A Call to Arms Page 16

  Preble leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He waited a moment to allow his clerk to catch up with his notes. When Darby gave him a small nod, Preble said, “Then there shall be no peace. President Jefferson has made it quite clear that the United States will not pay tribute money to any nation under any circumstances. Ransom yes, tribute no. I happen to agree with his stand on the matter.”

  “As do I, Commodore,” Eaton returned. “Be assured of that. Mr. Lear may prefer the president’s so-called awe and talk strategy, but I oppose it most strenuously. I have said before what I say to you today: we cannot achieve a meaningful peace in this region by engaging in peace negotiations on land whilst our Navy does nothing but flex its muscles at sea. Yusuf Karamanli is not impressed with our naval power, and why should he be? The United States lacks the resolve to exert that power. We will not win this war simply by blockading Tripoli. Commodore Dale and Commodore Morris did that to little effect. To bring Yusuf to his knees we must attack his seat of power by sea and by land.”

  Eaton rushed on with hardly a breath, delivering his next words as a plea wrapped in a cloak of iron. “You have summoned me here to Syracuse to learn of my intentions, and I have come here of my own accord to discuss them with you. Stated bluntly, I have come to enlist your support. I can assure you that Commodore Morris believed in me, as do President Jefferson and Secretary Madison, at least they did when I sat down with them in Washington and explained my intentions. I pray to God that you will believe in me as well.

  “I am convinced that victory is not possible in this war if we rely on sea power alone. Tripoli has a sizable navy, but Yusuf Karamanli will not risk losing it in a pitched battle with your squadron. He will use his larger warships as he plans to use Philadelphia, primarily to reinforce his shore batteries, and will rely on his gunboats to dissuade your ships from venturing in too close. A naval bombardment of Tripoli may have a brief positive effect, but it alone will not induce Yusuf to surrender. He will remain defiant behind his city walls until the American public loses heart in this struggle and demands our withdrawal from the Mediterranean.”

  Preble rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and brought his fingers together under his chin to form a steeple as he listened to Eaton’s passionate words. His brow furrowed in concentration. He asked, when there came a lull, “What, exactly, do you require of me, Captain Eaton?”

  “Financial and logistical support,” Eaton replied without pause. “I am not asking for significant ground forces. A few Marines is all. Captain Cutler has been most helpful in initial discussions with Mr. Farquhar in Malta. Mr. Farquhar can provide European mercenaries, military supplies, and provisions. Another agent, Mr. Busatile, will aid Hamet Karamanli in raising a force of Egyptian mercenaries, horses, and camels. We expect to pick up additional support from local tribesmen on the march across Cyrenaica.”

  “Ah.” Preble tapped the tips of his fingers together. “A bold plan, Captain Eaton.”

  “Victory is rarely achieved without a bold plan, Commodore.”

  “And the payment to these mercenaries? That honor falls to me, I assume?”

  “It does, sir, although according to Mr. Busatile, Hamet has pledged personal funds to this initiative as well. Secretary Madison informed me that you carry twenty thousand dollars aboard this ship.”

  “To be distributed at my discretion.”

  “With respect, that is not my understanding, Commodore. But I will abide by your discretion. More is at stake here than what is obvious. Should we win this war, Hamet will be installed on the throne of Tripoli. He will be a loyal ally to the United States. Together, the United States and Tripoli will shine a light of hope into the darkness of these backward North African autocracies. In doing that, our young nation will have secured a lasting peace in Barbary and will have earned the respect of the world.”

  Edward Preble drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table, never taking his eyes off William Eaton. Eaton did not blink. “A fine speech,” Preble said at length. “A most inspiring speech that I assure you has not fallen on deaf ears. I agree that a lasting peace can be secured only by a military victory. Come spring or early summer, when winds are fair for a campaign, I intend to sail this squadron across the Mediterranean and introduce the bashaw of Tripoli to American naval gunnery. Mr. de Gregorio, the governor of Syracuse, has arranged with the king to loan us a flotilla of Sicilian gunboats and two bomb ketches. I plan to add these vessels to our squadron. Of equal importance, I have been notified in a dispatch from Secretary Madison that Congress has approved additional funding for our campaign, to be financed by a tax on imports. So it appears that at least for the moment, our country continues to support our mission here.”

