A Call to Arms Read online

Misset chuckled. “There’s plenty more of that where we’re heading,” he said, adding in a more official tone, “We shall depart in a few minutes. Cairo is a hundred miles upriver, and it’s a gambler’s bet how long it will take us to get there. We’ll be fighting the current, which as you’ll discover is not terribly strong. The prevailing winds are in our favor, and if they hold, we should arrive in three days. If we encounter strong headwinds, though, we shall have to put in to shore and muck around until the wind shifts back to the north. We cannot fight wind and current. How long do you expect to remain in Egypt, Captain?”

  “If I’m not back aboard my ship in two weeks, my first lieutenant has orders to return to station off the coast of Cyrenaica.”

  “I say! I mean no disrespect, Captain, but why would you order your ship to sail without you?”

  “Because I know my officers, Major. And I know my crew. If we’re not back in the allotted time, without orders to the contrary they would come ashore searching for us. That is the last thing I want. If we encounter trouble, we’ll deal with it on our own. Of course, if we’re delayed for a good reason, I am hopeful I may rely on you to send a messenger ahead to delay her departure.”

  “You may indeed, Captain. And I must say, that is most noble of you, looking out for your crew that way.”

  “It’s hardly noble, Major. It’s merely practical. I don’t see what is gained by endangering the lives of good men in what would surely become a wild goose chase in hostile territory.”

  “Hmm, I see your point. You do understand, of course, that whilst you are in Cairo you will be under British protection.”

  “I am most grateful for your protection, Major. But with respect, British protection in Egypt can only go so far.”

  Misset’s heavy sigh acknowledged the flaw within the omnipotent British Empire. “Unfortunately, Captain, I cannot disagree with that statement. But we will do whatever we can for you. We have already sent three couriers south of Cairo to locate Hamet Karamanli. Surely one of them will succeed.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  With that, the Americans boarded the British barge. In total, the party sailing south numbered twenty-two men and included seven British Army personnel serving as a personal bodyguard to Major Misset, plus four sailors whose job was to maneuver the barge.

  On its slow slog southward against a current that reminded Richard of the Gulf Stream, the barge passed by agrarian scenes that he suspected had changed little since the dawn of Man. Egypt was a paradox—an immense desert with some of the most fertile soil on earth. Each year, during the rainy season, the Nile overflowed its banks and deposited rich black mud that remained when the waters receded. In that soil grew rice and fruit trees and wheat and melons and vegetables of all descriptions. Whether it was Allah who sent these life-saving floodwaters each year to the grateful Egyptians or the Christian God or perhaps Hapi, the ancient Nile god, they were heaven-sent, regardless.

  “I have t’ admit,” Agreen confessed as he watched the timeless spectacle pass by on both sides of the barge, “I never expected t’ find anything quite like this.” He and Richard were standing on the larboard side, forward between the substantial foremast and stubby bowsprit. Although the other Americans were equally engrossed in the view, most of the British personnel sat propped up against the bulwarks. Several of them were napping; they had seen it before.

  Richard grinned. “What are you referring to, Agee? The bare-chested ladies?”

  “Of course. What else?” Agreen shielded his eyes from the searing desert sun and looked eastward. In the far hazy distance he saw camels rise up like a mirage atop a gleaming sand dune. “Where are the Pyramids?”

  “Near Cairo. Maybe we can manage a visit while we’re there.”

  “That’d be something to write home about.”

  “It would. Just leave out the part about the bare-chested ladies. Lizzy would be offended. And peeved.”

  “Yes, she would, but not as peeved as Katherine after I tell her just what you did with those bare-chested ladies.”

  “Touché, Lieutenant.”

  The waters of the Nile and the sand along its banks shimmered in the blistering noontime sun, its crushing heat blurring both vision and mental acuity. Richard pulled the front of his wide-brimmed straw hat lower over his brow, crossed his arms, and leaned back comfortably against the foremast. His eyelids grew heavy; he felt himself succumbing to the inevitable. Just for a moment, he promised himself, a moment; and then he drifted into the abyss of deep sleep. Some time later he felt Agreen nudging him.

