A Call to Arms Page 13

  Morath pursed his lips. “Viewed in that light, I suppose it does make some sort of sense. Might I inquire if you are concerned about your own men?”

  “It hadn’t crossed my mind,” Richard confessed.

  “Our crew is entirely American,” Agreen explained, “and they are loyal to their captain. Many of them were formerly employed in the Cutler family shipping business, me included. These men sail with us because they choose to, not because they are forced to.”

  Morath smiled thinly. “How commendable. Perhaps our navy may take a lesson from yours.” He continued with forced good cheer. “Well, no point in flogging a dead horse, what? Or flogging a deserter you can’t string up.” He chuckled at his turn of phrase. When neither American seemed to appreciate his humor, he cleared his throat. “Right. Let us return to the business at hand, shall we?”

  For the next thirty minutes Richard Cutler explained the plan hatched by Capt. William Eaton, former consul in Tunis, to lead an army in support of Hamet Karamanli against his brother, Yusuf. Although Eaton would lead this overland expedition, the U.S. government had refused to commit substantial ground forces in its support. Assistance was thus required from foreign sources: Arab soldiers loyal to Hamet, certainly, and European mercenaries, if possible, plus sufficient stores of military supplies and a caravan of camels. Britain could help, Richard suggested, through its vast intelligence network in the Mediterranean and especially in Egypt, where Hamet had taken refuge after abandoning his post as royal governor of Derne. Egypt had been under nominal British rule since Admiral Nelson’s victory over the French at the Battle of the Nile. Morath could also help by arranging for him to meet Richard Farquhar, an acquaintance of Hamet Karamanli currently residing in Malta, and Salvatore Busatile, a Hamet intimate authorized to speak on his behalf. Both men were under British protection. Richard ended by stressing the plan’s advantages for Britain. Although the war with Tripoli was America’s affair, an American victory in the Mediterranean would serve the national interests of all Christian maritime nations, Great Britain first among them.

  Morath stroked his chin as Richard spoke, and Coleridge took copious notes. “Most interesting,” he said at the conclusion. “Most interesting indeed, Captain Cutler. I daresay you make a strong argument. I must discuss this with Sir Alexander, of course, but I foresee no impediment to arranging the meeting you request. Where would you like it to take place? Here in this room?”

  “I would prefer my ship, Mr. Morath. I want my other officers to be present.”

  “Your other officers are most welcome here.”

  “I thank you for that. But I would prefer my ship.”

  “Then your ship it shall be. I shall send word when the meeting is arranged.” Morath motioned to Coleridge to gather up his writing tools. “Just one more item if you please, Captain, before we take our leave. As I indicated in my letter to you this morning, there is another occasion for you to meet Sir Alexander, and we hope you will be in a position to take advantage of it. Two weeks from tomorrow—that would be the tenth of November—Sir Alexander is hosting an affair at San Anton Palace. The guest of honor, I am delighted to inform you, is Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson, who is to arrive in Valencia aboard Victory.” He smiled at Richard’s reaction. “Accompanying his lordship to Malta, and to the social affair at San Anton Palace, is his friend Captain Jeremy Hardcastle, who, if British intelligence serves, is your brother-in-law. Admiral Nelson and Captain Hardcastle will both be quite distraught if you are unable to attend. Their business in Malta is rather hush-hush, you see, and this will likely be your only opportunity to see them whilst they’re here. The invitation includes you as well, Lieutenant Crabtree. You both will receive formal invitations shortly. I bid you two gentlemen a very good day.”

  THREE DAYS LATER, Lt Eric Meyers was waiting at the entry port to greet two civilians who arrived aboard a British-manned launch. Richard Cutler received the two men in his after cabin and formally introduced them to his three lieutenants. After seating the visitors on one side of the rectangular table, he asked each to say a few words about his background and his relationship with Hamet Karamanli.