  “That is excellent news, Commodore.” Eaton leaned forward, silently asking the question that Preble understood only too well.

  “However, Captain,” Preble replied to the silent query, “I need time to weigh the pros and cons of your proposed campaign. Mind you, I am not opposed in principle. But my orders from Washington are quite explicit. I am to convoy our merchant ships, blockade the harbor of Tripoli and other Tripolitan ports as advisable, and engage the enemy where feasible—which I take to mean where the prospects for victory are not weighted against us. If I am to commit funds that are reserved, in part, to ransom captive American seamen, I must be certain that such funds are not deployed on a half-baked scheme to march across a scorching desert with an army of Christians and Arab soldiers who will inherently dislike each other and who will be inclined to fight against each other. For me to do otherwise could have serious ramifications for the future of our country. Not to mention for me personally.”

  Eaton’s face darkened. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but Preble cut him off with a raised hand.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Captain Eaton,” he said, “but this matter is not open to debate. I am in command, and I am responsible for American interests and American personnel in the Mediterranean. I shall inform you of my decision when my decision is made. In the meantime, I have the critical matter of Philadelphia to consider. On that matter I have made a decision, and I require a private audience with Captain Cutler to discuss it. May I ask that you please excuse us. My coxswain is standing by at your convenience should you wish to go ashore.”

  THE CREW OF Constitution saw shipboard activity increase well beyond normal during the following week. Squadron commanders were piped aboard the flagship, either individually or in pairs, at all hours of the day. Most often observed were Lieutenant Stewart and Lieutenant Decatur, and their purposeful strides across the deck and down the aft companionway fed the speculation rampant among the crew. Even the festivities of Christmas Day—during which every sailor in the squadron was served fresh beef and vegetables and an extra ration of grog—did not interrupt the discussions going on belowdecks in the after cabin. And then there was the matter of Intrepid, the 70-ton ketch-rigged Tripolitan vessel recently captured by Enterprise. Sailors allowed shore leave reported to their shipmates in the forecastle that she was tied up at the dockyards with hammers and saws hard at work within her interior; but for what purpose remained a matter of conjecture. Every tar seemed to have an opinion, but no one had the facts. Whatever information Constitution’s officers possessed on the subject remained behind sealed lips.

  On the dawn of the New Year, James Cutler was granted leave to dine alone with his father in Portsmouth. Father and son had seen each other often during the preceding twelve days, but rarely for very long or in private. The one exception had been on Christmas Day, but that was before Edward Preble had told Richard that he had approved Jamie’s request to join the thirty volunteers going on the raid. Richard understood the mission. He had had a hand in shaping its course. And because he knew it was fraught with danger, Richard had mixed feelings as he sat down with his son in Portsmouth’s dining alcove while Sydney Simms, his fussy but highly talented steward, busied himself serving roast mutton, roasted potat
oes, fresh beans, and freshly baked bread.

  After Simms had poured out two glasses of a local red wine and departed, Richard raised his glass. “To the New Year, Jamie.”

  Jamie raised his. “To the New Year, Father.”

  They clinked glasses and each took a sip of the heady Sicilian wine. As Richard glanced over the rim of his glass, he felt a stab of pride at the sight of his son sitting across from him in full undress uniform, his thick chestnut hair parted from right to left across his forehead. About him was a look of unblemished youth and innocence, as though Jamie were merely play-acting the role of a Navy midshipman this evening. As though he remained the sweet, unassuming child who had graced his parents’ lives and whom either parent would walk barefoot to the ends of the earth to protect. Yet, the eyes of the child gazing unflinchingly back at his father blazed with the confidence and maturity that come from doing a man’s job, and doing it well.