  “Sorry t’ wake you, Captain,” he said in a low voice, “but we’ve got company. Have a gander.”

  “What?” Richard mumbled, his senses muddled and confused. In his dream he was home in Hingham, laughing at something Katherine had said and sweeping her into his embrace. It took him a moment to pull himself back to North Africa. “What did you say, Agee? Company? Where?”

  “There.” Agreen pointed abeam to larboard. Richard blinked. He shook his head, ousting the last vestiges of sleep, and looked again. A squad of men a-horse in flowing white garb was galloping in the direction of the river toward a small village that lay perhaps a quarter-mile ahead.

  “I don’t think those gents are herdsmen,” Agreen remarked.

  Richard squinted. “Your eyes are better than mine, Agee.” He glanced at the midshipman standing nearby. He, too, had seen the horsemen and had cautiously approached his commanding officers. “Mr. Osborn,” Richard said to him, “please fetch me a long glass from Major Misset.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Richard raised the glass and brought into focus what appeared to be a cavalry charge against an unsuspecting enemy. He counted eleven . . . twelve . . . fourteen men galloping pell-mell toward the cluster of modest, mud-roofed homes. The harsh brilliance of the savage sun reflected off steel blades held high in the air.

  “Major Misset!” Richard cried out. His shout brought everyone alert.

  Misset strode forward. “What is it, Captain?”

  “That!” Richard gave him the glass with his left hand and pointed ahead with his right.

  Misset took a look. “Shit!” he muttered under his breath. “Brace yourselves, gentlemen,” he shouted out. “This will not be pleasant.”

  The men in the barge watched in horror as the horsemen swept down on the village in a thunder of hooves. Villagers dashed from their homes and fields, darting this way and that, offering no resistance, just running. One man, slowed by age, stumbled and fell. As he struggled to get up, a horseman streaked past him, his scimitar flashing. In one flick of the rider’s wrist the razor-sharp blade sliced through the man’s neck as though it were a carrot top. Blood spurted into the air for a split second before the headless corpse collapsed in a heap.

  “Who are those bastards?” Richard cried.

  “Bedouins,” Misset answered him, his voice steady. “Or Albanian deserters. Or some local tribesmen. Who knows? Egypt is full of such renegades.”

  “Can’t we do somethin’ t’ help those poor people?” Agreen pleaded.

  “We can do nothing!” Misset hissed gruffly, although he did order his bodyguard to man the larboard swivel guns—as a defensive measure only, he insisted. But even that action did nothing to dissuade the attackers. They paid no mind to the British flag. It was as though the barge wasn’t there.

  As the barge drew parallel to the village, half of the raiders began herding off the village cattle and water buffalo. The other half dispatched with brutal efficiency everyone who remained alive, including the women, some of whom, unlike their men, did offer resistance, verbally if not with weapons. One woman ran at a horse, seized the reins, and jerked them hard, throwing the rider off. When he hit the ground, she started beating him with a stick. Dazed from the fall, the black-bearded Arab curled himself into a fetal position, cowering before the blows. Another rider came in, dismounted, and unsheathed his sword. When the woman turned to face him, he ran the blade clea
n through her abdomen. She fell, writhing in pain. The Arab she had unhorsed got to his feet, found his scimitar, and slashed down at her again and again, like a butcher cutting meat from a bone, until her screams subsided and she lay dead still.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty,” Richard breathed. Instinctively he called for a musket. When Sergeant Mills handed him one, he took aim at the first Arab he found in his sights and began to squeeze the trigger. Before he could fire, he felt the barrel of his musket being forced down.

  “Stand down,” Misset said quietly, his hand on the barrel. “Please, Captain, stand down and leave it be. There is nothing we can do for these people. Our intervention here would only serve to complicate our mission. And your mission, Captain.”

  With a reluctance born of utter disgust, Richard handed the musket back to the Marine sergeant. As the barge sailed on past the carnage, he crossed to the starboard side and leaned over. For long moments he stared down into the murky water, unable to abide the horrific sights and sounds of the slaughter on the shore.

