Annapolis, page 11
Now Bad Luck Billy put on his officer’s coat, as though preparing to stride a quarterdeck that no longer existed. He brushed the lint from his shoulders, a forlorn gesture, since the Tripolitans had taken his epaulettes when they took his ship. Then, with a small flourish, he flipped back his swallowtails, sat, dipped his quill in the lime juice, and began to write.
In each dispatch that he passed through the Dutch consul to Preble, he included a secret message, written in lime juice, invisible until held in front of a candle. In this way, he and Preble had planned the burning of the Philadelphia, but there had been no secret messages in over a week.
“Now, then,” Dr. Cowdery went on, “the miracle of the louse is its insignificance. If the Lord’s seen fit to give this creature a home in your scalp, what rapture does he hold for Christians who—”
“Guards coming,” someone whispered.
Porter snatched one of the lime rinds from the captain’s table, Parrish grabbed another, Bainbridge a third. Every man within reach stuffed one into his mouth, so that when the iron door swung open, the Tripolitan guard was greeted by a dozen men sucking limes and making strange faces.
The guard made a face of his own and said something to the small man behind him, who wore a white turban and a yellow silk robe. The man stepped forward smiling an inscrutable little smile at Dr. Cowdery. “Why is it that Americans suck limes to make their faces look like those of the tree monkey?”
“We are seamen, Sidi Mohammed. We suck limes to keep away scurvy.”
“But so many? We eat not this many in Tripoli, but we have no scurvy.”
Bainbridge took his lime out of his mouth. “Tell him we are jealous to protect the health of the bashaw’s hostages.”
Sidi Mohammed Dgheis was the bashaw’s foreign minister, considered by the Americans the most sympathetic of all the bashaw’s functionaries. He gave the captain a small bow, the delicacy of the gesture matched perfectly to the delicacy of his position, and asked Surgeon’s Mate Cowdery to accompany him to the palace.
Cowdery lived there, a privilege gained when he cured the bashaw’s daughter of an eye infection. Now he went about the city on his own parole, cared for important Tripolitan families, and was regularly admitted to the dungeon to attend officers and crew. Like a courtier, he bowed and feigned concern. “Is the bashaw ill?”
“No. The bashaw, he says”—Sidi Mohammed ran his tongue around the corners of his mouth and cast his eyes toward the window—“he says that there will be many more Americans to care for before the day is out.”
In an instant, thirty officers were on their feet, some clambering for the window, others crushing in around Sidi Mohammed. Captain Bainbridge was demanding to know if any of his sailors had been hurt. Lieutenant Porter was promising retribution if they had. And Tripolitan guards were hurrying into the room to form a wall around the door.
Then Bainbridge shouted to his men, “Stand down! Thirty men can’t fight their way out of a city of twenty-five thousand! Stand down.”
“Wisely spoken,” said Sidi Mohammed from behind the guards. When the room was quiet, he added, “I ask once more for Dr. Cowdery. The rest of you watch the harbor through your window.”
Cowdery grabbed his bag and looked at the midshipmen as though trying to remember something.
Samuel Parrish stepped forward. “I believe I’m on duty with you today, sir.”
Jason hooked a leg around Parrish’s and said, “No, sir. It’s my duty.”
Parrish tried to elbow him out of the way, but Jason held his ground.
Parrish tried to take every tour as assistant to the surgeon’s mate. It meant a day of freedom in the sunlight and perhaps a visit to the sick of the bashaw’s harem. Most midshipmen surrendered to Parrish. But Jason had grown taller in ten months and less intimidated. When it was his turn, he took it, no matter how hard Parrish scowled.
A moment later, Jason was scurrying along the stone corridor, straining to put on his coat, stumbling to keep pace with the doctor. Up one flight of stairs, then another, and a third… then Jason heard shouting, smelled the strong sweat of frightened men, and in the dim light, saw the sailors of the Philadelphia. They were running, scuffling, scrambling along the stone floors of the castle, each weighed down with cannon balls or bags of powder. And if any were seen to falter, a Tripolitan lash snapped.
“Something big’s happenin’, lad,” whispered Dr. Cowdery.
“Big… yes,” said Sidi Mohammed.
