“Welcome,” Richard said, clasping Hugh's hand when his turn came. He was dressed for the occasion in a naval uniform that, with more gilt braid, less buff, finer cloth, and an epaulet on the left shoulder to match the one on the right, would have appeared very similar to that of his brother-in-law.
Hugh inclined his head. “Thank you for the invitation, Richard,” he said sotto voce, over the clatter of the carriage departing on the pebbled drive. “It's a pleasure to be with you and your family again. You and I have much to discuss. I'm particularly eager to hear about your encounter with
L'Insurgente
.”
“That we do. And that we will. After supper.”
The Cutlers and their guest moved into John and Cynthia's dining room, a large octagonal space encompassing what in Boston would have been two rooms: the dining room proper, dominated by a large rectangular table of East Indian teak with ten matching chairsâfour on each side and one on each endâand a sitting room on the opposite side with cushioned rattan chairs and two round mahogany tables. The floor was of marble and stone, void of mats or rugsâintended, as was the design of the entire house, to retain the cool evening temperatures into the next day and to allow the free flow of air throughout.
Dinner featured freshly caught yellowtail snapper served in a light cream sauce sprinkled with coconut, nutmeg, and ginger. Fresh vegetables and fruits and three of the best bottles of Bordeaux that John Cutler could pull from his inventory completed the menu. Early on in the meal, Hugh Hardcastle scraped back his chair and rose to his feet.
“To our women,” he said, holding his glass up. “To those who bring grace and beauty to our lives and without whom we men would be nothing more than mindless barbarians. To my lovely and gracious hosts, Cynthia and Julia Cutler, who have honored me with their kind hospitality this evening; to my sister Katherine, who time and again has had to stoop low to raise her husband up from the depths; and to my intended, Phoebe Clausen, who, in her benevolence, has bestowed upon me life's most precious gifts of love and passion.”
“Hear, hear!” the others acclaimed in unison.
Through much of the main course the conversation dwelt on Hugh's upcoming marriage. The wedding date was set for September 24 and would take place in Saint Stephen's Church in Fareham with the Reverend Graham Fenton presiding, the same Anglican minister who had married Richard and Katherine. Hugh and Robin would depart Barbados in a fortnight, bound for England, there to be joined in mid-August by Katherine and Lizzy and the four children.
During a dessert of spotted dog pudding fortified by a hoary port wine, Hugh winked across the table at Caleb Cutler. He had an impish look when he said, in a voice loud enough to capture everyone's attention, “The word in Bridgetown, Caleb, is that at the ball you cut quite a swath among the young ladies of society.”
The remark caused John to bristle.
“Pray, take pity,” Hugh continued, “on a soon-to-be-married man ignorant of such things and tell me how you manage to rouse these ladies up so. I can see for myself that you are a handsome sort. But surely there's more to it than that. Some sort of love potion, perhaps, sprinkled into a glass?”
Before Caleb could respond, Richard said, “There
is
more to it than good looks, Hugh, but it has nothing to do with love potions.”
“Oh? Then what, pray?”
“I can't tell you. Neither can Caleb. It's a family secret.”
“Is it, now?” Hugh's tone assumed a tenor of keen disappointment. “And I cannot prevail upon you to divulge this grand secret?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Well, then, if you won't tell me, I shall have to inquire of Katherine when I see her later this summer.”
“She won't tell you either. My father has often counseled us never to flaunt our advantage and never to reveal the source of our pleasures.” That comment inspired general tittering around the table, save from the host at the end. Cynthia brought a hand to her mouth, not in shock, but to suppress a giggle.
“So you are truly going to leave the service, Captain Hardcastle?” she asked once the mirth had faded away, hoping to steer the conversation toward safer waters. She knew that despite her husband's outwardly calm demeanor, a tempest was building within. “We have heard that you might, but of course we have kept that possibility very much to ourselves.
