A Call to Arms Read online

  He took a sip of water and continued in the same tone. “We can win this war one of two ways: military victory or diplomatic victory. Either way, the house of cards comes down, which is why I will be pushing hard with diplomacy onshore while you gentlemen make a show of power at sea. Yusuf Karamanli cannot survive a diplomatic defeat any more than he can a military defeat. Nor can he back down before a display of naval power. His Divan, his council of Janissaries, would feed him to the dogs regardless of the source of his defeat.

  “Lest you think our victory is assured, however, I remind you that two American squadrons”—he held up two fingers for emphasis—“have cruised the Mediterranean during the past two years and accomplished this”—he fashioned a zero with his thumb and forefinger and held it high. “Our lack of success has emboldened Tripoli and the other Barbary states. Their leaders believe, now more than ever, that they hold the upper hand. They believe that they are invincible to our naval guns and diplomatic threats. And that makes both my job and yours that much more difficult.

  “Gentlemen,” he cautioned, “do not make the mistake of underestimating Yusuf Karamanli or Tripoli. I have dealt with Karamanli before. He is as cunning and ruthless a man as exists on this earth. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants. Consider that when his father died, Yusuf was third in line for the throne, after his two older brothers. His father’s body was hardly in the grave when he invited his eldest brother to supper with their mother. During the meal he stood up and shot his brother in the chest and then, to make certain he was dead, stabbed him a hundred times with a knife—in front of their own mother! What did Yusuf do next? He seized the wife and three children of his next oldest brother, Hamet, as hostages and banished Hamet from the capital city. Make no mistake, Yusuf is a man completely without principles.”

  He took another sip of water, then: “Not many of you in this cabin have had occasion to visit Tripoli. I have. It is a veritable fortress. Its shore batteries boast 115 cannon, and its harbor shelters a fleet of warships that includes a 36-gun frigate and a 24-gun sloop—gifts from the Ottoman sultan—plus 11 corsairs and a large number of gunboats. And that harbor is protected not only by the city fortress and its gun batteries but also by rocks and shoals that require the knowledge of a local pilot to pass through. Attacking the capital city thus poses a wealth of logistical problems and challenges. Even if such an attack were successful, it could cost many more lives than the American public is prepared to accept. And that is why our diplomatic efforts are so critical. Those efforts, gentlemen, are my responsibility. Your responsibility, if I may be so crude, is to scare the living Allah out of these Arabs with your naval presence and blockades. Your naval power and my diplomatic skill will combine to form what our president refers to as our “awe and talk” strategy. Together,” he raised a clenched fist, “we can achieve the victory our country expects from us!”

  He saluted his audience, turned, and exchanged places with Captain Preble, who said in a much more moderate tone, “Gentlemen, I am certain you have questions. There will be time for Colonel Lear to answer them in the days ahead. For this evening I wish to add just one further comment. Earlier, Colonel Lear made reference to an older brother of Yusuf Karamanli, a brother exiled from the city of Tripoli whose family Yusuf holds hostage in his castle. Our envoy in Tunis, Captain William Eaton, knows Hamet Karamanli and has contacted him informally in Derne, a city in Tripoli’s easternmost province of Cyrenaica, where Hamet now serves as royal governor. Suffice it to say, for the moment, that we are being urged to make more formal contact with him. It is possible that Hamet will become an important ally to us. Many Tripolitans consider him their rightful bashaw—which of course he is, legally. Because of the sensitivity and urgency of this matter, I have ordered Portsmouth to bypass Gibraltar and sail directly to Malta to confer with several of Hamet’s principals there. As you are aware, Portsmouth’s captain is Mr. Richard Cutler, the father of our own Midshipman James Cutler. He has admirable experience in both diplomacy and naval affairs, and I have every confidence that he will provide us with useful information.

  “That concludes the evening, gentlemen, with the obvious request that you continue to extend every courtesy to Colonel and Mrs. Lear throughout this cruise. You may now return to duty.”

