A Call to Arms Page 23

  Tonight, in his after cabin, he faced his “boys”: the officers of his flagship and the commanding officers of the brigs and schooners in his squadron. Every officer in that cabin was considerably younger than he; many were young enough to be his sons. But as was his wont, it was he, Preble, who remained standing while his officers sat.

  “Gentlemen,” he said to the men seated at the rectangular table and on chairs placed behind, “I bid you welcome. You are, of course, aware of current circumstances. For better or for worse, I am soon to be replaced”—he held up a hand to quell a rumbling of discontent—“and as this will be among our last evenings together as officers of the Mediterranean Squadron, I have instructed my steward to open my personal stores of spirits so that we may raise a glass to one final initiative I have in mind for our Arab friends in Tripoli.”

  The words “final initiative” and the jovial resolve with which they were spoken seized everyone’s attention. Some officers instinctively leaned forward, as though by drawing closer they would receive Preble’s information more quickly. Jamie Cutler and Ralph Izard, seated behind them, locked eyes.

  “What’s he talking about?” Izard whispered to Jamie. He, like the other officers, had assumed that the squadron would now return to Syracuse and mark time awaiting the new commodore. Preble had just implied something quite different. He had infused them with hope. Not an officer in that cabin had anything but the deepest affection and respect for Preble, despite his quirky ways.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Jamie whispered in reply.

  Preble cleared his throat, and all eyes turned forward to him. “We are all aware of our situation,” he said. “We have discussed it during the course of many evenings. Nevertheless, let me say again—because it bears repeating—that our failure thus far to bring our enemy to his knees is not through any lack of valor or dereliction of duty on the part of anyone in this cabin. I in fact commend each and every one of you for your actions this summer. My service as commodore of this squadron shall be the capstone of my life—my greatest honor as a man and my greatest privilege as a naval officer. Rest assured that whenever I write to the navy secretary or to the president, I shall sing your praises.”

  He shook his head. “No, the reason we have not, as yet, achieved our primary objective is due, I am sorry to say, to our government’s dilly-dallying. Many months ago I was promised, as reinforcements, four additional frigates and a number of gunboats. Thus far, only John Adams has materialized, and her I had to dispatch to Syracuse for repairs and outfitting. Had the guns of four frigates been added to our squadron, victory would have been ours by now and we would be home with our wives and sweethearts.

  “As for the gunboats we have in our possession,” he continued, “we must return them to the king of Sicily, as we agreed to do. Excluding, of course, dear old number nine.”

  The men all chuckled at that. Preble was referring to an incident three weeks ago in which a captured Tripolitan gunboat, converted to an American gunboat and dubbed gunboat 9, had suffered a direct hit during an assault. The boat had exploded, leaving only its forward half floating amid the flotsam of boat and body parts. As the bow of the gunboat settled slowly into the sea, three survivors managed to reload the gun in a valiant attempt to set off one final round against the enemy. Their attempt failed—the Mediterranean swirled in on them too quickly—but as the bow slipped beneath the waves, the three men held their fists in the air and shouted out three bold huzzahs in defiance. A jolly boat had rushed in to pick them up.

  “What we know for certain,” Preble went on, “ is courtesy of recent night reconnaissance by Lieutenant Decatur and Lieutenant Chauncey. The Tripolitans moor their thirteen remaining gunboats tightly against each other near the city wall with their bows pointing east in a line abreast extending from the Molehead Battery to the bashaw’s castle. The larger vessels are anchored in deeper water closer to the reefs.

  “My aim,” he said after a pause for emphasis, “is to sail a vessel into the harbor between the gunboats and larger vessels, light a fuse, and destroy the Tripolitan Navy where it lies in one fell swoop. With good placement, good timing, and good luck, the explosion should cause severe damage not only to the enemy’s ships, but also to Tripoli’s shore batteries and to the castle.”

  Preble stared at his silent officer corps until Stephen Decatur spoke up. “A fire-ship, sir?”