  The taller of the two men, dressed in the style of a prosperous European merchant, spoke first in a distinct Highland burr. “This looks to me very much like a court of inquiry,” he commented, his dark eyes flashing at the four naval officers sitting across from him in full undress uniform. Behind the officers, visible through stern windows hinged open, the azure waters of Grand Harbor shimmered in the pleasant warmth of the day. Sunlight danced about the cabin and deckhead, reflecting off the glass panes with the small motions of the ship. “Or perhaps a court-martial,” the man added.

  “Rest assured that neither is the case, Mr. Farquhar,” Richard responded. “To the contrary, we are gathered here today to learn how we might serve each other and our national interests. My government has long desired this meeting. It is why my ship was ordered to Malta as her first port of call. Please continue and explain your relationship with Hamet Karamanli and how that relationship came about.”

  The Scotsman folded his hands before him. “I fear you have been misinformed. My relationship is not with Mr. Karamanli. And as to the matter we are discussing, I am more concerned with the interests of the United States than those of Great Britain. My relationship is with Captain Eaton. It is to him—and thus to the United States government—that I owe my allegiance and my professional services.”

  “I am aware of your relationship with Captain Eaton, Mr. Farquhar. I had, in fact, expected him to be with us here this morning. Unfortunately, he has been delayed in Tunis. As to the matter at hand, how would you describe your ‘professional services’?”

  Farquhar shrugged. “I procure things.”

  “What sorts of things?”

  “Whatever my client requires. In this instance, should we agree on terms, I will procure whatever the United States requires for whatever objectives it seeks.”

  “Please be more specific.”

  “I procure whatever my client requires,” Farquhar repeated more forcefully, as though he were repeating what should by now be blatantly clear. “My specialty is weaponry: guns, cannon, fieldpieces, muskets, whatever is asked of me. I can also supply funds and provisions. And mercenaries from many different countries, should you have need of them. You’re a Navy man, Captain. Think of me as a glorified purser for hire.”

  Richard ignored that. “Might I ask how you procure such items?”

  Farquhar gave him a toothy smile. “You may ask, Captain, but I am not obliged to answer. Nor do I intend to, at least not in detail. I do not mean to be uncooperative. I am simply protecting secrets and clients I have no wish to divulge. Quite simply, I serve as an agent between those who want and those who have. Whatever is delivered by those who have is paid for by those who want. And because there is so much ‘want’ in this world of ours, the rather unique services I offer are much in demand.”

  “Services for which you receive a handsome cut, I presume,” Richard said dryly.

  Farquhar held up his hands. “I am a businessman. And as you and your superiors will quickly come to acknowledge, I am very, very good at what I do. Yes, Captain, I earn a handsome cut, and what I do and what I provide are worth every penny of it.”

  “Of that I have no doubt, Mr. Farquhar.” Richard paused to gather his thoughts. “How did you become involved in this . . . initiative?”

  Farquhar smiled. “If I am anything, Captain, I am an opportunist. I have a rather impressive network of agents whose job it is to inform me and my son of business opportunities. Incidentally, my son George is a most capable young man. It was he, not I, who first made contact with Captain Eaton. Should we come to terms with the United States, I will assign him to your cause. You will be completely satisfied, I assure you.”

  “Thank you. Now, if you please, you were explaining how you became involved in this initiative.”

  “So I was. Well you see, Captain, despite what I
suspect are your initial impressions of me, I am a man who decries injustice. Yes, I see that statement surprises you and your officers. Perhaps it even amuses you. But it happens to be true. I am a man who desires to do well whilst doing some good in this world.

  “You and I both know that Hamet Karamanli is the rightful bashaw of Tripoli. The throne is his by right of succession. And he is a man I have come to both like and respect. Captain Eaton shares my view. I had the great pleasure of meeting him whilst I was conferring with a client in Tunis. He is a splendid fellow and, I am certain, a very fine officer, too. There’s the connection, you see. That is how I became involved. I respect what he does; he respects what I do. We wish to work together in a common cause. If I can help him by helping Hamet succeed, then we all come out ahead, don’t we? We will all have found our own form of justice.”

  “Your ethics are to be admired, Mr. Farquhar,” Richard commented with a hint of sarcasm.

