The Power and the Glory (14 page)

Hunt understood that it was not his place to inquire about the meeting with John Endicott unless Richard first broached the subject. Which he did not do. Only the next morning in his father's house on Main Street did he repeat Endicott's words. The previous evening, over a late supper with Katherine, he had recounted the gist of what Endicott had proposed. She had expressed little interest in the subject and had little to offer in return. Richard did not pursue the matter. He sensed Katherine's indifference; and besides, the memory of Anne-Marie's kiss pressed guiltily on his mind.

The next morning, Thomas Cutler had more to say. “I'm opposed,” he said bluntly, after he had repeated out loud the main points of what
John Endicott had proposed, “and not because I don't recognize the opportunity.”

“Why, then, Father?”

“This is simply not the time for us to invest in an enterprise of this magnitude.”

“Why?” Richard asked again. He was neither resentful nor surprised. He simply needed to understand.

“What we're discussing here is a Cutler family investment of $100,000, give or take, even if we were to put up only the 25 percent Endicott proposes. We can't invest that much money until we're able to replenish our accounts. And we can't replenish our accounts until financial conditions improve. And financial conditions won't improve until the threat of war is over. You reviewed the accounts yesterday, Richard. You saw where we stand. I cannot in good conscience risk much of what we have at present for a promise of more in the future. As to your finding guns, do that if you can. If nothing else, we can use them on our own vessels. Mind you, I don't resent Endicott for wanting to use our money and connections for his own purposes. In principle, as equal partners, we'd be coming
out
of the bargain as well as he. But going
in,
we'd be placing a great deal more at risk. For now, my decision is no. Circumstances may change in the future. We'll have to wait and see.”

After a pause in the conversation Caleb asked, “Would Uncle William be willing to share our side of the risk?”

“I'd ask him,” his father replied, “if I didn't already know his answer. You would do well to remember, Caleb, that
our
side is
his
side. Your uncle is our one true business partner, and he and I tend to think alike. We are willing to take a calculated risk if and when circumstances warrant it. But with war with France now appearing inevitable, circumstances most definitely do not warrant taking such a risk.”

Richard blinked. “Inevitable? What do you mean, Father? Is there word from Paris?”

Thomas Cutler nodded grimly. “Had I mentioned this first, we would not have given Endicott the fair hearing he deserves.”

“Mentioned what first?”

“An express rider delivered two dispatches late yesterday. One was from Mr. Hamilton. Our State Department has finally heard from our envoys in Paris, and the result, I'm afraid, is not encouraging. The second dispatch is from Captain Truxtun. I didn't open it. It's addressed to you. But I have a strong hunch that I know what's inside.”

As did Richard. There could be only one reason why Captain Truxtun was contacting him. “Did Mr. Hamilton provide details?”

“Not many. The details have yet to be made public. What I understand is that after all these months of waiting and waffling, Talleyrand has announced that he will not receive our envoys unless and until Congress pays him a handsome tribute. And paying such a tribute only ensures that negotiations will begin. It does not guarantee their outcome. If it is true, President Adams has no choice. Our national honor has been impugned. It will mean war.”

USS
Constellation,
at Sea July–August 1798

T
HE DETAILS, when published, confirmed a reality far worse than Thomas Cutler or anyone in the State Department had first imagined. After being kept waiting for months, the American envoys were finally informed by three French agents that Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, the French foreign minister, would receive them as soon as the American government agreed to pay what was delicately referred to in European diplomatic circles as
un douceur
, essentially a bribe. In this case, a bribe of $220,000 was to be paid simply for the privilege of opening negotiations. Adding insult to injury, the French agents insisted that two additional conditions be met before negotiations could begin. First, the U.S. government must guarantee a loan of $2 million—which amount the French openly admitted would be invested in their war against England—and, second, the United States must extend a formal apology to France for the allegations of tyranny and radicalism perpetrated by President Adams, Treasury Secretary Hamilton, and other Federalist statesmen during and after the French Revolution.

After sending high-priority dispatches to Secretary of State Timothy Pickering in Philadelphia, envoys John Marshall and Charles Pinckney departed France in a huff, convinced that the National Directory sought to delay resolution of its conflict with America in order to continue plundering her merchantmen and to line the pockets of the individual
members of the Directory. Elbridge Gerry remained in the French capital, hoping against hope to talk sense into these people. The American press, meanwhile, was having a field day with this turn of events.

“No, no, not a sixpence!” was the reported response of an apoplectic Pickering upon reading the delegation's report. “Millions for defense, I say, but not one penny for tribute!”

“Damn the villains!” screamed the
Boston Traveler
and other Federalist newspapers.

Cries of high dudgeon resounded through the halls of Congress in Philadelphia, though not in every office. Some southern Republicans, convinced that Adams and Hamilton had somehow concocted the whole affair to provoke war with France, demanded that details of the delegation's report be made public. President Adams was only too happy to oblige. He ordered ten thousand copies of the report to be printed and distributed throughout the states, changing only the names of the three French agents in the eye of the storm to the code letters X, Y, and Z. The result was a volcanic eruption of anti-French sentiment flowing hot within the psyche of the young republic, and with it a national drumbeat for war.

The American public responded to a call to arms that bordered on hysteria after former secretary of war Henry Knox warned that France was preparing to attack the American South with West Indian garrisons reinforced by legions of former African slaves bent on revenge. In reply, President Adams ordered an army of 14,000 men to be raised and commanded by George Washington—coaxed out of retirement by his sense of duty and his love of country—with the ambitious Alexander Hamilton as his second in command and his chief secretary, Tobias Lear, as his aide-de-camp.