  SHIPBOARD LIFE in Constitution quickly assumed a daily routine that became as familiar and predictable as the clang of the ship’s bell and the quartermaster’s call that marked each half-hour throughout the day and night. From the start of the morning watch at 4:00 until near its end at 7:30—when boatswains’ whistles ordered hammocks moved up from the berthing deck to the weather deck and stowed in bulwark nettings—barefoot sailors scrubbed and washed down the decks. At 8:00, the start of the forenoon watch, those same whistles summoned the crew to breakfast, after which, until 4:00 in the afternoon, the business of the day progressed unabated except for dinner at noon and a half ration of grog—which, at the instigation of Navy Secretary Smith, consisted of a mixture of bourbon and water to make it more American than the traditional Royal Navy rum and water.

  At 4:00, assuming the captain was satisfied with the results of the afternoon’s gun and small arms drills, the crew received its second ration of grog. They had time for a quick smoke, perhaps, under the forecastle, or a dance to a fiddle and fife before supper was served to individual messes on the berthing deck. After that the crew was mustered into divisions on the weather deck under the diligent eye of the duty lieutenant, who scrutinized each man for any indication of intoxication or slovenliness. When the lieutenant had confirmed all hands present and accounted for and Captain Preble had conducted his own inspection of the crew, Boatswain Cannon and his mates piped hammocks down and slung below. One watch dispersed to its posts while the other went below to snatch some sleep before answering the next call to duty four hours later.

  Three weeks into the cruise, during a night of violent thunder and wild streaks of jagged lightning, Jamie Cutler lay in his hammock with his hands behind his head, staring up at the deckhead. The gentler sway of his hammock indicated that the storm had finally passed over them. He turned his head this way and that, willing sleep to release him but knowing full well it could not. The late hours of a Wednesday night were often this way for him, but this Wednesday night was worse than others. As bad as it was for him, he knew it was much worse for John Stokes, an English topman whose tips on seamanship had made Jamie a better sea officer.

  Why Stokes had done it, Jamie could not fathom. Captain Preble had made it patently clear that he would brook no insolence or drunkenness or petty theft from any man at any time for any reason, no matter the sailor’s rank or experience at sea or popularity among the crew. Any such offense would be dealt with harshly—and all hands understood what Preble meant by that. Jamie could envision certain other members of the crew committing such infractions regardless of the captain’s warnings—indeed, two of them were also due to receive punishment the next morning at 10:00—but good God, not Stokes! Jamie sighed quietly at the mental image of the red-haired tar from Northumberland sitting in chains in the brig forward, fully awake and contemplating his fate.

  Jamie checked his watch. The feeble light of the lanterns embedded in the midshipmen’s mess table was barely sufficient for him to make out the time: 2:40. Fifty minutes before an attendant assigned to the midshipmen’s berth was scheduled to shake him awake. Eighty minutes until the start of his watch as a junior duty officer. With another sigh, louder this time, he slipped out of his hammock and dropped onto the orlop deck.

  “What it is, Jamie?” a voice murmured from the hammock next to his. “Can’t you sleep either?”

  “No, William,” Jamie whispered back. Midn. William Lewis had become a favorite of the entire ship’s complement because of his skills as a musician. The sweet melodies he drew from his violin evoked powerful images of home, of a love lost or found, and many a sailor remained spellbound long after he had ceased playing. “I’m going topside.”


  “Want some company?”

  Jamie placed his hand on Lewis’ shoulder. “I appreciate that, William, but no. Get some rest. You still have a good forty minutes. I’ll see you on deck at eight bells.”

  Jamie quickly dressed, grabbed his oilskin coat, put on his fore-and-aft cocked hat, and clambered up the dimly lit companionway ladder to the berthing deck. From there he climbed upward to the gun deck, where he returned the salute of a Marine sentry on duty before the captain’s cabin. One more flight of steps, up hatch, and he was on the weather deck breathing in the refreshingly cool air.

  His surmise about the weather was correct. The sky had cleared to reveal a universe of bright stars and a three-quarters moon. The dreary fog that had hung low over the sea for days had dissipated, and the brisk north-northeasterly breeze that had replaced the sultry, erratic air almost took Jamie’s hat when he stepped up through the hatchway. Jamie pulled on his coat for warmth and glanced northward at Polaris shining brightly above Constitution’s larboard beam, confirming her easterly course on a broad reach. He turned aft and noticed Midn. Octavius Paige, the current junior duty officer, approaching him.