  Farquhar’s eyes flashed. “Whether or not you find my ethics admirable is hardly the point, Captain. I have meaningful connections with kings and queens and governors and sultans throughout the Mediterranean, and suppliers on both sides of it. That is the point. These people trust me. They want to do business with me. Why? Because I am honest and discreet. Because I safeguard their interests. And because I provide them with a satisfactory return on their investments. So that’s how it goes. You pay me. I pay them. I take my cut and you receive what you require: the wherewithal to march an army across five hundred miles of desert. Have you experienced the desert firsthand, Captain? No? Nor has Captain Eaton. There are adversaries and adversities under every rock and along every step of the way. Those who are not thoroughly prepared do not make it across.

  “This I can guarantee: I will make certain that Captain Eaton is as well prepared for his overland march as is humanly possible. How can I make such a guarantee? By assigning my son George not only to the cause but to the expedition, as its quartermaster. I have already discussed this matter with him, and he has agreed. So you see, Captain, you Americans need me in much the same way that the English need me. Perhaps you have wondered why they protect me. It’s not because of my Scottish heritage”—he shook his head and chuckled—“rather, it’s because I deliver to them, time and time again, whatever it is they require in their national interests. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal clear, sir. I have no further questions. Perhaps my officers do?” Richard glanced right and left. “Thank you, Mr. Farquhar,” he said when no one spoke. “Mr. Busatile?”

  Salvatore Busatile introduced himself in broken English as a Sicilian who had become acquainted with Hamet Karamanli by happenstance three years earlier. The two men had quickly formed a bond of friendship and trust that brought Busatile into Hamet’s inner circle of advisers. Busatile droned on but added little of substance to the conversation beyond vouching for Hamet’s character and popularity as governor of Derne before rumors spread that Yusuf had dispatched assassins to execute his older brother. That threat, Busatile explained, was what had prompted Hamet to flee Tripoli for Egypt. He concluded by stating that his connections in the Arab world—connections both inspired and enhanced by his close ties to Hamet—would enable him, working hand in hand with Farquhar, to field a sizable number of Arab soldiers in Eaton’s army.

  When Lieutenant Meyers returned to the after cabin from seeing off the two guests, he found Portsmouth’s three other senior officers huddled around the table.

  “Well, gentlemen, what do you think?” Richard threw out. “Permission to speak freely, of course.”

  George Lee spoke first. “That was an enlightening exchange, Captain,” he said. “I now understand the role these men are to play. But I remain confused. If I might ask, sir, just how likely is it that Captain Eaton will actually lead this so-called expeditionary force against Tripoli?”

  “That’s a good question, George,” Richard replied, “and it goes right to the heart of the matter. Unfortunately, it’s a question I cannot answer. I’m as much in the dark about all this as you are. Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Madison are wavering, and it’s anyone’s guess which way the diplomatic winds are blowing at the moment. Perhaps Captain Preble will have received official word from Washington by the time we arrive in Syracuse.”

  “Was not Commodore Barron very much in favor of this expedition?”

  “He was, Eric. Captain Eaton apparently did a good job of convincing him. And the commodore’s enthusiasm gained Jefferson’s and Madison’s support for the idea at first. They even gave Eaton twenty thousand dollars to begin implementing the plan. But bear in mind that Barron knew that his days as commodore were numbered and had nothing to lose by expressing support for what in his heart he may have believed was a doomed strategy.”

  “What changed their minds? Jefferson and Madison, I mean.”

  Richard shrugged. “I’m not sure their minds have changed, Agee. But anything I might add at this point would be speculation beyond what is commonly known—that Mr. Lear, our senior diplomatic consul in Barbary, strongly opposes the plan. Why, I cannot say. I understand that he cares for neither Eaton nor his mission. That is the limit of my knowledge. So we’ll just have to await those dispatches from Washington.”

  AGREEN THOUGHT the third overcast day in a row a blessing. The salt-and-peppery altocumulus clouds presaged the transition from hot, dry summer to warm, wet winter, and he was all in favor of that. The full dress uniform he was wearing as the coach-and-four rumbled inland along the well-maintained road from Valetta to Attard made him itchy and raw. He could not imagine the torture of wearing such a rig in the fierce heat of July.

