The Power and the Glory (41 page)

As quickly as decorum allowed, he withdrew to the privacy of his cabin. He sat down on the chair by his desk, unfolded the letter, and read.

Hingham, Massachusetts April 1800

A
SSUMING FAIR WINDS when returning to home port from the east or south, Richard Cutler normally charted a course between the Graves and Green, the two islands located farthest out among the thirty-odd islands fringing Boston Harbor. Once past those islands he would tack around to a southeasterly course toward Boston's commercial wharves, careful to keep the shoals of Deer Island and the Winthrop Peninsula well off to starboard. He would hold that course until he came abreast of the lighthouse on the northern tip of Long Island, at which point he would order his crew either to make final preparations for docking at Long Wharf, often his initial destination, or to steer around the southern end of Long Island eastward toward Hingham Bay. From there it was an easy lope through the sheltered waters of the bay to the docks at Crow Point, always his final destination.

Today he asked the captain of USRC
Massachusetts
, the Treasury cutter on which he was a passenger, to steer sharply to westward as they approached Great Brewster Island. From there they could cut through Hull Gut, a fifty-yard gap of water separating Peddocks Island from the mainland at Pemberton Point. That course would lead them directly into Hull Bay and on into the eastern reaches of Hingham Bay and save many hours of sailing time.

That request gave pause to Robert Thomas, the cutter's broad-shouldered captain in command by the tiller. Thomas hailed from
nearby Scituate, and thus had personal acquaintance with the vicious cross-seas spawned by an ebb tide spilling out from Hull Bay into the Atlantic through the gap that locals referred to as “Hell's Gut.” They might save time on that course, he conceded. But if the timing were off, or if the currents and rip tides swirling within the gap were up more than usual, he could be putting his vessel at risk. And if something did go awry, how would it look if this recently refurbished vessel of the Revenue Cutter Service were damaged on her first cruise?

Whether it was the look on Richard's face or his insistence that they were approaching slack tide at low tide, meaning that the fierce flow surging in reverse would more likely assist than impede them, he was persuaded. Into Hull Gut they dove, plunging into a confused array of roiled waters under jib and foresail, foremast course and furled topsail, and a large quadrilateral driver, all canvas drawing full and their leeches fluttering madly in the cold of a stiff northwesterly wind that seemed to gather strength as they pounded through the narrow passage. The few people walking on the pebbly beach at the tip of Pemberton Point stopped to admire this graceful image of sail power laid hard over to larboard, her taut weather rigging shuddering in the wind as icy spray doused her shrouds and deck. Finally, the white trail left in her wake had faded back to indigo blue and she was safely beyond Bumkin Island.

“Thank you, Captain,” Richard said at the gangway amidships after the cutter lay secure against a quay at Crow Point. Her crew of eight, stationed forward and aft and out on the dock, were preparing to cast off and get under way again. “I am very much in your debt.”

“To the contrary, Lieutenant,” Thomas said. “I am the one in debt here. It may have been your good fortune that I had orders to Boston at this time, but I have had the distinct honor and pleasure of a war hero's company these past few days. Congratulations again on your victories. You and
Constellation
have done us all proud. Alas, I fear I shall never experience that sort of glory. Unless, of course, I am fortunate enough to happen upon a tax shirker or, better yet, a Cutler cargo that is not properly documented.”

Richard grinned although his voice remained serious. “You underestimate yourself and your service, Robert. Revenue cutters have distinguished themselves throughout this conflict. I am told that
Pickering
captured ten privateers before she was taken into the Navy. And I understand that Captain Preble has added to her glory since.”

“Aye, quite. What I mean is, I shall not encounter such opportunities while in command of a cutter based in Boston and with the war nearing its end.”

Richard picked up his seabag and tucked it under his left arm. “You are certain I cannot offer you accommodations here in Hingham? A meal perhaps? Lodging for the night? My family would be honored.”

“Thank you, no. My orders are explicit. I must report to Customs House at my earliest convenience. Besides, my friend, you have quite enough on your plate as it is.” He offered Richard his hand. “I wish you Godspeed, Richard. And I wish your father a swift and full recovery.”

“Thank you, Robert. I greatly appreciate that. Godspeed as well to you and yours.”

Richard strode down the gangway. On the dock he turned left, waved good-bye to the cutter a final time, and walked briskly along the quay and out onto a route he had followed countless times since his earliest days of boyhood wander and wonder. On every road, past every sight, the memories of a lifetime weighed heavily upon him. Memories of his brother Will, who had died much too young and who continued even in death to hold sway over Richard's mind. Of his mother, Elizabeth, the family matriarch, who had devoted her life to him and his siblings. And especially of his father, who had summoned him home, but who, Richard desperately needed to believe, had somehow managed to defy death's dark tentacles. He convinced himself that he would find his father either writing at his desk or, more likely on such a promising spring afternoon, puttering about in his garden, planting the seeds that come July would yield a harvest of fresh fruits and vegetables to grace family suppers over which he would preside, as he always had done.

As he turned onto North Street and then South Street, citizens of Hingham recognized him despite his knee-length navy-blue coat and the tricorne hat set low on his forehead. He doffed his hat to those who greeted him but avoided conversation with everyone except for a slightly stooped, gray-haired widow who been a family friend for decades and who approached him purposefully as he made his way along South Street. “God bless your father, Richard Cutler,” she said gently, earnestly when she was at his side. She gave him a quick but heartfelt embrace. “God bless him. Everyone in Hingham is praying for him.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bigelow,” Richard said. “Thank you very much. I am certain that our prayers will be answered.” He squeezed her arm
and moved on, his spirits buoyed by her kind and revealing words. His father clearly was still alive. But with what prognosis?