Up they went, into the sunshine on the rampart, where the Tripolitan crews were running out their guns. Jason tried to peer over the embrasures and down into the harbor, but he could see no more than glimpses of the whitewashed city.
The Tripolitan flag—three stripes red, three stripes yellow—fluttered on buildings and battlements, reminding Jason of a clown’s pantaloons, and he could hear sounds of laughter, as if a clown truly was coming, and people had climbed onto their rooftops to see him.
Bashaw Yusef Karamanli was watching from his balcony, peering through a brass telescope and joking at what he saw. His guests were laughing loudly, which was no surprise, as all were advised to laugh loudly when the bashaw was in the mood to joke.
Jason, who had seldom been out of his hole since the burning of the Philadelphia, stood now on a handsome tiled floor, on a balcony railed in gold, while servants offered him plates of dried fruit and cups of Tripolitan tea sweetened with hazelnut oil, and all around him were men who wore silk robes and jeweled earrings and carried their daggers in curved gold scabbards. Even the Mediterranean sun looked gold in the azure sky.
So Jason took a gold cup of tea, which was so strong that after a small sip, he could hear the blood rushing through his ears. Then the bashaw turned toward him, and Jason’s knees went weak.
Yusef Karamanli seemed about the age of Captain Bainbridge, in his thirties, but where the captain had lost his presence, the bashaw seemed to absorb the presence of those around him. He was about as wide a man as Jason had ever seen, a mixture of muscle and fat and simple bulk, draped in a green silk robe, with a gold belt around his enormous waist, and a gold silk turban that made his head seem twice the size of a normal man’s.
But for all his size, the bashaw seemed to know that the best way to disarm a man was warmly. He smiled at the doctor, then looked at Jason and let out a stream of words as Sidi Mohammed translated: “His Highness the bashaw, he welcomes Surgeon’s Mate Cowdery and the midshipman who assists him. His Highness, he hopes they enjoy the hospitality of his palace. What is the bashaw’s is theirs.”
Dr. Cowdery gave the bashaw a slight bow of the head, then looked at Jason, as if prodding him to speak.
Jason said, “Uh, tell the bashaw… His Highness… I thank him for the tea.”
As Sidi Mohammed turned to translate, the doctor whispered to Jason, “Don’t be impressed by him, lad. He’s a brigand. Consider the louse.”
The bashaw gestured for the boy to drink down the rest of his tea. He even managed a few English words. “’Sgood. ’Sgood, yes?”
So Jason finished it in a single swallow, gagged it down, gagged it back when it tried to come up, then nearly fell over from the pounding it brought to his head.
The bashaw laughed and led the boy toward the edge of the balcony. The men near the railing parted like a silken curtain, and the harbor at last appeared before Jason Stafford.
The curve of the shoreline resembled the curve of a Muslim dagger. The southeast point was formed by Fort English. The walls of the city formed the blade. The handle was a breakwater running northeast, called the mole. And in truth, the city of Tripoli looked like a giant weapon. Cannon bristled everywhere—in the forts, along the walls, and out of every gunport in the circular three-story battery that formed the tip of the mole, like the finial on the dagger’s handle.
There was the burned hulk of the Philadelphia. There were the rocks running northeast from the mole. And there was the Tripolitan fleet of nineteen gunboats pouring out through the channels between the rocks, a sight to strike fear in the belly of any merchant captain.
But beyond the rocks was a sight to strike fear in the belly of any Barbary pirate: the American Mediterranean Squadron, drawn close and cleared for action.
Jason could make out six gunboats, along with the brigs Vixen and Siren, the schooners Enterprise, Argus, and Nautilus. And standing off, under topsails and jibs, the Constitution.
Jason fixed his eyes on the battle ensign fluttering at the stern of the frigate. And one word filled his head: freedom.
But the bashaw was talking again, or sneering. And Sidi Mohammed was translating. “His Highness, he says it is too bad Jefferson will not pay his tribute. Instead, another American frigate will soon be his.”
A MILE AND a half away, beyond the line of rocks, the sea was running at no more than a foot, and the tide had taken the flood. Conditions for the attack, thought Gideon Browne, were perfect.
