A Call to Arms Page 12

  “Ready about!” Agreen shouted. “Headsail sheets! Mr. Roberts, you may advise Lieutenant Lee to make ready the starboard battery! Helm a-lee!”

  As Portsmouth began the evolutions of turning her bow away from the wind and wearing the frigate around on an opposite tack, Agreen stepped close to his captain.

  “Sweet Jesus, Richard, are you goin’ t’ fire another broadside into her?”

  Richard did not reply.

  “For what purpose?” Agreen pressed. “T’ sink her? She’s already done for.”

  Richard looked at him. “No, Agee, not to sink her. To send a message to these bastards they will never forget.”

  Richard walked to the waist railing of the quarterdeck and stared at the waters ahead. As he had anticipated, the corsair had come off the wind as best she could with her severely damaged rig. Portsmouth was sailing full and by, on an angle away from her enemy, unable to give effective chase and deliver another broadside without tacking over. The smoke had cleared away enough to reveal the extent of the corsair’s damage. At least two guns had been upended; her rigging was in tatters; her fore-and-aft sails were either torn or holed; her foremast and mizzen topmast had gone by the boards; and staves along her hull had been smashed in and a futtock broken through. Agreen was right. She was done for, a floating wreck. She’d have all she could do just to remain afloat until she reached Tunis, let alone Tripoli. Amidships he saw something he had never thought to see: two sailors tossing their ship’s ensign overboard into the sea. Aside from those two, he saw only three men moving about the deck. Others had no doubt taken refuge behind the vessel’s wooden embrasures.

  Agreen came up beside him. “Don’t do it, Richard,” he quietly pleaded. “In God’s holy name, don’t do it. You’ve sent your message. Fire another broadside into that hulk and your message will never be delivered. And remember, we have shipmates in the water back there.”

  Richard gripped the railing with both hands, aware of those on the quarterdeck, and those in the waist and in the tops, watching him intently, awaiting his orders. For several moments the only sounds to be heard were the gurgle of seawater sweeping along the frigate’s hull and the pleasant hum of wind in the rigging. At length he shook his head, as if to cast out demons demanding unholy vengeance against a defeated, defenseless enemy. “Point taken, Agee,” he said softly. “Cease fire.”

  “Cease fire!” Agreen cried out. His order was quickly relayed along the weather and gun decks.

  Portsmouth veered away on a more northerly course, her enemy now a lifeless corpse hobbling southward in the opposite direction under a jury rig of hastily fashioned canvas on her mainmast, the only mast still standing.

  Seven

  Malta, October–November 1803

  LOCATED AT THE geographical center of the Mediterranean Sea, the island of Malta had for centuries held a strategic importance far greater than its hundred-square-mile area might suggest. Catholic to its core—Saint Paul himself had preached the gospel on the archipelago after being shipwrecked there—Malta had teetered back and forth at the epicenter of the struggle between Europeans and Turks, Muslims and Christians, for control of the Mediterranean. Nor did the treaty between Spain and the Ottoman Empire in the late 1700s bring lasting peace or solace to the long-suffering Maltese people. In 1798, on his voyage to conquer Egypt, Napoléon Bonaparte seized Malta and left behind a sizable garrison under the command of General Vaubois. The general’s mission, Bonaparte publicly declared, was to hold at all costs an island so vital to French interests and supply lines that he would rather keep it away from the British than any village in France.

  Vaubois’ tenure, however, proved brief. Reinforced with weapons and manpower furnished by the kingdom of Sicily, the citizens of Malta, outraged by the French Republic’s hostility to Catholic doctrine, rose up in defiance. In support, the Royal Navy blockaded the islands and brought its unique blend of firepower to bear against the French. In 1800, to show their appreciation for Britain’s assistance and to deter future invaders, the leaders of Malta formally petitioned the government of King George III to grant their island royal dominion status. Sir Alexander Ball, a former British naval officer much beloved by the Maltese, graciously accepted on behalf of His Britannic Majesty. Soon thereafter, Horatio Lord Nelson, Vice Admiral of the Blue, Viscount Nelson of the Nile and Burnham Thorpe, First Duke of Bronté, Knight of the Bath, and commander-in-chief of British forces in the Mediterranean, declared Grand Harbor at Valletta—one of the finest deep-draft harbors in the world—the new headquarters for the Royal Navy’s Mediterranean Fleet.