  “Have you heard from home?” Richard asked, in part to delay the more sensitive topic of the evening, and in part because he was genuinely interested.

  “I have. In the last mail packet I received three letters from Mother, one from Uncle Caleb, and one from Will. Actually, that one was as much from Adele as from Will.”

  Richard grinned. “Frances is still interested, is she?”

  Jamie grimaced. “Perhaps. Adele merely referred to her in passing.”

  “Yes, of course.” Richard sliced off a forkful of pink-centered mutton steak and held it in midair. “You know, Jamie, you could do a lot worse,” he observed before leaning forward and putting the meat in his mouth.

  It was Jamie’s turn to smile. Instead of responding, he dug into his meal with the relish of a young man whose diet rarely included such succulent fare. Father and son ate together in silence before Jamie said, after a sip of wine, “Mother writes that Diana and Peter are becoming the talk of the town.”

  Katherine had written much the same thing in several of the letters he had received in that same mail call. Peter Sprague, a popular young man who was currently attending Phillips Exeter Academy and who claimed to have aspirations of becoming a barrister, had taken a singular interest in Diana Cutler—an interest that, according to Katherine, was very definitely reciprocated. Peter was the third son of a respected Hingham family, one with whom Richard was well acquainted. The last time he had seen Peter, however, the boy was chasing grasshoppers, not his daughter.

  “They’re still very young,” he commented.

  Jamie’s smile returned. “Yes, they are, Father. As I recall, about the same age as you and Mother when you first met.”

  “You have me there,” Richard had to confess. “A brilliant parry, Jamie. You and Will always have stood up for Diana.”

  “Of course we have. She’s our sister. We’re born allies.”

  “Against the most feared and dreaded of all enemies, the parents.”

  “Who else?”

  They laughed together. After the mirth had faded and they had resumed eating, Richard said, when he deemed the moment right, “Captain Preble informs me that you will be taking part in the raid on Philadelphia.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamie replied nonchalantly, as though going on raids was a part of his daily routine. “And as I’m sure he has also informed you, practice drills begin tomorrow. Each man in this mission has an assignment, and each man will practice his assignment aboard Constitution.”

  “So the secret will be out.”

  “The crew already has a pretty good sense of what we’re about. But don’t worry. It’s likely too late for any would-be informer to leak word to the outside world. Still, for the next four weeks, only commissioned officers are permitted shore leave.”

  “What is your assignment, Jamie?”

  “I am to lead a squad of five men down to the berthing deck forward,” Jamie replied in the same matter-of-fact tone. “At Lieutenant Decatur’s command, I am to set fire to combustibles we will be carrying with us. Once we’ve done that,” he added with an impish grin, “our assignment is to get back on deck, board Intrepid, and get the hell out of there. You needn’t worry, Father,” he said when Richard didn’t smile back. “We’ll have the element of surprise on our side. British intelligence confirms that Philadelphia has only a caretaker crew. They’re not soldiers or marines, just ordinary sailors. They should present no problem to us. If they do, Syren will be standing by to help.”

  Richard tried to smile, to visibly demonstrate his faith in his son’s remarks and in the prospects for the mission’s success. But try though he might, he found it difficult. He recognized the potential dangers. He had run through them in his mind many times during recent days and nights. Philadelphia might have only a skeleton crew aboard, but the American frigate lay at anchor within a cable’s length of the Tripolitan Navy and directly beneath the mammoth guns of the fortress city’s batteries. Everything, literally everything, depended on three factors interacting almost miraculously with each other: the element of surprise to get the Americans in; a way to get them out; and the combined benevolence of the Almighty and Lady Luck.

  “I understand, Jamie,” he said. “And I am very proud of you for volunteering for this mission. Still, if it’s all the same to you, I shall refrain from telling your mother anything about it until it’s completed and you are safely back aboard Constitution.”

  Jamie lifted his glass in a toast. “I think that would be wise, Father.”