He went first to his own home on South Street, two hundred yards past its intersection with Main Street, on which his father lived. As much as he yearned to turn left and go straight to his father, he needed to see Katherine first, to understand his father's condition.

As he approached his two-story gray clapboard house, he spotted his daughter in the sun on its lee side. She had a pair of saddles set up on a long sawhorse and was busily cleaning their leather attachments. She had her back to him and did not hear him approach.

Richard set his seabag gently on the ground. For several moments he stood quietly, reveling in the simple pleasure of a parent observing his offspring at work or play. Almost two years had passed since he had seen her, and it came as a shock to him that she was no longer a little girl. In his absence Diana had blossomed into a comely young lady. At twelve years of age, her lithe body and long chestnut curls captured the very essence of her mother, whom Richard had met in England when she was just three years older than her daughter was today. As he watched Diana oil and scrub the leather straps leading down from saddle to stirrups, emotions welled up in him anew.

As if with a supernatural sense of someone watching her, she turned around and saw her father. The sight sent soap and brush tumbling to the ground. Diana made to come toward him then remembered herself, straightened, and bent her right knee in respect for her elder. “Oh, Father, you're home!” she gasped. “Mother will be so pleased! And Pappy has been so wanting to see you!”

“I am home,” Richard exclaimed, his spirits lifting further at Diana's words. “And to welcome me home, Daughter, you're going to have to do a lot better than that sorry excuse for a curtsey.”

He dropped to a knee and spread out his arms. She smiled at that and came running, melting into his embrace and throwing her arms around his neck the way she used to do when she
was
a little girl.

“Oh, Father, you're home,” she cried again. “Finally! We've been waiting and waiting for so long. Pappy . . .” She stopped short and pulled away from her father, her delicate features a sudden testament to misery and woe. She blinked her eyes hard, her lower lip trembled. Then she collapsed back into his arms, burying her face against his neck and shoulder and weeping openly. “He's dying, Father. Pappy's dying. Even Mother admits it.”

Richard clasped her to him, his spirits plunging from on high down into a black abyss. He felt his inner defenses crumbling but fought back the urge to succumb to despair, determined to remain strong for his daughter. “It's all right, Diana,” he managed. “It's all right.” He rubbed her back and stroked her soft curls. “It's all right, Poppet.” When her sorrow had run its course and her sobs had softened to intermittent sniffles, he held her apart from him, dabbing at the dampness on her eyes and cheeks with a handkerchief drawn from his coat.

“Are you all right now?” he asked gently.

She nodded.

“Is your mother home?”

“No. She's at Pappy's. With Aunt Anne and Aunt Lavinia.”

“I see. Where are Will and Jamie?”

“Down at Harrison's boatyard. They're building a boat.”

“Good for them. I look forward to seeing it.” He stood up and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I'm going right over to visit with Pappy. Do you want to come with me?”

“Yes, but wouldn't you like me to tell Aunt Lizzy that you're here? She will so want to see you. Edna is at her house and she can look after Zeke. I wish I could tell Uncle Caleb, but he's in Boston. Something important came up and he had to leave.”

“Well, I'll see him tonight, I trust. Yes, please do tell Aunt Lizzy I'm home. We can walk over to Pappy's together and you can go on to her house from there.”

At the entrance to his childhood home, Richard waved to his daughter as she continued on toward Pleasant Street. He opened the front door and walked into the parlor, listening for some telltale sound as he removed his hat and coat. He heard only one: a
clink
coming from the kitchen. When he cracked open the door to the kitchen, he saw Katherine stooped over before the hearth, stirring what was likely some sort of stew in a black iron cauldron set above a low-burning fire.

She started when she heard the door creak fully open. When she saw Richard standing in the doorway, she placed the ladle gently inside the pot, wiped her hands on her apron, and rose to her feet. Their eyes remained locked on each other until they met halfway across the room by the long dining table. He took her in his arms and held her, as she held him, silently, for a span of time broken only when a mantel clock in the parlor struck four times.

“How's Father?” he whispered.

“He's sleeping now. He sleeps much of the day. Anne and Lavinia are upstairs with him. They've been here a week.”

“Is there any change? Any hope at all?”

She bit her lip as she slowly shook her head no. “I'm sorry, Richard. The end cannot be too far off. Doctor Prescott is doing everything he can, but there isn't much more he can do. He agrees with me that your father is hanging onto the hope and prayer that he will see you again. Perhaps it's that hope that is keeping him alive. I daresay there's something he wants to tell you. It will mean everything to him that you're here.”

Richard closed his eyes to the reality, the finality of it all. “Should I let him sleep?” he asked softly. “Or should I wake him?”

“Wake him, by all means,” she said. “There's no rhyme or reason for when he sleeps, and sleep is not what he needs at the moment. But first I must ask: can you stay with us? Or must you return to your ship?”

“I can stay, Katherine. Captain Truxtun granted me indefinite leave after I showed him your letter.
Constellation
is in for major repairs, and by all accounts this war will be over before she's ready to put to sea again.”

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, almost choking on the words. She brought her hands to his cheeks and her lips to his, not with passion or longing, but with a quarter-century of love and respect coupled with a profound relief that he was home in time to see his father, and that they, she and her husband, the two of them, were once again together as one.