A Call to Arms Read online

  “Every man, Captain.”

  “Then douse our sails lest they catch fire. Man the cutter to turn us around.”

  “I’ve seen to that, Captain,” Lawrence said. “We’re turning as we speak.”

  Ashore and within the warships in the inner harbor, Tripolitans had by now awakened to the disaster unfolding in the harbor. Warning bells clanged furiously, and the shouts and curses of angry men could be heard in the distance. Cannons thundered into the night, sending up plumes of water all about Philadelphia and Intrepid. Musket balls peppered the sea perilously close by.

  Oarsmen in the cutter heaved on their oars. Gradually, as if reluctant to abandon a sister ship in her anguish, Intrepid turned northeastward and slid away from Philadelphia.

  “Run out the sweeps!” Decatur shouted.

  At his command, sixteen sweeps, eight to a side, rumbled out of ports on the ketch’s weather deck, their wooden blades digging into the water, rising, falling, rising, falling, until Intrepid had gathered sufficient way for the oarsmen in the cutter to ditch their little boat and scramble aboard the ketch. One of the last men up, a topman named Edwards, took a hit in the arm from a musket ball, lost his grip, and splashed into the sea.

  “Man overboard!” Decatur cried out. “Back oars, you men!”

  Even as his captain spoke, Ralph Izard swan-dived into the water and swam over to the struggling topman. He seized Edwards around his upper torso and sidestroked the short distance back to the ketch. Eager hands reached down, took hold, and dragged both men aboard.

  Oars dug in and found traction, and Intrepid was back under way.

  Ignoring the enemy gunfire raging about them, those on the weather deck of Intrepid not assigned to the oars crouched down, gazing not ahead to safety but astern, mesmerized by the destruction they had wrought. Philadelphia lay engulfed in an inferno, a towering funeral pyre that had reached up to her tops, then to her mizzen masthead, and beyond into the heavens. Tongues of dragon fire darted out from her gun ports and scuppers. When flames consumed the ensign halyard and the flag of Tripoli came undone and fell into the harbor like a kite that had lost its wind, a great cheer went up from the ketch. Several seamen cracked jokes.

  “Belay that!” Decatur admonished. “We’re not out of this yet!”

  Then the impossible happened. In a final act of defiance—perhaps, if one believed in such things, orchestrated by the spirit of John Paul Jones on the quarterdeck—the great guns on Philadelphia’s weather and gun decks exploded from the heat, discharging an unholy broadside against the city walls and into Yusuf Karamanli’s naval fleet. The damage could not be readily assessed. But to the immense relief of Decatur and every American in Intrepid, the enemy cannon fell silent, their gunners apparently stunned to the core by the specter of an American ghost ship firing on them.

  Later, after midnight, as Intrepid ventured into the Mediterranean under an overcast sky, Decatur peered astern through a spyglass. All he could determine was that Philadelphia’s anchor cables had burned through and the furiously burning frigate had drifted into shallow water directly beneath the bashaw’s castle.

  Later still, after Intrepid and Syren had reunited and yellow streaks of sun were flirting with the eastern horizon, captains and crews could still observe black smoke rising into the sky above the corpse of Philadelphia, now forty miles away to southward.

  AFTER Intrepid AND Syren had stood out from Syracuse Harbor for Tripoli and the violent gale had blasted through the region, Commodore Preble dispatched his squadron on patrol between Syracuse and Tripoli. Their mission: to intercept enemy shipping and, should the opportunity present itself, act in support of Intrepid and Syren.

  Preble designed a three-sided, viselike strategy that cordoned off the central Mediterranean to enemy vessels. Master Commandant Isaac Hull was ordered to take position off Cape Misurata, 125 miles east of the city of Tripoli. Enemy cruisers and merchantmen attempting to hug the North African coast on their way to or from the eastern Mediterranean would find the 16-gun brig of war Argus there to greet them. Lt. John Smith in Nautilus and Lt. Richard Somers in Vixen cruised between Derne and Benghazi, two key enemy seaports in the eastern provinces of Tripoli. Portsmouth was stationed between Cape Bon in Tunisia and the western tip of Sicily.