  A HOT OCTOBER SUN cast a golden haze over land and sea as Portsmouth hauled her wind and rounded the eastern tip of Malta. Nothing suggested anything but tranquility on the island as the American frigate sailed northwestward on a calm turquoise sea under jibs, topsails, and driver. Buildings began to take distinct form within the ancient city perched high on a broad spit of land. Most were baroque in style, with elements here and there of Greek classicism. Valletta had been reconstructed centuries ago by the Knights of Saint John—later to be known as the Knights of Malta—a quasi-military religious order of chivalry that had taken refuge on Malta in the 1500s after the Muslim Turks had ousted them from the island of Rhodes. To Richard Cutler, it seemed impossible that the serene, sun-drenched island possessed a military pedigree as glaring as the sun reflecting off its white freestone dwellings.

  Among the thick forest of masts within the two-mile stretch of Grand Harbor he spotted two British gunboats approaching from beneath the imposing façade of Fort Saint Elmo, a stone fortress located on the seaward shore of the Sciberras Peninsula. The Union Jack fluttered on a flagpole high atop the fort’s eastern battlements.

  “Now that’s a sight,” Agreen Crabtree said with reverence. He was standing beside Richard on the windward side of the quarterdeck. Along with everyone else on deck and in the rigging, they had been absorbing, each in his own way, the silent approach of history.

  Richard nodded his agreement. When he noticed the two gunboats in the distance, he had ordered canvas reduced to working jib, fore and main topsails, and single-reefed driver. In the light breeze Portsmouth was now making perhaps two or three knots.

  Richard glanced aloft at a telltale quivering spasmodically on the ensign halyard and then turned his gaze dead ahead. “Agee,” he said quietly, “I want you to know how much I appreciate you saving me from myself yesterday.”

  Agreen, too, was staring ahead. “Think nothin’ of it, Richard,” he said blithely. “That’s what you and I have been doin’ for each other ever since that day Captain Jones signed us on in Ranger. It’s your turn t’ save me next.”

  Richard’s wry grin was the first indication of his former self that Agreen had seen since Richard had presided over the burial at sea of five shipmates the previous afternoon. “I have always admired your ability to transform tragedy into comedy with a flick of the tongue, Lieutenant.”

  “That’s part of my role as your first,” Agreen chuckled, adding, more solemnly, “and as your friend. Those five men meant just as much t’ me as they did t’ you.”

  George Lee approached and touched his hat. “Gunboat’s signaling, Captain,” he reported. “They desire us to heave to.”

  “Then make it so, Lieutenant. But keep the hands at the braces. We won’t be here long.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Lee whirled about. “Mr. Weeks!” he shouted. “Stations for heaving to!” Portsmouth came to the wind and slowed to a virtual standstill on the placid waters outside the harbor.

  As the leading gunboat drew near, a British officer stood up amidships and cupped his hands at his mouth. “Identify your ship, please,” he requested crisply.

  “USS Portsmouth,” Agreen hailed back from the quarterdeck. “Captain Richard Cutler. I am Lieutenant Crabtree, his first.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Crabtree. May I welcome you and your captain to Valletta. I am Lieutenant James Bosworth. Might I ask if you put in to any port of
call during your cruise here?

  “No. We have come straight from Boston.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Quarantine shall not be required. Might I inquire your business here?”

  “Captain Cutler will explain his business to the governor. Dispatches were sent ahead of us.”

  “Ah, yes. Indeed they were. And we are holding dispatches for you from your squadron commander. You may proceed and take anchorage off the fortress side of the jetty. You will find fifteen fathoms of water there and a sandy bottom. I shall have boats standing by to take you in tow should the wind die altogether. Do you require any other assistance at the moment?”

  “We do, Lieutenant. We have wounded men aboard.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. How many?”

  “Six.”

  “I see. Are they ambulatory?”

