“Which part of the letter are you referring to?” John asked.
“For starters,” Richard said moderately, “my father's recommendation that Caleb manage the Baltimore office.”
John shrugged. “He's your brother, Richard. You and your father know him a great deal better than Robin or I do. And neither of us has ever been to America, much less Baltimore. It's your decision, not ours.”
“That's not how we do things, John,” Richard countered. “This is a family decision. You've both had the opportunity to observe Caleb during these past several months. You've helped him learn the business from the ground up, so to speak. That's why we wanted him to come here in the first place. Is there anything you have observed during that time that gives you pause?”
Richard instantly understood the meaning in John's shrug. “We're not discussing Caleb's social life, John,” he said irritably, his patience wearing thin on the subject. “What I need to understand is your business perspectives. I realize you do not approve of Caleb's lifestyle, but I fail to see how that lifestyle disqualifies him from a senior management position.”
“It isn't just me,” John protested. “Cynthia may not say much about it, but she finds Caleb's running about just as objectionable as I do. Should you ask any other planters, they will tell you the same thing.”
“And should I ask those planters whose daughters are pursuing my brother just as ardently, and whose morals are even more suspect by
your standards? Ease your sheets a little, John. Caleb was ten years in an Arab prison. By the grace of God he managed to come out of it alive. Isn't that what matters? That he survived and is able to run about, as you put it?”
John stared straight ahead, tapping his fingers on his knee and saying nothing in reply.
“Robin?”
Robin Cutler had listened to the exchange, casually fanning himself with his straw hat as though what transpired was of minor concern to him. Of the two brothers, he had changed the least over the years. Unlike John, whose hair was thinning and whose hairline was receding, Robin retained a full head of russet-colored hairâthough now streaked with whiteâand his sinewy frame and finely chiseled features retained a youthful appearance and vitality. Whereas John delighted in the role and accoutrements of a gentleman English planter, Robin preferred simpler garb and tended to avoid pretensions, despite his marriage into one of the richest families on Barbados. Such differences in style and outlook notwithstanding, John and Robin Cutler complemented each other in ways critical to the prosperity of a family-owned enterprise. Robin Cutler knew how to produce superior products, and John Cutler knew how to sell them.
“As you have heard me say before,” Robin said to Richard, “I am quite impressed with Caleb. I have been since the day he arrived. I particularly admire his determination to learn every aspect of the business, whatever it takes and wherever it takes place. One rarely witnesses such enthusiasm for getting one's hands dirty. About the only thing he hasn't done these past four months is cut cane in the fields with the Negroes. And he would have done
that
if John had not threatened to send him to purgatory in Peter's room. What's more, I don't share John's views on Caleb's personal affairs. Neither does Julia. Whom he consorts with and how he does it is his concern, not mine, as long as it does not interfere with the family business and as long as he does it discreetly. Which to this point he has. Do I give him high marks for what he has accomplished here on Barbados? Yes. Do I believe he has the business instincts and acumen to commend him to a senior position in Cutler & Sons? Again, yes, without question.”
“Thank you, Robin,” Richard said. “We are in agreement, then?”
“You and I are. John?”
John pursed his lips and nodded in resignation.
IN MID-MAY, as the Easter season faded into memory and summer-like heat settled over the island, a physician in Bridgetown removed the plaster cast on Richard's arm for the final time. Pain jabbed at him as he slowly moved his arm this way and that, but the doctor assured him that the discomfort was perfectly normal and would subside once Richard began exercising the muscles that had atrophied during the long weeks of convalescence. And exercise Richard did, right away, with a form he had sorely missed as a semi-invalid. When he returned to the Cutler compound, he walked out not to the cane fields but to the beach, where he stripped to his undershorts and dove into the warm turquoise water. There he lingered for the best part of three hours, swimming an easy side stroke, diving down into the clear depths, relaxing on the sugar-white sand, and then having at it all over again, luxuriating in the clear saltwater and hot tropical sun coursing over him, cleansing him, restoring him. In the late afternoon he returned to the compound, wet and tired, toting six rock lobsters he had plucked off a coral reef and wrapped up in his shirt.