  Portsmouth had been at sea for two weeks when she returned to base in Syracuse to take on fresh food and water. Only the flagship and the schooner Enterprise were lying at anchor when she arrived. Intrepid and Syren were conspicuously absent.

  Richard Cutler, his anxiety for his son almost overwhelming, reported to Commodore Preble in the flagship’s after cabin and informed him that he had not observed a single enemy cruiser or merchant vessel of consequence while out on patrol, just the usual feluccas, small xebecs, and innocuous fishing craft indigenous to the area. Preble acknowledged and then broached the subject weighing heavily on each man’s mind.

  “I must inform you, Captain Cutler, that as of yet we have received no word from either Intrepid or Syren.”

  “I understand, sir. But it’s only been two weeks.” Richard realized he was stretching the truth: in fact it was coming up on three weeks since the two vessels had departed Syracuse, longer than a “hit-and-run” raid across the Mediterranean should have required. Left unspoken was his worst fear, that the vicious gale of early February had cast the two vessels onto a lee shore and that all hands had either drowned or been taken prisoner. Preble no doubt harbored similar fears, Richard thought to himself as the two men stared across the table at each other. After several moments of silence, Richard collected his hat and said, in the measured tone of a naval commander, “I shall be returning to station, sir, as soon as Portsmouth is resupplied.”

  To Richard’s surprise, Preble stood up, came around the table, and offered Richard his hand. “Give yourself an extra day or two before leaving, Captain,” he urged. “And if we receive word after you depart, I will send the swiftest dispatch vessel in my possession to find you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Richard saluted his commander, who returned the salute smartly.

  Two mornings later, as Portsmouth was concluding final preparations for sea, the cry came from on high aboard Constitution. “Deck, there! Two vessels approaching. One is lateen-rigged . . . the other is a brig!” The lookout fairly screamed those last five words.

  Agreen Crabtree heard the cry from the quarterdeck of Portsmouth and immediately sent a duty midshipman below to inform the captain. But there was no need. Richard Cutler was already scrambling up the aft companionway. He joined Agreen at the starboard railing.

  Neither man spoke. There was nothing to say until the two vessels had reached the approaches to the harbor. Every available spyglass in Portsmouth was swinging like a pendulum between the oncoming vessels and Constitution’s signal halyard.

  “There she goes,” Eric Meyers, on the quarterdeck, commented as three white balls soared up that halyard and broke into flags at the top.

  “Numbers 2 . . . 2 . . . 7,” Agreen translated.

  “It means,” Richard responded distantly, “‘have you completed the business you were sent on?’” The eyes of the squadron shifted southward to Syren, the lead vessel. As Richard peered through his glass, waiting for the reply, an old scar high on his forehead begin to pulse for the first time in years.

  Syren creamed into the outer harbor and hoisted her reply: 2 . . . 3 . . . 2: “Business completed, that I was sent on.”

  Euphoria erupted everywhere. Sailors in the rigging and on deck cheered and began waving hats and arms in the air. The great guns of Constitution, too long silent, erupted in a thirteen-gun salute. The cheers and huzzahs reached their crescendo as the two vessels glided in, rounded up, and dropped anchor.

  Richard said nothing, showed no reaction, even as his crew in the waist, forecastle, and rigging continued their wild celebrations. He held his glass steady, sweeping it back and forth, back and forth, across the deck of Intrepid. His heart pounded; beads of perspiration prickl
ed under his uniform; he held his lips tightly pressed together until a hand reached out and touched him on his shoulder.

  “I see him, Richard,” Agreen said, pointing. “He’s abaft the mizzen, between Decatur and Izard.”

  Richard focused his glass. Yes, there he was—his features, his grin, unmistakable. “So he is, Lieutenant,” Richard said matter-of-factly. He collapsed his glass. “You have the deck,” he added with a quick sideways glance that revealed to Agreen eyes glinting with moisture. A minute later, Agreen heard the Marine sentry on duty belowdecks stamp the butt of his musket on the deck. And then he heard the faint click of the after cabin door closing gently behind his captain.