  “Two are not.”

  “In that case, if it is agreeable to your captain, I shall make arrangements for them to be transferred to a naval hospital ashore. They will receive excellent care, I assure you. Is there any other service I might perform on your behalf?”

  Agreen glanced at Richard, who said: “Provisions.”

  “Just one,” Agreen shouted down. “We are low on provisions.”

  “I had anticipated you would be. Once you are at anchor I shall have hoys sent out to you with fresh food and water. Now if there is nothing else, you may proceed. I daresay our sweeps will have us in port before your wind. As soon as I am able, I shall send word to Mr. Morath, the governor’s representative in Valletta.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bosworth. You have been most helpful.”

  With a screech of boatswain’s whistles Portsmouth brought her sails to the breeze and made ready to drop anchor for the first time since leaving Boston almost seven weeks earlier.

  AT TWO BELLS in the forenoon watch the following morning, the Marine sentry on duty outside the captain’s after cabin knocked on the door. Bidden in, he walked aft to the dining alcove where Richard Cutler was having coffee with his commissioned officers and snapped a crisp salute. He handed Richard Cutler a square white letter that bore his name in elaborate black script on the front. On the back, at the juncture of the folds in the middle, was an official seal embossed within a circle of red wax. Richard broke the wax, unfolded the letter, and read:

  To the Hon. Capt. Richard Cutler

  of the United States Ship Portsmouth

  Valletta Harbor

  Dear Captain Cutler:

  You and whichever of your officers you choose are most cordially invited to Fort Saint Elmo at four o’clock this afternoon to confer with me and the royal governor’s private secretary in the Blue Room located on the main floor. We have some knowledge of your business in Malta and we are keen to understand how we might assist you further. I regret to inform you that Sir Alexander is unable to join us this afternoon, but he extends his best regards and full cooperation to you and your ship. He is most hopeful that in two weeks’ time he shall have the honor of your company at a social occasion, the details of which I shall provide this afternoon.

  Kindly acknowledge receipt of this communication.

  I am

  Your Most Obedient Servant,

  Thomas Quentin Morath

  Personal Representative of His Honor

  Sir Alexander Ball

  28 October 1803

  “Is the governor’s boat standing by?” Richard asked the Marine.

  “It is, sir.”

  “Please acknowledge receipt of this invitation and accept on behalf of Lieutenant Crabtree and myself.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” The Marine saluted and departed the cabin.

  “Invitation?” Agreen inquired after the sentry had closed the cabin door.

  “Just so. The letter is from the governor’s personal representative. You and I have an appointment with him in Fort Saint Elmo at the start of the first dogwatch. I would invite you all,” he said, glancing at his other two commissioned officers, “but that might be overdoing it. And it appears we have another invitation to consider, this one from Sir Alexander himself, in two weeks.”

  “You mean we have to endure this island for two whole weeks?” Eric Meyers said with a heavy sigh that did not entirely mask his delight. “That’s a mighty stiff sentence, Captain.”

  “Indeed it is, Mr. Meyers. And I should think you will need every bit of it to recuperate from your ordeal in the water. But don’t go getting your hopes up just yet. Our orders are to return to base as soon as conditions permit. In the meantime, you may inform Mr. Weeks that the men are granted shore leave in rotation. And please repeat to Mr. Weeks what I have already said: the women on this island are devout Catholics, they take their religion seriously, and the order is ‘hands off.’ I am most adamant about this. More to the point, Mr. Meyers,” he added tongue-in-cheek, “the ship’s officers must also understand this, you in particular. Your reputation with the ladies is quite well established.”

  Meyers gave him a solemn look. “I promise you, sir, that I will do nothing for which I have not prayed devoutly.”

  “That is precisely what troubles me, Mr. Meyers.”

