A Call to Arms Read online

  Jamie cupped his hands at his mouth. “Deck, aye!”

  “Sail to the sou’east,” the lookout confirmed. “I can’t make her out yet, but she’s sailing straight for us with the whole nine yards.”

  Jamie considered that. A ship-rigged vessel with all three yards on all three masts working was sailing at capacity, under a full press of sail. She was a man-of-war, and she was clearly in a hurry to get to Syracuse.

  “Very well, Collins,” Jamie shouted up. “I’m standing by. Keep me informed.”

  “Aye, sir,” the faraway voice confirmed.

  “Portsmouth, you think?” Wadsworth prompted.

  “Could be,” Jamie mused.

  Another half-hour passed before the ship’s registry could be determined.

  “She’s British,” Collins called down. “A British frigate. And she’s flying signal flags.”

  “Understood, Collins,” Jamie called up. To Midn. William Lewis, the junior officer of the deck, who had joined him at the mainmast: “William, go below and inform Nicholson that he is required on deck immediately.” Joseph Nicholson was the signal midshipman. Although all American sea officers were required to have a working knowledge of Royal Navy signal flags—the British and American navies shared a similar numeric code system first devised by Admiral Lord Howe of the Royal Navy and subsequently enhanced by Capt. Thomas Truxtun of the American Navy—it was the responsibility of the signal midshipman to be thoroughly acquainted with both signal codes. “And inform Lieutenant Elbert. He has the deck in a few minutes.”

  A disheveled Joseph Nicholson emerged on deck within two minutes, carrying the book of signal codes under his right arm. His auburn hair was unkempt, and the hem of his white cotton shirt stuck out from his partially buttoned fly, an indication that Nicholson had been forward on the “seat of ease” when he received the urgent summons.

  Nicholson laid the signal book carefully on the deck and tucked in his shirt. “Well, Jamie?” he inquired softly. Sailors on the weather deck stopped what they were doing and stared amidships as the squadron sounded eight bells. From the aft companionway Samuel Elbert appeared on deck and strode forward.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cutler,” he said. “What do we have?”

  “Good morning, sir.” Jamie relayed what the lookout had seen.

  “I see. Your glass, if I may? It’s my watch at this point.”

  Jamie handed his spyglass to the third lieutenant, who raised it to one eye and trained it on the fast-approaching British frigate, now only about four cable lengths away. High up on her leeward signal halyard, four pennants fluttered horizontally in the stiff breeze, the halyard itself forming an arc with the heel of the ship, from the afterdeck to the truck of the mizzen, allowing the flags to reach out beyond the billowing canvas.

  Elbert adjusted the focus and saw, on each pennant, a configuration of blue, yellow, and red squares, diagonals, crosses and Xs, the combination of the flags representing a code that in turn represented numbers assigned a particular meaning in the codebook. Elbert called out the combinations as Nicholson, down on one knee and balancing the book on his thigh, flipped through the pages of a signal system containing more than three thousand predefined words and sentences.

  “Carrying . . . important . . . dispatch,” Nicholson translated.

  “You’re quite certain of that, are you, Mr. Nicholson?” Elbert said sternly.

  Not long ago Nicholson had mistakenly interpreted a signal from another naval vessel. It turned out to be a harmless error, but there was no room for error in signal interpretation, and that single mistake had nearly cost Nicholson the prestigious position of signal midshipman. Elbert himself had convinced an irate Captain Preble to give Nicholson a second chance, placing his own head on the block in doing so.

  Nicholson didn’t flinch. “Quite certain, sir.”

  “Very well. I shall inform the captain. And we shall assemble a side party. Please make it so, Mr. Cannon,” he directed the boatswain.

  Within the hour a Royal Navy officer was rowed over to Constitution from the British frigate. After the customary honors of whistles and salutes at the entry port, he introduced himself to Samuel Elbert as First Lieutenant Robert Bowers of His Majesty’s Ship Amazon. Elbert lost no time ushering him belowdecks to the captain’s cabin.

  When Bowers departed Constitution a half-hour later, again with all honors, word spread through the squadron that Captain Preble required his commanders to assemble in his cabin at six bells, no exceptions.