  Ten

  Tripoli, Egypt, and Syracuse, March–June 1804

  THE TALL, LANKY man ushered into the captain’s cabin bore classic Gallic features: thick, curly black hair; an elongated face ending at a narrow chin; aquiline nose; and round, dark eyes set below bushy black eyebrows. The Marine sentry who had brought him saluted his captain and left the cabin. With the sentry’s rap on the door, Edward Preble had turned from his writing desk where, in the company of two others, he had watched through an open gun port as the launch approached Constitution, the tricolor of France fluttering above the boat’s stern. A five-gun salute had erupted from the starboard battery, followed in short order by a shrill of boatswain’s whistles piping the visitor aboard. The launch that had conveyed the French diplomat from the shores of Tripoli now lay bobbing alongside the American frigate, its oars shipped and its bow line secured to the mainmast chain-wale. Standing stone-faced before the American commodore was its sole passenger.

  Preble stood up. “Bonjour, Monsieur Beaussier,” he greeted him cordially. “Welcome aboard Constitution.”

  Bonaventure Beaussier bowed in consular fashion. “Merci, monsieur. Bonjour à vous aussi.” He glanced around the cabin and said, in heavily accented English, “The rumors I have heard are true, monsieur. You command a fine ship.”

  Preble bowed in response. “Please sit down, monsieur. Make yourself comfortable. Before we begin, may I introduce Mr. Charles Gordon, my first lieutenant, and Mr. Phillip Darby, my clerk.” The two Americans returned the Frenchman’s bow. “Mr. Darby will be taking notes of our meeting. May I offer some refreshment? I have a good Madeira and stores of other spirits; whatever you desire.”

  “Coffee would be most welcome, capitaine, if it’s no trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  After the captain’s steward had served a round of coffee and the customary pleasantries had been exchanged, Preble gave Phillip Darby a small nod, the signal to begin taking notes. “Monsieur Beaussier,” he said slowly, his dark blue eyes taking in the impeccably attired Frenchman seated across from him, “let me be certain I understand the nature of your visit here today. At the request of Mr. Robert Livingston, the American consul in Paris, your government has agreed to assist in peace negotiations between the United States and Tripoli. Since you are the chargé d’affaires for France in Tripoli, you have been asked to act as the mediator in any such negotiations. Are these facts correct?”

  “They are, monsieur.”

  “And Monsieur Talleyrand,” referring to Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, the recently reinstalled French foreign minister, “has instructed you to contact Mr. Dghies, Tripoli’s foreign secretary. Is that correct?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “Have you done so?”

  “I have, capitaine.”

  “And you believe Mr. Dghies encourages such negotiations?”

  “He has told me so himself, monsieur,” Beaussier averred.

  “You trust Mr. Dghies?”

  The Frenchman shifted position, apparently caught by surprise by this last question and the tone in which it was delivered. “I have no reason not to trust him,” he hedged.

  “Perhaps you do not, Monsieur Beaussier. But I most certainly do.” Preble leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands before him. “I believe, in fact, that Mr. Dghies is acting in his own interests. Specifically, I believe he is out to line his own pockets at my country’s expense. Are you aware that before Philadelphia was burned, Dghies had entered into an agreement to purchase the frigate with funds owed him by the bashaw—his boss, so to speak—and that he planned to sell her back to the United States at a tidy profit for himself?”

  “I have heard rumors,” Beaussier said cautiously.

  “I’m certain you have. And are you aware that Mr. Dghies and Mr. Schembri and others of their ilk are urging the bashaw to negotiate with Mr. Lear, the American consul general in Algiers, in order to secure a quick peace? And that the bashaw will then declare war all over again once the United States Navy has left the Mediterranean? And are you among those who believe the American government lacks the resolve to send its Navy back if that should happen?”

  Beaussier stared blankly across the table at Preble, overwhelmed by the crescendo of questions. “If I may, capitaine, how do you come by such information?” he asked.

  “I have my sources, Monsieur Beaussier. They are reliable sources, so I take this information to be true. I regret having to say this to you, monsieur, but I believe you have been duped. You comprehend the word ‘duped’? Yes?” Preble pointed shoreward at the city of Tripoli. “Personally, I am convinced that there is no one in that godforsaken den of iniquity over there whom I can trust. Present company excepted, of course.” He smiled, but his eyes remained cold.