  “Why on deck so early, Jamie?” Paige asked. “Your watch isn’t for another hour yet.” As if on cue, the ship’s bell struck six times in three sets of two clangs. “Six bells in the second watch!” the quartermaster on duty confirmed the time.

  “Missed your company, Octopus,” Jamie replied with a forced grin. Paige’s inevitable nickname had by now become so commonplace aboard ship that 3rd Lt. Samuel Elbert had inadvertently addressed him as “Octopus” during the evening assembly of officers three days ago. Paige’s befuddled reaction had set off a round of laughter in which even Captain Preble participated.

  The two midshipmen watched in silence as Nate Haraden, the crusty ship’s master and senior duty officer, passed by on his way to the helm to scratch his hourly report on a chalkboard attached to the binnacle in front of the helm. Ralph Izard, the other midshipman assigned to the second watch, joined them a few minutes later. Izard’s primary duty, with the assistance of the quartermaster of the watch, was to toss overboard the log chip every hour on the hour to determine the ship’s speed. He had just calculated nine and a half knots, and Haraden had recorded that welcome piece of information on the chalk slate along with the current wind direction, the ship’s heading as confirmed by two compasses mounted in the binnacle, and the time of the report.

  “Joy of the morning to you, Jamie,” Izard greeted him. His tone contained an edge of sarcasm that Jamie had no trouble grasping.

  “Morning, Ralph,” Jamie replied. “I have the deck if you or Octi want to go below for some extra sleep.

  Izard shook his head. “That’s a tempting offer, my friend, but I think we’d best decline.” Jamie followed his gaze to the topsails, jib, and single-reefed spanker that defined a ship rigged for night sailing. For the first time in days, he noted the yards braced up and the weather bowlines drawn tight. Beneath them, the deck moved as if the ship were a living being pent up for too long and set free to fly at last. “We’ve finally got some way on her and I don’t want to miss out on the excitement. Besides, I have no wish to kiss the gunner’s daughter for being caught napping when I’m supposed to be on duty, even if I have been relieved.” A “young gentleman” who broke the ship’s rules was bent over a cannon with his pants lowered and had his buttocks lacerated by a boatswain’s mate brandishing a rattan cane.

  Paige stepped in close. “Preble sure can be one mean son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered. “I swear his sickness has gone to his head.”

  Jamie glanced about the deck. Haraden and the others on duty were well out of earshot. “Have a care, Octi,” he cautioned nonetheless, adding, somewhat lamely, “Command is no easy matter. Who knows how you or I would handle it? Besides, he’s not doing anything outside Navy regulations.”

  “Actually, he is,” Izard put in. “Stokes is to receive thirty-six lashes, but Navy regulations clearly specify a maximum of twelve.”

  “Mr. Greenleaf,” Jamie said, referring to Constitution’s second lieutenant, “explained that to me. Stokes was caught stealing a Spaniard’s knife, and he was intoxicated at the time. When the theft was reported to Lieutenant Gordon, and Lieutenant Gordon confronted him, Stokes was insolent in front of the men. Mr. Gordon had no choice. He had to put Stokes on report, even though he believed Stokes when he said that the Spaniard had it in for him and that he didn’t intend to steal the knife. Mr. Gordon also realized that it was the liquor doing the talking, not Stokes. Stokes would never say things like that sober. Still, Mr. Gordon had no choice.

  “Stokes is a good man and an excellent seaman,” Jamie continued. “He’s no thief, and he respects the chain of command as much as anyone. I can’t imagine why he broke into the liquor rations and acted the way he did. But the facts are what they are and the captain cannot ignore them. Stokes committed three violations: stealing, drunkenness, and insolence to an officer. Three violations times twelve lashes for each offense equals thirty-six lashes. You may not find that sort of math in naval regulations, but you will find it in the captain’s cabin. On this cruise, that’s all that matters.”

  “Poor bastard,” Paige commented.

  “Well, my good fellows,” Izard said with forced joviality, “I’m off to my rounds. See you at six bells.”