This
secret, if indeed it is one, remains safe with us as well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cutler. You are most gracious. Yes, I am planning to retire from the service. Not right away, but soon. Unless, of course, I am able to find a steward capable of serving a meal on board ship the likes of which I have enjoyed this evening. That alone might dissuade me.”
John joined in the smiles in appreciation of that comment, and Cynthia relaxed.
Richard shared in the gaiety but inside was wrenched by deep regret that he would not be joining his family in Fareham. For so long Hugh's wedding had seemed a distant event. Now, suddenly, it seemed imminent. “I'm sorry I can't be at your wedding, Hugh,” he said later that evening when the two of them were seated alone in the parlor. “I should very much like to meet Phoebe.”
Hardcastle smiled benignly. “You shall meet her, Richard. Might I remind you that when I leave the service, Phoebe and I are planning to sail to Boston, where we expect the Cutler family to welcome us with open arms and to provide me with suitable employment and a living wage.”
“You're in, assuming we can afford your definition of a living wage.”
“Which of course you can, once your new best friend Toussaint L'Ouverture grants the
exclusif
he has promised you. Rather ingenious, wasn't it, the way he danced around your president? And the way your president danced around Congress and the whole bloody issue of the embargo? Diplomatic gifts, indeed! The so-called gifts were nothing less than munitions to serve an army and provisions to wage a war. Rather clever of him, I'd say. Your president has made Toussaint a very happy general. A general who, by the bye, continues to labor under the impression that you played a key hand in his good fortune. I daresay his
exclusif
will amount to a rather tidy annual sum for Cutler & Sons.”
“Enough to pay your wages?”
“Good heavens no, my dear man! But it should make for a satisfactory down payment.”
They chuckled together. From an inside coat pocket Hugh withdrew an elegant silver container on which his initials were inscribed in flowing script. He popped it open, withdrew two six-inch cigars, and tapped the open end of one against the container.
“I hope I didn't offend anyone at dinner tonight, Richard,” he said. “I was just having a bit of fun with Caleb. I'm accustomed to dining in
far less refined company, but that is no excuse for affronting my hosts. Please apologize for me if you think it necessary.”
Richard shook his head. “All's well that ends well, the great bard once wrote, and all ended well this evening. I haven't heard such good cheer in that room for a long time, and we have you to thank for that.”
“What about John? I would not wish to upset him. He's not only a friend, he's my host, and an excellent one at that.”
“John's fine. Don't worry. Your humor and the wine finally got through to him. He needed that distraction. He tends to take things too seriously. And of course he worries constantly about his son.”
“Yes, I'm sure. I was so sorry to learn that the trip to England fell short of expectations. Has there been any change in Joseph since?”
“Actually, I think perhaps there has. Yesterday, Joseph asked Seth and Benjamin to go outside with him to play a game of hoops. Seth agreed, bless him, though he doesn't much care for the game. I realize that may seem somewhat trivial, but you see, Joseph had never before asked anyone to play with him.”
“Ah.” After a pause, Hugh said, “Excuse me, Richard. Would you care for a smoke?” He held out a cigar. “They're from Hispaniola, in the Cibao River valley. They're really quite exceptional. I must say, the devils on that island know how to make a bloody good smoke.”
“Thank you, I would.” Richard got up and walked over to John's work desk. He opened a drawer and found flint and steel and a receptacle to use as an ashtray. Striking flint on steel, he offered Hugh a light from the lint, then lit his own cigar.
“That's not all those devils on that island know how to do,” Richard said as he resumed his seat. He crossed his right leg over his left and drew in the rich, savory tobacco. Although not historically a smoker, during his convalescence on Barbados he had come to enjoy this occasional luxury.
Hugh slowly blew out a stream of smoke and cocked his head in question, waiting for Richard to go on.
“They also know how to turn friends and family against each other. Seriously, Hugh, what the hell happened to England's support of Toussaint? You and I risked our lives to gain that support. I thought we were in agreement on this.”
“We were, and we are.”
“Well, then, why were the British trying to get provisions through to Rigaud at Jacmel? And why were
you
ordered there to engage an American warship? I mean no disrespect, but it doesn't add up.”