  “Of all the bloody luck,” Wadsworth groused to his friends minutes later on the orlop deck. “So much for finding inspiration ashore.” He and the other midshipmen were busy preparing themselves for the humbling experience of entering the captain’s cabin during the day. Wadsworth had before likened it to a new boy in a boarding school being unexpectedly summoned to the headmaster’s office.

  “There’ll be other occasions to see the fountain, Henry; perhaps even tomorrow,” Jamie consoled him as he wound a black cotton neckerchief around his neck and carefully tied the loose ends together at his Adam’s apple. His own thoughts had nothing to do with the Fountain of Arethusa. Amazon had sailed to Syracuse from the direction of Malta. Could this dispatch have something to do with his father’s ship?

  Wadsworth was not easily mollified. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I have a strong hunch we’re about to find out which.”

  Six bells in the forenoon watch found Constitution’s commissioned officers and midshipmen assembled in the copious confines of the after cabin along with the captains of the squadron’s other naval vessels: Master Commandant Isaac Hull, captain of Argus; Lt. Charles Stewart, Syren; Lt. John Smith, Vixen; Lt. Richard Somers, Nautilus; and Lt. Stephen Decatur Jr., Enterprise. As was the norm, the senior officers sat side-by-side along the inboard side of the long rectangular table—and for this meeting, because of the number present, also at the two ends. Constitution’s eight midshipmen sat behind them on a row of Windsor chairs. Everyone present waited in suspenseful silence as Capt. Edward Preble, his back to them, stared out through the stern gallery windows, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. Jamie Cutler willed him to get on with it. As the seconds ticked by, he became convinced that the British dispatch contained a dire report that somehow involved his father. Why else would the commodore convene his officers and squadron commanders and keep them on edge this way?

  Finally, Preble turned around. He walked slowly to the table, rested his hands on the back of his chair, and scanned the assembled host with grave, sorrowful eyes. When he spoke, his words came out as a gravelly voice of doom. “Gentlemen, we have lost Philadelphia.”

  Stunned silence engulfed the cabin. The assembled officers kept their eyes squarely on Preble, as if willing him to deny what he had just said. Because what he had just said was entirely beyond belief. Philadelphia, a 36-gun superfrigate that had distinguished herself as the flagship of the Guadeloupe Station during the war with France after Constellation had been relieved, was invincible. She and Constitution embodied American power and glory in the Mediterranean. No Barbary state had anything to match her. No Barbary ruler would be fool enough to send any of his warships within range of her guns. How could she be lost?

  When no immediate explanation was forthcoming, Charles Gordon said, because someone had to say something, “Lost, sir? In what way?”

  His first officer’s question jolted Preble from wherever it was that he had lost himself. “Lost to the enemy, Mr. Gordon,” he replied in a quiet but firm voice. “The dispatch I received contains few details. The information we have comes from the British consul in Tripoli, who forwarded it to Amazon’s captain. It seems that Captain Bainbridge was chasing down an enemy corsair off the coast of Tripoli when Philadelphia struck a reef and her crew was unable to free her. Captain Bainbridge surrendered the ship when the Tripolitans surrounded her with a squadron of gunboats.”

  Now the officers did exchange glances. What Captain Preble had not said, had only implied, was tha
t Philadelphia and her massive armament now lay in the hands of the enemy.

  Stephen Decatur asked the necessary question. “Did Captain Bainbridge scuttle her, Captain?”

  “He may have tried to, Mr. Decatur. We must assume that he did. But she must have gone hard aground. To our knowledge, she remains on the reef.”

  “What of Captain Bainbridge and the crew, sir?” Richard Somers inquired. As to be expected, the sandy-haired twenty-five-year-old lieutenant was seated between Stephen Decatur and Charles Stewart. The three officers were fast friends, and had been since growing up together in Philadelphia and studying together at the Episcopal Academy in Merion, Pennsylvania.

  “All hands,” Preble answered him solemnly, “more than three hundred men, are prisoners of our enemy. Beyond that, I know nothing. I have given you all the details I have at the moment. Needless to say, I require time to determine our response. Expect me to seek your advice on the matter, both individually and as a group.”

  “Constitution’s GIG is coming alongside, Captain.”