  Preble smiled. “Technically, yes, Mr. Decatur. But I prefer to think of her as something rather more than a ketch set ablaze and rammed into enemy vessels. She will be carrying much of the ordnance that remains aboard this squadron.”

  More silence followed until Master Commandant Isaac Hull of Argus asked, tentatively, “Which vessel, Captain? Which vessel will carry that ordnance?”

  “Intrepid,” Preble answered him. “She has already proven her mettle in the attack on Philadelphia, and she has only recently rejoined our squadron. Her Mediterranean rig may yet again fool our enemy into believing she is one of theirs, if only for a few minutes. Those few minutes could determine success or failure.”

  Lt. John Smith, Vixen’s captain, asked, “Who will have the honor of commanding this expedition, sir?”

  Preble nodded. He had anticipated that question. He knew that to these officers it was the most important question of all. And he knew, without question, that there was not a single man among them who would not beg for the honor.

  “I have officers in mind,” he acknowledged, “but I would prefer to talk with each of them in private before I decide. This mission, however glorious it may appear, is fraught with risk and peril. It will therefore be strictly a volunteer mission. I will not think any less of a man who declines the opportunity . . . Other questions?” When no one spoke, Preble said, “Excellent. And as I see my steward making his way toward us, I suggest we adjourn our meeting. Drink heartily, my boys. You have earned the right.”

  THE MARINE PRIVATE on duty outside the captain’s day cabin stiffened to attention as Midn. James Cutler stepped down the companionway located amidships at the corner of the lattice-covered main hatch and strode down the gun deck toward him. At the cabin door, Jamie acknowledged the private’s salute. “I am here at the commodore’s request.”

  “Aye, Mr. Cutler. He is expecting you, sir. If you will allow me . . .” The Marine pivoted smartly and rapped gently on the door.

  “Yes?” a voice inquired from inside.

  The Marine opened the door ajar. “Midshipman Cutler to see you, sir.”

  “Then show the officer in, Private,” the gruff voice said.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The Marine gave Jamie a quick grin before he opened the door wide and invited him inside.

  Edward Preble welcomed Jamie Cutler into his day cabin and then led the way aft through a second door into his personal quarters, a snug space of comfortable chairs and a settee—good, solid American furniture, none of those spindly European pieces—along with a writing desk, several chests of drawers, and a stately mahogany sideboard. Oil paintings of ships and seascapes graced the bulkheads above shelves specially designed to hold in their leather-bound books. To starboard, the dining alcove; to larboard, the captain’s sleeping cuddy.

  Jamie had been in these personal chambers before, but on rare occasions and only in the company of more senior officers. To be invited here alone was a singular privilege for a midshipman.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Cutler,” Preble said, adding, after a pause, “and please relax. You look like you are standing at attention even as you are sitting.” His smile was reassuring, in keeping with his voice. “I realize it is early afternoon, but may I offer you a spot of Madeira? I would enjoy sharing a glass with you.”

  “With pleasure, Captain,” Jamie replied. Not normally one to imbibe at this hour of the day, to refuse such an offer from his commanding officer was unthinkable.

  “Good, good.” Preble ambled over to the sideboard and opened its twin doors. From inside he withdrew a plain glass decanter half-
filled with a clear golden liquid. “You and your fellow officers seriously depleted my stores the other night, but this excellent Madeira”—he triumphantly held up the decanter for Jamie to see—“I keep safely tucked away, locked up and out of reach.” He chuckled as he poured out two glasses. After handing one to Jamie, he sat down on a blue satin-covered settee across from Jamie’s chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Cheers,” he said, lifting his glass.

  “Cheers, Captain,” Jamie said, lifting his. He took a sip of the fortified Portuguese wine and felt its exquisite texture course down his throat into his stomach. Never had he tasted a wine so delectable. As if to keep temptation at bay, he placed the glass on a side table. “It is delicious, sir. I can appreciate why you have kept it well hidden.”