  Nine

  Tripoli Harbor, February 1804

  FOUL WEATHER BEGAN dogging Intrepid and Syren soon after the two vessels set sail from Syracuse on the evening of February 2. Five days later, though, they stood close enough to Tripoli to make out the city’s fortifications against the wooded hills in the background; in the foreground they could see the ravished body of the frigate Philadelphia. She was lying at anchor, her foremast cut away and her mizzen and truncated mainmast bereft of yards and canvas. A cluster of smaller vessels—a scattering of brigs and corsairs and an armada of gunboats—swung at anchor between Philadelphia and the city walls.

  Lt. Stephen Decatur, captain of Intrepid, decided not to attempt entry that night. Heavy swells from the northeast swirled dangerous white water over the shoals and reefs at the harbor’s entrance. And the wind, a brisk southeasterly during most of the day, had backed to the west and was strengthening. The sailor in him warned that conditions could get worse, and quickly.

  The storm hit with such wrenching violence that it carried the ketch and brig eastward, despite their best efforts to battle the fierce headwinds. It was as though the vessels were two pieces of driftwood floating helplessly on a raging, wind-whipped sea. The thirty American volunteers and one Sicilian aboard Intrepid huddled together belowdecks, trying to find what comfort they could amid the stench of the vomit that almost covered the deck. The roiled sea crashed and thumped against Intrepid’s hull, flinging foamy water over her railing and throwing spume high into her rigging. Seawater frothed across her weather deck, back and forth, larboard to starboard, stem to stern, much of it cascading out through the lee scuppers but too much of it finding its way below into the hold through chinks in the deckhead. Misery was heaped on misery in the slosh of seawater and bodily fluids. Sailors and Marines stared down at the deck in a semistupor, hardly noticing the squealing rats, up from the swamped bilge, scampering between their feet.

  “Is this what we signed up for, Jamie?” Ralph Izard queried in a halfhearted attempt at humor. He was sitting amidships against the damp strakes, his arms clenched tightly around his knees. “I was thinking more of glory than sitting in a stew of other men’s vomit.”

  Jamie’s smile in return was equally feeble. His quiet resolve never to display unease in front of the crew had long since gone by the boards. He had puked helplessly along with the rest of them. Beside him, a youthful midshipman from Enterprise named Charles Morris suddenly lurched forward and gagged loudly, his stomach long since empty of anything to heave up.

  Gradually, blessedly,
the fierce winds moderated. The high seas subsided to great rolling swells. The water streaming down from the weather deck shriveled to rivulets, then to occasional drips, then to nothing at all. When at last the two hatchways above were thrown open, clean, warm, delicious air washed down into the hold in company with tentative strands of sunlight piercing through gray clouds that were breaking apart to reveal blue sky. First to clamber down the main hatchway ladder, to no one’s surprise, was Stephen Decatur.

  He stood amidships between two rows of men struggling to get to their feet. Except for the two midshipmen, a handful of sailors from Constitution, and the Sicilian, these sailors and Marines were attached to USS Enterprise, Decatur’s command. And to a man they respected him for his fair-mindedness, derring-do, and calm under fire—the latter best exemplified, perhaps, by the two duels, neither instigated by him, from which he had emerged the victor.

  “As you were, lads,” Decatur said. “As you were.” He placed his hands on his hips as he surveyed the scene, his dark eyes taking in the blank stares fixed upon him. Until this cruise Jamie Cutler had not had occasion to interact with the young lieutenant, although he had learned much about him from his shipmates. Decatur was Philadelphia born and bred, and he had attended the University of Pennsylvania after graduating from the Episcopal Academy. His father, Stephen Decatur Sr., had served with distinction as a naval captain during the war with England and, later, during the war with France, in Philadelphia. Stephen Jr. had served in the Mediterranean since the start of the war, as a lieutenant aboard Commodore Dale’s Essex in the first squadron, and as a flag lieutenant aboard New York in the second squadron under Commo. Richard V. Morris. His exemplary actions and accomplishments on those vessels had gained him, at the youthful age of twenty-five, his first command, Intrepid.