“Supper,” he announced happily. He spilled the lobsters, their tails flapping, into a tin basin on the kitchen table. “I'm finally able to start earning my keep around here.”
Cynthia gave him a rare beam of a smile. “Oh, how splendid, Richard,” she gushed. “How absolutely splendid. Joseph loves lobsters. I must call him this instant.” When she returned to the kitchen, she said, “John left today's
Gazette
out for you. There's an article on the front page he thinks you'll find interesting. It's in the parlor.”
“Oh? I'll have a look after I rinse off and change clothes.”
A few minutes later, still giddy at his newfound freedom and cleanliness, Richard walked into the snug parlor and took a seat in a leather chair bathed in the light of an open window. Beside it was an elegant sandalwood table on which Cynthia had placed a china cup of tea and the latest issue of the
Bridgetown Gazette
. He picked up the paper, snapped it to straighten it, and read a front-page story that John had starred in black ink.
Toussaint LâOuverture Attacks Rigaud; United States His Ally
Jacmel, Saint-Domingue, 30 April 1799.
The civil war that has raged on the island of Hispaniola for a decade has taken a dramatic turn. The army of Negro General Toussaint L'Ouverture, led by his senior officer, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, has laid siege to the
mulatto stronghold on the southern coast of Saint-Domingue. This assault differs from previous initiatives in that Toussaint's soldiers appear to be well provisioned and well armed. It is perhaps no coincidence that as Dessalines attacks Jacmel by land, the United States warship
General Greene
has blockaded the harbor and is bombarding the earthworks from the sea. No vessels, including British merchant vessels, are allowed access to Jacmel in support of the forces of mulatto leader André Rigaud. Tobias Lear, U.S. consul at Cap François, has refused to comment on what appears to be a flagrant violation of American neutrality in this affair. Admiral Sir Hyde Parker in Port Royal, Jamaica, has also refused to comment, although it is widely rumored that he and his superiors in the Admiralty are gravely concerned over this puzzling turn of events. Royal Navy frigates have been dispatched to the area, including HMS
Redoubtable
of the Windward Squadron, recently in English Harbour, Antigua.
“Son of a bitch,” Richard heard himself say. He put the cup down on its saucer and read through the article again. Overall, it did a commendable job of distilling the complexities of the civil war and summarizing the milestones since the first slave uprisings in 1791. Not surprising to Richard was its failure to mention the combined British and American summit with Toussaint L'Ouverture on Ãle de la Gonâve.
“Son of a
bitch
,” he said again, loud enough to be overheard by Caleb, who had entered the room with young Joseph in tow.
“What is it, Richard? What's the matter?” said Caleb. In a lower voice: “And pray, watch your language in front of the boy.”
Richard glanced up. “It's an article about Saint-Domingue,” he answered vaguely. He had told his family nothing about his experience there, it being decided among those involved to keep the stopper in the rumor mill for as long as possible. More to the point, he still had trouble fitting together the pieces of the puzzle. At the time, this much at least had seemed indisputable: British and American interests were best served by supporting Toussaint against Rigaud. That is what Richard had written in his report to Navy Secretary Stoddert, and what Hugh Hardcastle had assured him he would report to Admiral Parker. So why were Great Britain and the United States now seemingly at odds over which side to support? Why would Admiral Parker now succor a man he had once described as “a mulatto half-breed on a French leash” who was the sworn enemy of England? And why was Hugh Hardcastle
bound for Jacmel and a possible confrontation with an American brig of war?
“Well, go on. What does the article say?”
Richard was still uncertain how much to reveal, or even if the intelligence he had on the subject had any relevance anymore. “That the civil war there may soon end,” he replied. “Caleb, what do you know about Toussaint L'Ouverture?”
“Not much. Only what has been reported in the
Gazette
. The Boston newspapers had little to say about him.”
“What's your impression of what's happening on Saint-Domingue?”