  THE WINDS, at least, remained fair. Brisk northerly breezes filled the barge’s two luglike sails and pushed the vessel hard to southward against the weaker northerly flow of the Nile. In just two and a half days they arrived at Bulac, the port city of Cairo, and left the barge behind.

  The dusty road leading from the docks to the British consulate was thronged with Egyptian men sitting astride donkeys so diminutive that the riders’ sandaled feet nearly touched the ground. Made skittish by what they had observed on the Nile, the Americans avoided eye contact as they marched along. They either stared ahead at the British contingent leading the way or looked at the buildings of the city that during the Middle Ages had played a central role in a highly lucrative Oriental spice trade. Major Misset explained that the wealth flowing to Arab merchants from caravan routes streaming through Cairo from Red Sea ports began to dry up in 1497 when the Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama discovered a more profitable ocean route to the Orient around the southern tip of Africa.

  To Richard, Cairo looked more like Algiers than like Alexandria or Rosetta. Here there was no Greek influence. Islamic architecture dominated; above the center of the city towered the Cairo Citadel, a twelfth-century bastion that reminded him of the kasbahs he had seen in Algiers and other North African cities. Most buildings were two- or three-story affairs that shone blindingly white in the sun. Low-growing date palms and other attractive flora shaded the narrow streets. Veering off from these better-traveled streets were narrower alleyways that seemed ideal for the purposes of thieves and cutthroats lurking in the shadows.

  At the front door to the consulate, which was located on an attractive thoroughfare within a compound of other foreign consulates packed tightly together, Major Misset returned the stiff salutes of two armed sentries. The sentries parted to allow Misset, Richard, and Agreen to enter. Just inside the door an Egyptian wearing a loose-fitting robe, short jacket, and white taqiyah on his head bowed before them.

  “This servant will show you to your quarters,” Missett advised Richard and Agreen. “We shall prepare accommodation for Mr. Corbett and Mr. Osborn, as well. Your Marines may bivouac, so to speak, in the barracks behind this building. There is plenty of room in there, and it’s really quite comfortable. Are such accommodations acceptable?”

  “Quite acceptable, Major,” Richard replied.

  There was little for the Americans to do but wait during the days that followed. So wait they did, in ever-deepening impatience and anxiety as day after day accumulated into a week without any word from Hamet or any of the three couriers sent to find him. They walked about occasionally simply to have something to do, always alert for trouble and always keeping within sight of the consulate. No one had much appetite for sightseeing; the subject of the Pyramids or the Sphinx or other Egyptian landmarks was rarely broached.

  “How long can we just sit here, Richard?” Agreen asked as the first week since leaving Alexandria became the second. They were lounging on a bench beneath the welcome shade of a broad banyan tree. Three Marines leaned against its trunks, their pistols and knives concealed within the robes they were wearing. “Reckon it’s time t’ send a messenger t’ Portsmouth?”

  Richard used one hand to hold back his thick blond hair while he wiped his brow with his sleeve. Soon after arriving in Cairo they had changed into less formal garb to blend in with the locals. It was far more comfortable in this dry heat than a tight-fitting naval uniform. Even so, their height and European features set them clearly apart from the local population; curious onlookers regarded them warily, and beggars followed them wherever they went.

  “Let’s give it two more days, Agee. If we’ve heard nothing by then, I’ll ask the major to dispatch a messenger to Alexandria. If another week goes by and we still have no word, we’ll rejoin the ship.”

  “Can’t happen soon enough for me. This place makes me miss home and family all the more.”

  “I’m with you on that, Agee. I have no more love for this place than you do. And there’s nothing worse than sitting around all day doing nothing, no matter where you are. But remember, I have a somewhat different perspective on all this. I’m the one who has to report to Captain Preble.”

  “Hell’s bells, Richard, Preble can’t fault you. We’ve given this mission everything we had, and then some. I’ll stand beside you a hundred times over.”

  “I know you will, but that’s not the point. This is likely our only opportunity to meet with Hamet. So much is riding on it, yet we’re powerless to make it happen. We have to rely entirely on others. Damn, it’s frustrating.”