In the front ranks of the military buildup was the newly minted U.S. Navy. Work on the second three frigates picked up in cadence with the war drums, while American agents in Europe and the Caribbean hurriedly shopped for other vessels of war, primarily in the dockyards and arsenals of Great Britain—America's preferred source for military hardware. In negotiating such transactions, many Britons regarded America's interests as their own. Every American gun aimed at a French warship, Rear Adm. Horatio Lord Nelson thundered in Parliament and Whitehall, meant one less British gun that would have to be aimed at the French. American naval personnel away on leave were hastily summoned back to duty.

“WHEN WILL CONGRESS declare war, do you think?”

That popular question was posed by Andrew Sterrett during a supper of thick mutton stew laden with potatoes, peas, and turnips brought aft by wardroom stewards from the camboose stove located forward in the galley. Three bottles of red Bordeaux contributed by the third lieutenant from his personal stores supplemented the meal and promoted lively conversation. During
Constellation'
s second morning at sea, Captain Truxtun had been invited to dine with his commissioned and senior warrant officers in the wardroom, which was located aft on the berthing deck directly beneath the captain's cabin. All three lieutenants were present, as was Lt. James Carter of the newly formed Marine Corps, and the ship's surgeon, George Balfour. To each side of the large oval dining table, to larboard and starboard, were the officer's cabins—cubicles, really—set off from each other by thick canvas walls and with a rectangular piece of canvas on hinges serving as a door. Beyond the table, abaft the mizzenmast, was the tiller room housing the rudder. Clusters of candles set about the area provided light, their flames barely flickering in the still air.
Constellation
was rigged for night sailing and was making sluggish headway in a diminishing breeze on a calm sea.

Sterrett had put the question to the table, although he glanced in Truxtun's direction as though expecting the captain to answer.

John Rodgers spoke instead. “It's been more than two months since we received word from Paris,” the first lieutenant observed. “Thus far, Congress has done the one thing it does well, which is, of course, nothing. I'm beginning to doubt it
will
declare war.”

Richard was not surprised by the conviction behind that remark. He had come to esteem this tall, dark-haired, sea officer despite his relative youth and lack of naval experience. Rodgers, he had learned, had commanded his first merchant vessel at the age of eighteen, a credential that demanded respect, and he understood the workings of a square-rigger better than most sea captains of Richard's acquaintance. As first lieutenant, that was Rodgers' primary responsibility: management of the ship's business on a day-to-day basis, with sole oversight of the station bill—a list of who did what, when, and where on board ship while under way—and the watch bill, which rotated two watches of equal size throughout the day and night for the routine sailing of the ship. He also assumed command of the ship should the captain step ashore or become incapacitated, and when the ship was coming to or weighing anchor.

Even more important, this educated, self-confident Marylander with
bushy sideburns had in spades what Captain Truxtun appeared to value most in his chain of command. A month ago, during the memorable evening when the ship's officers had gathered together in the captain's cabin for the first time, Truxtun had defined for them his vision of a naval officer. “A man of good education, good character, good connections, and manly deportment,” he had stated, “who is thoroughly grounded in the minutiae of naval affairs and who exhibits zeal, dignity, enterprise, and prudence—and who, above all, is well-mannered, self-disciplined, courageous, and has a passion for honor and glory.” The difficulty, he had confessed at the time, was finding officers who possessed such qualities. Which was why, he concluded, it pleased him to have so many of them serving in his ship. That remark had caused the elders of the eight midshipmen to steal glances at each other, and the younger ones to blush.

“Why ever not, sir?” a thin-boned, sandy-haired boy of fourteen inquired of Rodgers, his voice edged with disappointment. He was one of two midshipmen invited up from the orlop deck to the wardroom, the two senior midshipmen now serving as officers of the deck under the critical eye of Nate Waverly, the ship's master. “When the envoys' report was published and the riots broke out, I assumed war was inevitable. My father has been a Republican since before I can remember, and even he now wears the black cockade,” referring to a Federalist adornment worn in the hat to signify opposition to France.

“Quite so, Mr. Dent. But I believe you misunderstand me. What I am referring to is a
declared
war.”

John Dent continued to stare at him, his face full of questions. “My apologies, sir, but I'm afraid I don't take your meaning.”

“Perhaps I can explain, Mr. Dent.”

All eyes swung to Captain Truxtun, who leaned forward on his chair at the far end of the table. Soon after entering the wardroom he had removed his blue dress coat with buff lapels and twin gold epaulets and had draped it over the back of his chair, an invitation for everyone present to do likewise. He had taken a seat and crossed one leg casually over the other, listening to the conversation in buff breeches and a buff vest with a gold button on each of the four pockets, each emblazoned with the same fouled anchor and American eagle design evident on the buttons of his discarded dress coat.

“I believe the point Mr. Rodgers is making is that many of our fellow citizens, particularly those living in the South and West, continue to believe, whatever evidence may exist to the contrary, that President
Adams and the Federalist Party are to blame for our current impasse with France.” He held out his arms expansively. “I trust no one in this cabin shares the folly of their thinking. But once a man grabs hold of such a position, it is often difficult to get him to let go, your father's admirable example notwithstanding, Mr. Dent.

“Thus, the reasoning goes in Congress, if the United States declares war on France, Republican extremists in the South and West may demand secession from the Union. And there just may be enough of them to cause damage to our young republic. Am I stating your position fairly enough, Mr. Rodgers?”

“To a T, sir. Thank you.”

“Do you understand now, Mr. Dent?”

“I understand better, sir. But with respect, I remain confused about our role. Are we simply to patrol the seas and convey merchantmen back and forth to the Indies, as we are now doing? So far we've seen naught of interest beyond two jackass brigs,” referring to the popular term for a schooner-rigged vessel of the Revenue Cutter Service, a subset of the Treasury Department whose mission was to guard the coast against maritime misfits.