“Not much,” he repeated. “The way I see it, blacks are fighting blacks on an island populated by blacks. Who cares?”
“Our government, for one. According to this article, the United States has sent weapons and supplies to Toussaint.”
Caleb glanced at the headline Richard held out to him. “We're
allied
with him? A former
slave
? Why on earth would we do that?”
“For trading rights. For Toussaint's promise to discourage slave uprisings in America. And who knows, perhaps for a little idealism. Toussaint is trying to do for his country what General Washington did for ours.”
Caleb pondered that. “So President Adams has concluded that this fellow Toussaint L'Ouverture can actually win the war. And throw out the French. With whom
we're
at war. Sort of.”
Richard grinned. “Cut right to the heart of the matter, don't you, Caleb? You have a bright future in our diplomatic corps.” He looked at Joseph, who had been standing off to the side, near the window. Richard couldn't tell whether he had been listening to the brothers' exchange. “So, Joseph. Your mother tells me you like lobsters.”
“I do.” Joseph spoke so softly the words were barely audible. “Thank you for catching them. That was kind of you. Uncle Richard?”
“Yes, Joseph.”
“Will Uncle Caleb have to go to war?”
The two brothers glanced at each other.
“No, Joseph. Uncle Caleb will not have to go to war.”
“Then why must he leave us? He won't tell me why.”
Richard again glanced at his brother, who shrugged and gave him a helpless look in return. Richard beckoned Joseph over to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Joseph,” he said, “Uncle Caleb must return home to Boston because he is needed there. He doesn't want to
go, but he must. His family misses him, and his father, your great-uncle Thomas, needs him to help manage our business, just as he has learned to do here on Barbados with your father's help.”
“I don't want him to leave. I will miss him. I will miss you too, Uncle Richard.” Joseph cuffed his eyes with his sleeve, as close to an outpouring of emotion as Richard or Caleb had ever witnessed from him.
“We'll miss you, too, Joseph. Caleb will especially. He loves you very much. We all do. But we're family, aren't we? And families stick together and support each other no matter what, don't they? Caleb will come back to Barbados. Many times. So will I. And if we're luckyâif we're very, very luckyâyou will agree to come to America some day to visit with us and meet your other cousins. Would you like to come to America, Joseph?”
“Yes, I would.” Joseph choked on the words. His lower lip trembled and he could say no more. When he looked at Caleb, his eyes welled up, the tears began to flow, and he ran crying from the room.
Â
SEVEN WEEKS LATER, on a rare drizzly afternoon in late June, a post rider brought word to the Cutler plantation that HMS
Redoubtable
had returned to Barbados. The message was written in the distinctive hand of Hugh Hardcastle and contained an invitation to Richard to dine with him two evenings hence in Bridgetown. “I would be pleased to pipe you on board
Redoubtable
,” the note concluded, “but I am in serious need of some good shore cooking.”
Richard conferred with his cousins and hurried back a reply stating that since duty had prevented Hugh from attending one of the most memorable balls in Bridgetown's memory, and since it was Hugh Hardcastle who had graciously arranged for the gala to be held at Government House, the Cutler family would be honored to have him join them for supper at the Cutler plantation two evenings hence, and to stay the night as their guest. Hugh accepted with pleasure and arrived promptly at six o'clock.
A servant stepped up to take his duffel as Hugh disembarked from a hired carriage. John insisted on paying the driver and then joined the others gathering around the British naval officer bedecked in the spotless white trousers, gold-rimmed blue undress coat, and shiny bullion epaulets of a Royal Navy post captain. His hosts, too, were appropriately attired in the newly adopted fashions of the post-Revolution era. John and Robin wore the unadorned but perfectly tailored full-length dark linen trousers that had been introduced recently in England by
Beau Brummell, along with a fitted tailcoat of similar material and color and an elaborately knotted cravat. In a similar bow to what had become all the rage in Europe, Julia and Cynthia each wore a low-cut dress of rippling silk that fitted closely under the bust and then fell in loose folds to the ankles.