  “It is frightfully expensive,” the captain returned with a smile. “‘Waste not, want not’ is my motto, especially when it comes to an outstanding Madeira.” After a pause, he said: “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we, since that day you and your father visited me in Maine. On the one hand, it seems as though only a few months have passed. On the other, it seems an eternity. It’s been, what, two years?”

  “A bit more than that, sir,” Jamie replied distractedly. “It was back in April of ’02.” He had not anticipated this sort of chitchat and was anxious to learn the real reason he had been invited to the captain’s inner sanctuary.

  “You have been a fine officer,” Preble said quite unexpectedly. “You have served me and this ship with distinction and with the highest level of competence. As you have often heard me say, a superior naval commander is distinguished by his ability to lead, his ability to inspire, and his ability to anticipate. From what I have observed, you possess all three qualities. I see something very special in you, James. I see a great future awaiting you in the Navy.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jamie said quietly.

  “Which is why,” Preble continued, “upon my return to Washington I intend to recommend to my superiors that you be promoted to the rank of lieutenant. A captaincy should not be far behind.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jamie repeated, nearly speechless from pride and flushed with embarrassment. Preble was not a man to suffer fools gladly; nor was he lavish with his praise. What lay behind this praise, Jamie was now convinced, was the reason for his summons today. “If I may be so bold, Captain,” he pressed on eagerly, “am I to understand that I have been selected to serve under Mr. Somers in Intrepid?”

  “Is that your wish?”

  “Indeed it is, sir.”

  Preble smiled wistfully. “I admire your enthusiasm, Mr. Cutler. I had expected nothing less from you.” He shifted his position on the settee. “However, it would appear that your ability to anticipate has temporarily abandoned you.” He took a sip of Madeira. “Midshipman Wadsworth will be serving as second in command. Midshipman Israel,” referring to Joseph Israel, a midshipman from Annapolis serving in Constitution who was widely rumored to be a protégé of Navy Secretary Robert Smith, “will serve as third officer. To date, he has seen no action. It’s his turn as well.”

  Jamie slumped slightly in his chair. He immediately corrected himself. “I see,” he said. “Those are excellent choices, Captain.” He reached for his glass of Madeira. “I must offer a toast of congratulations to Mr. Wadsworth and to Mr. Israel. And, of course, to Mr. Somers and to the success of the mission.” He raised his glass and drank.

  “Oh come now, James,” Preble said, in the tones of a father admonishing a petulant son. However fleeting it may have been, he had read the disappointment on Jamie’s face as though it were etched in stone. “You have had your chances at glory in this campaign, and you have taken full advantage of them. Mr. Wadsworth has not. Granted, the poor boy was in sickbay when Philadelphia burned, and he has himself to blame for that. Syphilis has a way of providing its own unique form of punishment. But he is on the mend and he is eager for his own shot at glory. Besides,” he added, eyeing Jamie’s bandaged right arm, “your wound has not completely healed. Dr. Wells tells me that you are most fortunate to still have use of that arm.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamie had to agree. He looked hard at this captain. “Sir, if I may—and I ask this with the utmost respect—why was I summoned to your cabin this afternoon? I thought . . .”

  “I know what you thought, Mr. Cutler,” Preble interrupted, sounding like an annoyed schoolmaster. “I summoned you here to inform you that you are being relieved as midshipman in Constitution.”

  Jamie’s jaw dropped. “Relieved, sir?”

  “Yes. So you might serve aboard Argus under Master Commandant Hull.”

  “But . . . but sir, why?”

  Preble drained his Madeira and set the empty glass gently on the table. “For a very good reason, if you will just calm yourself and hear me out. As you are aware, Mr. Tobias Lear, our consul general in Algiers, is accompanying Commodore Barron aboard President on her cruise to the Mediterranean. Mr. Lear is authorized to conduct and conclude peace negotiations with Tripoli as soon as such negotiations become warranted. At the same time, Captain Eaton, our naval agent for the Barbary States, is sailing with the squadron aboard Constellation, your father’s former ship. One of the dispatches I received from Secretary Smith contained a letter from Secretary of State Madison telling me that President Jefferson has approved in principle Captain Eaton’s plan to cross the desert and attack Tripoli by land. But he is leaving it to the Navy to make final recommendations and arrangements.” He laughed shortly. “Yes, I can see you are as confused as I am. War or peace: which is it to be?

