of desks where clerks busily scratched out the numbers and correspondence attached to the various comings-in and goings-out of both Cutler & Sons and C&E Enterprises, careful to keep separate accounts of the two shipping firms. Richard waved to the two
men and began to unbutton his oilskins. As he did so, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Nasty weather, is it not, Mr. Cutler. Fit for a fish or a gull perhaps, but hardly for a man with any sense about him.”

Richard turned to find George Hunt, the longtime administrator of the Boston office of Cutler & Sons, standing before him. Approaching eighty years now, Hunt was evincing ever-clearer signs of his advanced age. His stooped posture, wrinkled and spotted skin, and cloud-white whiskers and hair marked him as an old man, but a fire of acumen and vitality still burned within his clear, dark blue eyes. Every member of the Cutler family knew and was grateful that, whatever the circumstances, George Hunt would remain in the employ of Cutler & Sons until the day he drew his last breath.

“Good morning, George,” Richard replied. “It is indeed nasty out there.”

“And your voyage from Hingham? That must have been a treat, on a day like this.” Hunt helped Richard out of his dripping oilskins and hung them from a peg.

“Quite the treat, George. It's why I'm so late.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Cutler. We assumed you would be delayed. Might I offer you a bite to eat? We've had dinner brought in from the Bunch of Grapes tavern. Your brother and Mr. Endicott have just finished eating theirs.”

“I'll wait on the food, but a cup of tea would do nicely. The hotter the better.”

“I shall bring it right over.”

“Thank you, George.” As Richard walked across the room between the clusters of desks, clerks paused their goose-quill pens to acknowledge him with a nod or a wave. Several of them stood as he passed in what he knew to be a silent tribute to Katherine. Richard acknowledged each of them in turn, last of all Jack Endicott, who heaved himself to his feet at Richard's approach.

“Welcome, Richard,” he said, shaking hands. “A pleasure, as always, to see you. Allow me to say how terribly sorry I was to hear of Katherine's illness, and how delighted I am to learn of her excellent recovery. Adele has kept us in the know now that Will is off to Baltimore and we have the pleasure of her company for a few days. Truly, I am so very pleased that Katherine is on the mend. Anne-Marie is too, of course. You both continue to be in our thoughts and prayers.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Richard said, genuinely moved but grinning inwardly at the mental image of plump Jack Endicott on his knees in prayer. “That is most kind of you.”

“Not at all, my dear man. Not at all. Now then, you
will
drop by the house later this afternoon, won't you? Caleb tells me that you and he are taking supper with the Cabots this evening. That is all well and good, but surely you can accommodate a glass of Madeira with us on your way there? Anne-Marie will be most disappointed if you do not.”

Richard glanced at his brother, who gave him a quick grin in reply.

“Of course, Jack. Shall we say five o'clock?”

“Five o'clock is excellent. We shall expect you then. Lest I forget, Caleb,” he added, “please do remember to send my best regards this evening to George,” referring to George Cabot, Joan Cabot Cutler's father and a Boston patriarch of consequence. “I hear he has not been himself lately, and I want to wish him well. He is a dear friend. Now, please sit down and make yourself comfortable, Richard. Ah, here comes George with your beverage. Thank you, George. If you will take a seat as well, we shall get started.”

Richard settled in on a sofa facing the north wall of the building while George sat primly upright in a chair. Through the paned window Richard could see the white steeple of Old North Church standing tall and bold in the far gray distance. He took a sip of tea, savoring the delicious warmth that coursed down his throat into his stomach.

“The news today, I'm afraid, is not good,” Endicott began soberly. “Then again, when
has
it been good lately? By all accounts the situation is worsening by the day.” His plump face reddened in anger. “We
now
have to contend with a recent ruling by the British Admiralty Court. According to a report I have received from our agent in London, the court has reversed the
Polly
decision. The new
Essex
ruling states that the ‘broken voyage' tactic we have so successfully employed in the past is no longer valid, the court having concluded—no doubt with considerable urging from Parliament and British mercantile interests—that because the
intent
of the ‘broken voyage' is to circumvent the Rule of 1756, it is therefore illegal. Pay no mind to the fact that it
has
been legal for the past five years. Henceforth, all cargoes we carry from colonies of European nations to the United States must remain in the United States for our own consumption. We are no longer permitted to re-export these cargoes to Europe, at least as far as Great Britain is concerned.” His breathing quickened as his anger grew. “As you well know, of course, if we are not allowed to re-export these goods to Europe, we forgo most of our profits. Indeed, it
hardly makes business sense for us to continue to engage in this trade at all.”