  Beaussier did not return the smile. “Capitaine, I can assure you,” he said earnestly, “that Napoléon himself supports this effort. He has no wish to see his American friends and allies at war in North Africa.”

  “I believe that he has no such wish,” Preble stated mildly. “But let us try to understand why. A détente now exists between our two countries, and I, for one, welcome it. But tell me, monsieur: what does Napoléon intend to do on behalf of the United States in this matter beyond exerting what little influence he has in North Africa to encourage peace? Is he prepared, if necessary, to commit French ships and soldiers to our cause? I ask again: why is he doing this? Is it for the love of his American friends and allies, as you seem to imply? Or is it because France desperately needs American trade in its war against England—a trade that would be greatly enhanced by peace treaties between the United States and the Barbary States? Mind you, I am neither drawing conclusions nor making accusations. I am merely asking the questions.”

  The Frenchman stiffened. “Are you suggesting, capitaine, that you are not willing to negotiate with Tripoli? That you prefer war to peace? Is this the message you wish me to deliver to your Mr. Livingston in Paris? And to my superiors? Are you prepared to accept the responsibility for taking such a position?”

  Preble’s expression revealed little. He folded his arms across his chest and looked to his first lieutenant to ask the inevitable question, “What price peace?” Gordon and Preble both realized that although President Jefferson and his cabinet preferred a military solution to this war, Tobias Lear had convinced the president to keep open the lines of communication to a negotiated settlement. They also were aware, as was Beaussier, that Portugal had recently paid the dey of Algiers the equivalent of one million American dollars in ransom and tribute to free 374 Portuguese sailors held captive in an Algerian prison. That was approximately the number of Americans held captive in Tripoli.

  Beaussier’s dark eyes shifted to Constitution’s first lieutenant on hearing his question. “What price is your country prepared to pay?”

  Gordon deferred back to his captain.

  “Whatever that amount may be,” Preble stated categorically, “it is for the release of Philadelphia’s crew. Nothing else.”

  “What you are saying then, capitaine,” Beaussier clarified, “is that the United States will pay no amount in annual tribute.”

  Preble’s tone was emphatic. “None whatsoever, monsieur. Not today, not tomorrow, not the day after. What Mr. Karamanli and his pirate allies refer
to as ‘tribute’ is nothing more than bully-payments. The United States will not be a party to extortion. My government is adamant on this point.”

  Beaussier slowly shook is head and replied sorrowfully, “With respect, capitaine, I do not believe you appreciate the realities involved in this situation. Such insistence will not serve your country or your captured sailors. There can be no negotiations for ransom without negotiations for tribute. The two are . . . how do you say . . . clasped together like your two hands. The bashaw is most adamant on this point. He has in fact advised his Jewish bankers in Tripoli that they may expect between $600,000 and $800,000 as the result of a peace settlement with the United States.”

  Preble laughed out loud. “I scoff at such ridiculous amounts,” he declared. “I do understand this reality, monsieur, and I ask you to please relay it verbatim to your bosom friend the bashaw at the earliest opportunity: he will put a new slant on things when the United States Navy arrives here in force and reduces his city to rubble.”

  Beaussier again shook his head. “I cannot speak to that, capitaine,” he said. “I can only report to you what I have seen for myself, that Mr. Karamanli has invested considerable funds in strengthening the defenses of his city. Should you cause harm to Tripoli, the United States will simply have to pay that much more in ransoms and tribute and damages when the time comes.”

  “In addition,” Preble went on, ignoring what Beaussier had just said, “I have dispatched a ship to Alexandria. Her captain is well versed in North African diplomacy and has excellent contacts in this area. His orders are to find Hamet Karamanli and to assess his ability to lead an army overland against his brother. Hamet will have American naval support, you understand, and the support of Tripolitans who consider him their rightful leader, which he is. Yusuf is nothing more than a usurper. So please, if you will, report to Yusuf Karamanli that before the year is out he will likely have to look to land and to sea to defend against those who oppose him.”