  “Jesus, Richard,” he muttered, “can’t we open the windows a tad more? I feel like a lobster in a pot of boilin’ water.”

  “You look more like a crab, I’d say,” Richard jested. He added, more sympathetically, “I’m suffering too, Agee. But if we open the windows any further, we’re liable to get road dust on our crisp, tidy uniforms. What would the royal governor think of that? And more to the point, the young ladies who will soon be swooning at your feet?”

  “Ha. Very funny,” Agreen groused. “Though you’re doubtless right about the women.”

  When Agreen offered no further retort, Richard went back to gazing out the left-side window. Although the pastoral scenery was pleasant enough, he paid scant attention to it. His thoughts dwelt heavily on the brother-in-law he had not seen since Falcon dropped anchor off Gibraltar fifteen years ago on her way to Algiers. During that brief stopover Richard had formed an immediate bond with Jeremy Hardcastle that went beyond family obligations, just as he had with Jeremy’s younger brother, Hugh, also a senior post captain in the Royal Navy. And because Katherine had kept in close touch over the years with her parents and siblings, Richard had been able to follow with great interest as both brothers-in-law rose through the ranks.

  Then there was Horatio Nelson, a naval officer whose unique grasp of strategy combined with an unconventional view of naval tactics had earned him a number of spectacular victories over England’s enemies. Richard had first met him on the quays of Barbados when he was a young topman serving in his family’s merchant brig Eagle and Nelson was a midshipman in HMS Seahorse, of the Windward Squadron. Five years later, at the age of twenty, Nelson had been promoted to the rank of post captain, a spectacular achievement for so young a naval officer lacking significant “interest” in Whitehall. By the age of thirty-nine he had achieved the lofty rank of rear admiral. And he had proved many times since to His Majesty King George III and My Lords of the Admiralty, especially to the First Lord, Earl Spencer, that he deserved it. Richard had crossed tacks with Nelson several times in the course of his career, and each time he did, he felt he had gained something important as a result.

  “Sweet Jesus on a honey-stick,” Agreen muttered some time later, “would you look at that.” He touched Richard’s arm. “I’m serious, Richard. Look at that!” He stabbed his finger forward.

  Richard glance
d ahead. What he saw beyond the easy lope of the four horses as the coach swayed to the right was something out of a storybook. San Anton was still some distance away, but its splendor was already evident. Built originally in 1623 by the first Grand Master of the Order of Saint John, the estate’s imposing centerpiece was a palace of polished stone with Greek columns. Widening steps swept down from a narrow apex like a treasure trove of marble spilling from a giant cornucopia. Ivy and jade brush graced San Anton’s façade. Dominating the structure was a square tower accentuated by a cornice, a parapet of balustrades, and carved gargoyles at each corner. Orange groves and white marble statues lined the semicircular pebbled drive set between ornamental ponds in which ducks and swans swam lazily or tipped their tails upright in search of food. Nearer to the ivy-covered walls of the palace, palm and jacaranda trees and exotic flowers of all colors and descriptions lined intimate walkways leading to an array of outbuildings—guest accommodations, most likely—their scent saturating the air with a heady, intoxicating aroma. Not for nothing, Richard thought as he breathed in the heavenly fragrance, was the translation of the Latin motto of the palace, “I perfume the air with my blossoms.”

  “I sure wouldn’t mind spendin’ a few days here with Lizzy,” Agreen murmured as the carriage slowed and liveried servants stationed at the base of the grand front steps made ready to seize the reins of the two lead horses.

  “What about Zeke? Wouldn’t you want him here too?”

  Agreen considered that. “Yes, of course. But first give me a few days alone with Liz.”

  Richard grinned. “Understood, Lieutenant.”

  The carriage shuddered to a halt. A servant opened the starboard-side door, bowed low to the men inside, and then placed a short-legged metal footstool beneath the door. Agreen stepped out, followed by Richard. They barely had time to take in the grandeur of their surroundings before an officious-looking man appeared, noted their names, and invited them up the steps and into the palace.