  “Can’t Ali help?” Agreen probed. According to the British, Muhammad Ali had promised Hamet Karamanli safe passage should he venture to Cairo. He was pleased to do so, he announced, since whatever Hamet might discuss with the Americans would likely mean the Tripolitan’s departure from Egypt.

  “I doubt it. I don’t know how far we can push Ali, and I don’t know how much we can trust him either. Major Misset advised me not to make contact with him. That should tell you something.”

  Agreen contemplated that, then said, “Hell, Richard, for all we know, Hamet may be dead, sprawled out in some dark alley with his throat slashed.”

  “For all we know,” Richard had to agree.

  Five days later, three days after a messenger had been dispatched north to Alexandria with orders to Lieutenant Lee to delay Portsmouth’s departure, a small entourage appeared before the two sentries at the front steps of the British consulate. There was nothing unusual about that. Unexpected visitors appeared at the consulate at all hours of the day and night seeking personal or political favors. But these three men were ushered inside without the usual protocol, and their introduction to the majordomo ignited a flurry of activity among the consulate staff.

  Richard heard the quick step of feet on the stairs leading up to his room on the second floor, followed by a firm rap on the door. He looked up from the daily journal he was keeping. “Enter.”

  An Egyptian staff member opened the door. “You have visitors, Captain Cutler,” he announced in well-practiced English.

  Richard’s senses came alert. “Mr. Karamanli?” he asked.

  “I believe so, sir.”

  Richard put down his pen. “Inform Mr. Crabtree,” he said. “Tell him, dress uniform.” As quickly as the process allowed, he changed into his own uniform, draped at the ready over a nearby chair. After a careful self-examination before a mirror and a quick adjustment to his black neck stock, he walked out of his room and down the stairway, forcing himself to move slowly, deliberately, as though he were attending to a routine matter.

  In a large, well-appointed room immediately to the right of the front hallway Richard found Major Misset along with three men dressed alike in loose-fitting shirts, baggy pants, and yellow slippers. Each of the three men wore a turban-like headdress, and each had the hawklike features typical of North Africans, although one had darker skin. At first, Richard could not id
entify the prince among them. No one stood out as such. It was not until Major Missett made the introduction that Richard realized that the darker-skinned man was Hamet Karamanli.

  At first blush he was not impressed. Hamet was tall but slightly built. His face was long and narrow with sunken cheeks and thin lips largely hidden by his ebony mustache and short-cropped beard. Hamet acknowledged the introduction to Richard Cutler with a polite bow but remained beside his two companions—bodyguards, Richard surmised—who stood mutely alert with arms folded.

  Richard returned Hamet’s bow. “Your Excellency,” he said, “I am, as you have heard from Major Misset, a captain in the United States Navy. I am here as a personal representative of my country.” After several moments of awkward silence, during which time Agreen Crabtree entered the room, Richard added, “My first lieutenant and I”—he motioned toward Agreen—“are informed that you have a certain command of the English language. Would it please Your Excellency to discuss the matter before us in English?” Hamet nodded. “In that case, you will understand me when I say that my president, Mr. Thomas Jefferson, sends you his respects and the respects of the American people. We as a united country wish to see you restored to the throne of Tripoli. It is your rightful place.”

  Hamet bowed in response. “Thank you, Captain Cutler,” he said in clear but heavily accented English. “May I ask, where is Captain Eaton? I expected to see him here today.”

  “I understand, Your Excellency. Captain Eaton sends you his respects as well. At the moment he is in Washington conferring with Mr. Jefferson. He will soon be returning to the Mediterranean. When he does, he will contact you directly.”

  “I see,” Hamet said. Then, wasting no words, “Does Mr. Jefferson remain committed to my cause?”

  Richard was not caught unaware by the question, but he was surprised that it was raised so quickly and in so curt a tone. No diplomatic niceties for this prince of Tripoli, he thought to himself. He was grateful when Major Misset bade everyone sit down—which everyone did save for the two Mamelukes—and offered refreshments. Hamet politely declined, and the Americans followed suit. The major bowed and left the room, closing the twin doors behind him.