  THE KNIGHTS OF SAINT JOHN built Fort Saint Elmo to be the centerpiece of Malta’s coastal fortifications. Controlling the entrance to both Grand Harbor and the neighboring Marsamxett Harbor, its massive walls and gun batteries reinforced the older fortifications of Fort Tigné and the Roman-built Fort Angelo on the opposite side of Grand Harbor. During the Great Siege of 1565 the fort withstood an Ottoman naval bombardment. Under British rule, Fort Tigné had been converted into an army barracks and Fort Saint Angelo clearly held less strategic significance. But star-shaped Fort Saint Elmo retained an imperial presence, and woe to any enemy, thought Richard Cutler as he and Agreen Crabtree approached the heavy wooden doors at its entrance, who dared challenge its authority.

  The Blue Room was in keeping with its name: everything in the snug little room, from its window drapes to the cushions and fabrics of its furniture, was a bright robin’s-egg blue. Wingback chairs and settees surrounded a low table; on a mantle a pendulum clock ticked agreeably. A large rectangular window cut into the seaward wall was open to the pleasant scent of sea air and the pleasing sound of waves swirling and sucking against a rocky promontory below.

  A short, pudgy, balding man projecting a no-nonsense attitude strode into the room. He was superbly dressed from the white silk of his neck stock to the polished shine of his silver-buckled shoes, although Richard noticed that the three lowest buttons of his gold-tasseled waistcoat were left undone to allow room for the consequences of overindulgence. Following obediently behind him was a man who appeared not yet thirty, of slight build with dark, flowing hair and thick eyebrows that nearly met in the middle. In his right hand he clutched a leather satchel.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Cutler,” the older man said with an aristocratic drawl. “I am Thomas Morath. On behalf of the royal governor, I welcome you and your ship to Valletta. This is Mr. Crabtree, I presume? I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant. Please, sit down. Before we begin,” he continued, “please allow me to introduce the governor’s personal secretary. A fine young man, if I may say so, who holds the additional title of public secretary of Malta, a most prestigious position. His name is Samuel Coleridge. He is a Cambridge man and a very fine poet in his spare time. Indeed, he has already had a book of romantic poems published in England in collaboration with . . . um . . . um . . .” He gave the young man a questioning look.

  “William Wordsworth,” Coleridge replied. The amused glance he gave the Americans suggested that Thomas Morath, for all his accomplishments, had little knowledge of either romance or poetry.

  “Yes, quite. Wordsworth. “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” and all that. Jolly good show. Highly recommended. Ah, here is tea.” After a servant had passed tea and crustless cucumber and parsley sandwiches to the group seated around the table, he continued. “Now then, gentlemen, if we may get down to business. Mr. Cole
ridge carries a dispatch for you from your squadron commander, Captain Edward Preble. We received it just two days ago. Would you care to read it before we begin? It may have some bearing on our discussions.”

  Richard nodded. “I would, thank you.”

  Coleridge withdrew the dispatch from the satchel and handed it over. When Richard had finished reading, he folded it and slid it into a coat pocket. “There is nothing in this dispatch that will affect our discussions, Mr. Morath,” he said, “and nothing that is not already known to British intelligence. Commodore Preble informs me that a show of naval power off the coast of Tangiers has convinced the sultan of Morocco to make peace with the United States. He also informs me that the permanent base for our Mediterranean Squadron is Syracuse and I am to report to him there by December first.” He left unspoken a third item—that Capt. William Eaton was unavoidably detained in Tunis and would not arrive in Malta on schedule. Richard Cutler was instructed to proceed according to plan and to gather what intelligence he could without him. Nor did he mention a fourth item, in the form of a personal note from Preble stating that he had appointed Richard’s son James to the rank of senior midshipman. That appointment meant that Jamie was now first in line to serve as acting lieutenant should the need arise.

  Morath’s eyebrows shot up. “Syracuse? Why in heaven’s name would Captain Preble choose Syracuse? We have offered your navy the full complement of our services here in Valletta and in Gibraltar. But Sicily? I daresay it’s good for nothing except bloody grapes and olives.”

  Richard patted the side pocket into which he had slid the dispatch. “The short answer is what Preble reports here, that when the squadron assembled in Gibraltar, a number of his crew jumped ship. Since they claimed to be British citizens, the Royal Navy would not give them up—a sort of a reverse impressment, if you will. I suspect that Captain Preble fears the same thing would happen here. And Constitution is short-handed as it is.”