Endicott paused a moment to dab at his brow and allow Richard to digest this information. As was true for many New England shipping families, a small but still healthy portion of Cutler & Sons' revenues came from carrying the trade of West Indian colonies to their mother countries in Europe, after first conveying them to the United States. Most European maritime countries no longer retained the merchant fleets they once had boasted, especially in the West Indies. So they relied heavily on American merchant vessels to transport their goods for them—at a healthy fee. England now seemed determined to stop that trade.

Caleb spoke next. “We have been discussing the possibility of something like this happening, Richard, although we have not wanted to add to your recent worries. George here has been an important part of those discussions. John and Robin have also shared their thoughts on the matter. So we're not caught entirely off guard. Still, the questions remain: What do we do in response to this ruling? And how will the ruling affect shipments of sugar and rum from Barbados to anywhere? The legal ramifications are profound, it would seem, and the financial ramifications are much more so. It's just as Jack says.”

Richard Cutler offered no immediate comment, his mind laboring to fit together the pieces of the complex international puzzle. Then: “I'm not sure I agree,” he said to no one in particular. “We can still ship produce from the Indies to America. And we can sell our produce to the interior of the country. Admittedly, our revenues would be less without the European trade, but so would our costs. We should still show a healthy profit. And the risk would be far lower than reshipping goods to Europe.” He nodded, convinced of his own argument. “Father's gamble of opening a shipping office in Baltimore will pay off, although perhaps not for the reasons he envisioned.” He looked at Endicott. “The language of this ruling affects Cutler & Sons more than C&E Enterprises, Jack. C&E has never engaged heavily in the re-export trade, has it?”

“We do our fair share,” Endicott replied, “out of necessity. You were out of the loop whilst in the Mediterranean, but the war in Europe has interfered with our spice trade and we have had to find new sources of revenues. Herr Van der Heyden,” referring to the director of C&E Enterprises' Far Eastern headquarters in Batavia, on the island of Java, “confirms that many wealthy Europeans, in particular the French, now find it unseemly, if not unpatriotic, to purchase luxuries and indulge in extravagances of any kind while their country is at war and so many of their
people are starving. Never forget that just a decade ago French aristocrats who flouted their wealth were deemed enemies of the state and lost their heads to the guillotine. Today, Frenchmen with means are being extremely discreet. Exotic spices from the Orient are not high on their list of desired purchases.

“Our main entry ports in Europe are, of course, in Holland,” he added. “With this new
Essex
ruling the British can now block
this
trade as well, should they have a mind to do so. Hitherto they have chosen to look the other way, but I doubt that will continue. The Batavian Republic,” Holland's name under France's dominion, “is nothing more than a puppet state of France, and many islands in the East Indies are considered its dependencies. So the
Essex
ruling most likely applies.”

George Hunt interjected a comment into the ensuing silence: “As I see it, Richard, the issue is not how the ruling is worded. Rather, it's how we can expect it to be enforced.”

“Hear, hear,” Endicott agreed.

“And how do you expect the British to act, George?” Richard said.

Richard was startled by Hunt's reply.

“The United States is involved in a war,” he said. It is not a shooting war for us, not yet, and God forbid it should become so. But it's a war nonetheless—an economic war. America has the means to supply most of Europe. We have the ships and crews, and we can secure the necessary goods. But we can rest assured that from here on, England will do everything in its power to keep our trade out of Napoléon's hands through stiffer blockades of European ports. We can also rest assured that Napoléon will return the favor by doing everything
he
can to harass our trade, either by preventing it from reaching a British port or by somehow punishing American ships that
do
reach a British port and then sail on to Europe from there.”

Hunt paused for a moment. “But I do not see the French as a major problem for us. Napoléon may control most of mainland Europe, but the Royal Navy continues to control the seas. Great Britain is our primary concern. Her economy is in danger now that her trade with other European nations has vanished. England simply cannot afford to allow American ships to carry cargoes to and from Europe. And then there is the subject of impressment.
That
issue, to Jefferson and Madison, is paramount because it ignites the greatest public outcry. Citizens of Tennessee or Kentucky or Georgia care little if the French seize a C&E ship in Rotterdam. A wealthy New England shipping family, they think, can well afford the loss. But let the English dare to board an American ship
and drag off sailors sailing under the American flag—
that
is an entirely different matter. That is a matter of national honor,” he concluded. “And as we all know only too well, matters of national honor can lead to war.”