“I quite agree. It doesn't.”
“Well, then?”
Hugh took a sip of port and contemplated the ash on his cigar. When he spoke, it was without lifting his eyes from the glowing tip. “We could discuss this for hours, Richard, and someday we will. But here's the nub of it. The commander in chief of the British army in the Greater Antillesâa general named Whiteâtook ill and had to return to England. That left in charge a lieutenant colonel named Thomas Maitlandâknown to many as âKing Tom,' but not in a fond sort of way.
“Maitland, it seems, has no use for colored people, whatever color that happens to be. Black or mulatto, yellow or red, it doesn't matter. He doesn't much care for Americans either. That said, he has a particular aversion for black African Negroes. The blacker the skin, the greater the sinâto his mind at least. And he's by no means alone in that belief. Many whites share it, including many in your country. Few have dared go public with it, however, the way King Tom has.
“As you can imagine, Toussaint L'Ouverture is not high on Tom's list of favorites. A Negro who aims to rule a West Indian island far oversteps his bounds. However he managed it, Maitland convinced Admiral Hyde that Toussaint, who clearly had gained the upper hand over Rigaud after the United States intervened on his behalf, is not to be trusted. His real agenda, Maitland argues, is to incite a slave rebellion on Jamaica, and then to invade the island in alliance with the French and Spanish. His ultimate objective is the capture of our naval base at Port Royal.”
“Maitland
believes
that?”
“Oh, I should very much think he does.”
“And Admiral Parker? How could any intelligent man be duped by such nonsense? When did he turn about and change his tune so dramatically?”
“When he started listening to a different drummer.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that while he may have appeared to be in agreement with what we wrote in our reports, his agreement was only on the surface. Deep down, he has long harbored his own doubts about blacks in general and Toussaint in particular, whom he sees as a puppet of republican France. So he had a mind already eager to be twisted by one such as King Tom, who simply provided him with the military justification he
needed. The good admiral then decided to get more into the game and play both sides of the wicket, the way everyone else was doing.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that at the end of the day, Admiral Hyde chose not to end the game. Since the United States was provisioning Toussaint, he would see to it that England provisioned both sides, with a bias toward Rigaud.”
“Why Rigaud, for God's sake?”
“To keep the game going, as I indicated. With both sides receiving aid, neither side, in theory, can hold the upper hand. With neither side holding the upper hand, the war can continue for months or even years, with each side killing off the other until, eventually, with enough blacks and mulattoes slaughtered, and with France and Spain distracted in Europe and the United States hamstrung over principles and ethics, we English can march inâor sail in, as it wereâand seize control of the entire island. Britain wins and everyone else loses. Quite the simple game plan, once you boil it all down. Mind you, this is not the official version. But it is what I believe to be the truth.”
“
Jesus Christ!”
“Yes, he would be rather appalled by all this, wouldn't he?”
“Hugh, do you mean to tell me that you knew all this when you were ordered to Jacmel? And that to get provisions through to Rigaud you were prepared to engage an American warship blockading the harbor?”
“Never in life, Richard. Yes, I understood the issues, more or less, when I was ordered to sail from Antigua. But never would I have fired upon an American ship; nor was I ordered to. I actually met the captain of
General Greene
near the Bight of Léogâne. His name is Perry. Christopher Raymond Perry. I also met his son, Oliver, who is serving on board as a midshipman.”
“I've heard good things about Captain Perry.”
“As well you should have. I can tell you without reservation that he is a gentleman and a very fine sea officer.”
“But back to Saint-Domingue. What happened to Rigaud after the fall of Jacmel?”
“It's anyone's guess. To my knowledge he has not been captured; nor has his body been found. His officers, those few taken alive, refuse to talk. It matters not a fig. If Rigaud did manage to slip away, he has nowhere to go except France. He's finished on Hispaniola. The game
is over. Admiral Hyde made the mistake of underestimating Toussaint and the resolve of his officers and soldiers.”