  Richard Cutler returned the salute of the young midshipman on watch duty and glanced at his waistcoat watch. “Thank you, Mr. Osborn. Please inform Captain Eaton that we shove off in five minutes.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Four weeks had passed since HMS Amazon had delivered her dispatch. It was now December 19, well past the date Edward Preble had requested Portsmouth to join the squadron. But the delay was unavoidable. Preble had ordered Richard to await Capt. William Eaton in Malta and convey him to Syracuse aboard Portsmouth. Eaton, as it turned out, had been delayed both in reaching Malta and in departing—for the best of reasons, which Eaton promised to explain to Captain Preble at the earliest opportunity. Within half an hour of dropping anchor in Syracuse Harbor, Richard had informed Commodore Preble of his arrival in a note hand-delivered by Lieutenant Meyers. Preble responded with an invitation for an audience the next morning at two bells in the forenoon watch, informing Meyers that he would send Constitution’s gig to convey Captain Cutler and Captain Eaton to the flagship.

  At a little after one bell the next morning, Richard settled onto the stern sheets of the gig near the coxswain. Shifting his position to make room for Eaton beside him, he glanced up and touched his hat to Agreen Crabtree and Carl Corbett, captain of Marines, their heads and upper torsos visible above the quarterdeck’s larboard hammock netting. As the larboard oars of the gig came horizontal and oarsmen on the starboard side pushed off, Richard swung his gaze to Constitution, lying at anchor several hundred yards away. As he had when he first saw her lying at anchor in Carlisle Bay in Barbados back in ’99, Richard felt his senses thrill. The flagship lay still on the calm harbor waters, a beauty for the ages from her rounded bow and immense bowsprit and jib-boom to her jaunty stern. Her sails were furled in Bristol fashion, and the rich black paint on her 175-foot hull glistened in the warm morning sun.

  A wave of anticipation crested over him as he climbed the built-in steps and passed through the larboard entry port, Eaton following close behind. Richard saluted the quarterdeck and then returned the salutes of the side party gathered amidships to honor him. Last in the line of crisp white and blue uniforms, at stiff attention, stood Midn. James Cutler. Richard managed a brief nod, father to son, before Charles Gordon stepped forward and touched his hat.

  “Captain Cutler, welcome aboard, sir,” he said. “Captain Eaton, I am First Lieutenant Gordon. Please, if you will follow me. Captain Preble is expecting you.”

  Captain Preble wasted little time on small talk. Because it was just the three of them in company with Phillip Darby, the captain’s clerk, they gathered in the more intimate confines of the commodore’s dining alcove. Formalities dispensed with, Preble invited Richard Cutler to speak first.

  “I received word of Philadelphia’s misfortune in Malta, sir,” Richard said. “Rear Admiral Bickerton, the British naval commander in Valetta, offered me what intelligence he had gathered from Mr. McDonough, the British consul in Tripoli, and from a Mr. Nissen, the Danish consul.”

  “I see. And where did their information originate?”

  “In part from Yusuf Karamanli himself, sir. Mr. Nissen is a favorite of his, and the bashaw speaks openly to him. But most of my information comes from Captain Bainbridge, and what he has to say confirms what Mr. Nissen asserts.”

  “How very interesting. Pray, continue.”

  “You see, sir, the bashaw has given Captain Bainbridge permission to communicate with the two consuls. His letters are censored, of course, so sensitive information such as Philadelphia’s location is written, as prescribed, between the lines.” He was referring to a procedure developed by American double agents during the war with England and since adopted by British intelligence that involved writing words in lemon juice between the lines of a letter. The words became visible when the recipient held the letter above a candle’s flame. “I have these letters with me. Captain Bainbridge intended them ultimately to reach you.”

  “I shall review them later. Go on.”

  “We now know, sir, that the Tripolitans were able to plug the holes that Captain Bainbridge ordered blown through Philadelphia’s bottom and managed to work her off the reef. They have also salvaged the guns that Captain Bainbridge jettisoned overboard in his effort to lighten her and pry her off the reef. Philadelphia was towed inshore and currently lies at anchor just off Tripoli’s main battery on a line halfway between the bashaw’s castle on the southeastern wall and a battery on the mole to the northeast. Her current position, which I have been able to approximate on a chart, is well within the string of shoals and reefs that ring the inner harbor and make entry so difficult.”