  “There is more. Communications I have received from your father confirm that Hamet Karamanli is assembling a considerable force of Arab cavalry to the west of Alexandria—Egyptian mercenaries who are being reinforced by a hodgepodge of Europeans procured, at considerable expense, I might add, by Mr. Richard Farquhar and his son George. I needn’t explain to you who they are.

  “As plans stand, Argus will convey Captain Eaton to Alexandria, where he will assume command of the expedition. Seven Marines will join him on the march. They are to be led by Lt. Presley O’Bannon, an officer I greatly admire, and two midshipmen. As perhaps you have anticipated, this force will require the services of an American naval officer to act as liaison between the army on land and our Navy at sea. Because I believe you to be the right officer for that position, I have recommended you to Captain Hull. I shall similarly recommend you to Commodore Barron and to Captain Eaton upon their arrival. And, of course, to your father, whose ship will play a key role with Argus in this expedition.”

  Jamie’s keen disappointment was tempered somewhat by the prospect of serving with his father. “Thank you, Commodore. I am honored by your trust. But sir, if I may, once Intrepid succeeds in her mission, will this expeditionary force even be necessary?”

  “You raise a fair question, Mr. Cutler. Several weeks ago, a month ago, I would not have thought so. But today I do. Yusuf Karamanli is a tough and mean-spirited old bird, much like me. He may see his navy blown to bits, but I have reluctantly come to accept what Captain Eaton and Consul Beaussier have been saying all along: Whatever the circumstances at sea, Yusuf will never accept unconditional surrender without at least the threat of a land assault on his city, especially one led by his deposed brother.

  “Captain Eaton and the others might be wrong, of course. It could be that the destruction of his navy will convince Yusuf that further resistance is futile. But I have been instructed by my superiors to continue preparations for the land assault, and that is exactly what I intend to do.”

  THE MORNING AFTER Commodore Preble had consumed a round of toasts with his officers, every carpenter in the squadron was put to work converting Intrepid into what Preble came to refer to as a “floating volcano.” Her magazine in the hold was planked up and stacked tight with five tons of powder in five hundred barrels. On the deck directly above the magazine, one hundred 13-inch shells and fifty 9-inch shells were carefully placed in a wooden bin specifica
lly built for that purpose. Under the watchful eye of Preble and Somers and other squadron commanders, carpenters drilled two holes amidships into the bulkhead of the magazine. Into these holes they inserted gun barrels stuffed with fuses that were connected to a main fuse at the end. These two main fuses were connected on the outside to a shallow trough of powder that ran the length of the ketch on the starboard side forward to a scuttle near her bow and aft to her companionway.

  The trail of powder, Preble had explained, allowed the charge to be ignited from either the bow or the stern of the ketch. The length of the two main fuses was set to burn for eleven minutes before the main fuses set off the smaller fuses packed inside the gun barrels. The smaller fuses were timed to burn for four minutes before they detonated the powder in the magazine. Once the train of powder was lit, from either the bow or the stern, the thirteen Americans had fifteen minutes to get off Intrepid and into one of the two ship’s boats that would be towed behind the ketch. Then they would row for their lives back out through the Western Passage to where Nautilus, escorted by Vixen and Syren, would be waiting to pick them up and convey them back to the flagship.

  Richard Somers proposed one modification. Fill a small cabin aft with wood chips and splinters, he suggested, and set that heap ablaze as soon as Intrepid reached her target. This blaze would ensure that the fuses would eventually be lit even if the main charge failed. Further, it would discourage anyone from boarding the ketch after the Americans left.