  AT 10:00, six bells in the forenoon watch, boatswains’ pipes summoned all hands to witness punishment. Constitution continued on her eastward course under reduced sail with only a skeleton crew to handle her.

  The commissioned officers took position on the quarterdeck directly behind Preble. They were dressed much like the captain if somewhat less grandly. Farther behind and to Preble’s left stood the frigate’s eight midshipmen, all in a row and dressed in crisp blue and white. To starboard, John Hall, the hard-bitten captain of the Marine guard, offered for the captain’s review the double row of Marines lining the starboard bulwark in spotless blue uniforms, their brightly polished sea-service muskets gleaming in the bright morning sun.

  Assembled by divisions from the mainmast almost to the bow, their backs to the larboard railing, was the ship’s company, many of them dressed in the widely accepted though not yet officially sanctioned sailor dress code of loose-fitting white trousers, shirt and vest under a short jacket, black neckerchief, and black low-crowned hat.

  At a stirring of drums all eyes swung to the forward hatchway. John Burchard, the master-at-arms, summoned four barefoot and shackled prisoners up the ladder from the gun deck. The prisoners appeared stunned by the men arrayed in formal ranks all the way from the ladder to the taffrail at the very stern of the ship. Each man blinked and averted his eyes, whether from the sun’s glare or from the sight of his shipmates solemnly watching him. As the Marine drummer continued his mournful tattoo, the four prisoners slowly, reluctantly, shuffled over to the bulwark nettings adjacent to the larboard entry port. John Stokes led the way. Last in line was Anthony Guerrier, a lanky, tow-headed French-Canadian lad of seventeen who was well liked in the forecastle. Guerrier trembled as he shambled along, his gaze held hard to the feet of the Dutchman plodding along in front of him. Now and then he swiped at his eyes with a shackled wrist.

  When the prisoners were gathered before the entry port the drumming ceased abruptly. John Stokes was singled out from the others and brought forth to the nettings. At Boatswain Cannon’s command, he turned and faced Captain Preble, who was standing rigidly on the quarterdeck.

  “Seaman Stokes,” Preble proclaimed into the ensuing silence, “do you understand the offenses of which you have been accused and found guilty? And the sections of the Act for the Better Government of the Navy into which your offenses fall?”

  “I do, Captain.” Stokes’ reply was so soft that the midshipmen, stationed farthest aft, had to strain to hear him.

  Preble then put a question to the quarterdeck. “Does any officer here present wish to speak on behalf of this man?”

  It
was a traditional yet normally rhetorical question. Few officers ever spoke up at such a moment. Jamie Cutler had nonetheless steeled himself to do just that. He advanced one step in front of the line of midshipmen. “Captain, if you please, I wish to speak.”

  Preble raised his eyebrows. “Yes, Mr. Cutler?”

  Jamie faced his captain. “Sir, Seaman Stokes serves in my division. I have never had occasion to put him on report. To the contrary, he has been an exemplary member of the crew. He has obeyed my every command. Until this unfortunate incident his performance has been a credit to his division and to this ship. I therefore wish to vouch for him, and I request with the utmost respect that he be granted leniency.”

  Preble’s expression remained unchanged. “I see. Are there other such requests?”

  To Jamie’s surprise, Ralph Izard advanced one step to stand beside him. “I too wish to vouch for Seaman Stokes, Captain.”

  “And I, Captain,” Octavius Paige proclaimed on Jamie’s other side.

  Preble pondered his response, then: “Thank you for your remarks, gentlemen. Your praise of Seaman Stokes and your loyalty to each other are commendable. Your comments shall be duly recorded in the ship’s log.” He faced forward. “Mr. Cannon, you may proceed with punishment. Seize the prisoner up!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  At Cannon’s command, two of his mates removed Stokes’ shirt and ordered him to turn around. As Stokes’ hands were being tied to the bulwark nettings high above him, a third boatswain’s mate removed a sinister-looking two-foot length of thick rope from a red baize bag. Dangling down from the end of that rope were nine lengths of thinner cord, each about half a yard long with three knots set in at small intervals near the tail end.

  Preble removed his hat.