  “So cutting her out could prove challenging,” Preble mused.

  “Extremely so, sir, especially under the circumstances. She has no foremast—Captain Bainbridge ordered it cut down to lift her bow when he tried to kedge her off—and her mainmast is damaged. I understand its t’gant mast is gone. We don’t know the condition of her mizzen. I assume it remains intact, since Captain Bainbridge mentioned nothing about it in his letters.”

  “So to retake her we’ll need to tow her out, just as she was towed in.”

  “That would appear to be our best choice, sir. Unless . . .”

  Preble arched his eyebrows. “Unless, Mr. Cutler?”

  “Unless,” Richard said evenly, “we destroy her where she lies.”

  Preble stared. “To keep her, and her guns, out of the hands of the Tripolitan Navy?”

  “Precisely, sir. And I believe we’d have a much better chance of doing that than getting her out of the harbor.”

  Preble appeared to contemplate that. “A most intriguing notion, Mr. Cutler. I intend to discuss it further with my squadron commanders. You will be interested to learn that Master Commandant Hull and Lieutenant Decatur have reached the same conclusion, and I find myself drawn to it as well. Is there anything else?”

  “Just that according to Admiral Bickerton, Captain Bainbridge’s surrender was an honorable one. When he found himself surrounded by enemy gunboats, he destroyed the signal book and other sensitive documents, and fired her two remaining guns before surrendering the ship. Apparently, the reef Philadelphia struck is not on any chart. And her crew did everything possible to free her.”

  “There will be a court of inquiry, nonetheless.”

  “Yes, sir.” Richard paused. “I have one final item, sir: Philadelphia’s officers and crew have apparently been separated. The officers are being held in the bashaw’s castle, I am told in relative comfort. The crew is being held somewhere else within the city, I imagine in somewhat less comfort. Captain Bainbridge does not know where. Nor, so he claims, does Mr. Schembri. He’s the—”

  “Gaetano Schembri?” Preble snorted. “The Tripolitan consul in Malta?”

  “The same. I take it you have made his acquaintance, sir.”

  “Unfortunately, I have. What did he have to say about this?”

  Richard defer
red to William Eaton, who was more qualified to answer Preble’s question. Richard had come to respect Eaton during their three weeks’ acquaintance. Born in 1764 in Connecticut, Eaton had enlisted in the Continental army at the age of fifteen and had quickly climbed the ranks to sergeant major. After the war he attended Dartmouth College and displayed a remarkable aptitude for foreign languages. He reenlisted in the army in 1792 as a captain and served under Maj. Gen. Anthony Wayne during the Indian wars in the Ohio Valley and along the border of Spanish Florida and Georgia. Having acquired a keen interest in the Arab world, he convinced his protégé, Secretary of State Timothy Pickering, to appoint him U.S. consul in Tunis. By that time he had mastered two Indian languages, four Arab dialects, French, Latin, and Greek.

  Eaton’s pale blue eyes flashed at Preble. “I share your opinion of the man, Commodore,” he said with a wry smile, “but I felt it my duty to confer with him so that I could understand, in Mr. Lear’s absence, exactly what Yusuf Karamanli has in mind for our captured sailors. It was no easy task to arrange a meeting with Schembri, but through the good auspices of Mr. Morath we were able to do so. It is one reason for Portsmouth’s delay in arriving here. It was my doing, not Mr. Cutler’s, who was gracious enough to wait for me.”

  “I see,” Preble said. Going straight to the heart of the matter, he asked, “What is the bashaw demanding? I assume that the capture of Philadelphia has raised the ante?”

  The sarcasm underlying that last question was not lost on Eaton. “It has,” he confirmed. “By a rather substantial amount, I’m afraid. The price of peace is now $500 per sailor. Schembri insists, however, that if we show good faith he can persuade the bashaw to decrease his demands, perhaps to a grand total of $100,000.”

  “That is a rather grand total, isn’t it?” Preble shook his head. “I assume that amount represents ransom payments only, and not the tribute as well.”

  “That is correct, Commodore. The bashaw continues to insist that ransom payments to free our sailors be tied to annual payments of tribute. Otherwise, Schembri contends, there can be no peace between our country and Tripoli.”