He gauged the wind at a few knots out of the east. Even with a big lateen-rigged sail helping the oars, it would be ten minutes before they came into range of the Tripolitan gunboats. So he braced himself against his twenty-four-pounder and tried to ignore the roll of the deck beneath his feet and the roll of his lunch beneath his belt.
Gunboat Number Four, like its sisters, was an unwieldy twenty-five-ton scow with nothing to recommend it but a shallow draft. Preble had hired the gunboats and their oarsmen in Naples because he meant to engage the Tripolitans, not simply blockade them. But the shoals that had claimed the Philadelphia were still there, so a shallow draft meant as much as a full spread of canvas.
Up ahead, the Tripolitan gunboats were forming lines of battle in front of the main channel and around the molehead battery. They were not better sailers, but there were three times as many of them, they carried more men, and they added two brass howitzers to their bow guns. The Tripolitan gunners also held their fire, demonstrating more discipline than many Americans thought they possessed.
Except for the creak of the oars and the gentle push of the wind in the sails, an eerie silence fluttered across the sea, making the charge of the gunboats seem like the slow march of the clouds across the sky on a calm summer day. Gideon swallowed the metallic taste of fear in his mouth and watched the distance closing.
“Eyes on Constitution, Mr. Browne.” Stephen Decatur came up beside him. “We’ll hold our fire until she shows the signal pennant.”
“Aye, sir.” Gideon put his hand on his dirk, to keep from shaking.
No man in the American Navy had brought more glory onto himself than Stephen Decatur when he burned the Philadelphia.
Gideon had read the classics, and he could imagine Decatur as Odysseus, leading his men through terrible straits. Everything about Decatur reminded Gideon of a two-dollar word he had learned in school: “archetype.” Beneath his officer’s coat, Decatur’s body was no more than muscle. And his face was not simply handsome, but arresting, with a nose like a dagger in its straight severity. Furious in battle yet beloved by his men, covered in glory yet committed to his duty—that was what they were saying about Decatur in the American newspapers—and he was only twenty-five.
If he feared to see twenty-six, he did not betray it. “We’re nearing range. But there’s no worse gunners than these Tripolines. After they fire, they’ll try to board, for they think there’s no better hand-to-hand fighters. But they haven’t met us!”
That brought a cheer from the Americans, and the Neapolitan crewmen cheered, too, though they didn’t know why, and the men on the other gunboats began to the cheer as well.
Then the Tripolitans broke and came on under sail and oar. They were not so disciplined after all.
ON THE BALCONY, the bashaw was still boasting.
“His Highness, he says you Americans are afraid. You must be goaded into fighting. You are wise to be afraid but unwise to refuse to pay your ransom. The bashaw, he says you must tell your Captain Bainbridge to beg for the ransom, as it is the only way you will leave Tripoli… alive, that is.” And Sidi Mohammed shrugged, as if to say he was only the messenger. “A thousand pardons.”
Thanks to Porter’s classes in naval tactics, Jason knew exactly what was happening: American gunboats would engage the Tripolitan defenders, while two bomb ketches moved in to deliver exploding shells and terror onto the populace. Then the marines might land and demand the hostages. And… freedom.
Now two Tripolitan boats were bearing down on the lead American. But when the American changed course to engage them, they fell off, taking themselves out of the fight before it began.
ON GUNBOAT NUMBER Four, the men were jeering at the Tripolitans while Gideon Browne tried to decide if he was relieved that they had fallen off, frustrated that the fight had not yet started, or frightened to the edge of incontinence. In truth, he was all three.
Then the attack flag fluttered up the Constitution’s mizzenmast. Gideon held his bladder and shouted, “The commodore shows his signal!”
From somewhere to the west came the first shot, the crumping thump of a thirteen-inch mortar on one of the bomb ketches. And Tripoli Harbor erupted with smoke and thunder and exploding splashes of water.
But Decatur was right. The Tripolitans were terrible gunners. He aimed Number Four at the nearest enemy boat and called for fire.
Gideon Browne lowered the match. There was a flash of fine powder in the touchhole, a blast at the muzzle. The gun jumped against its tackles like a furious bull. And the Tripolitan bow gunner was shredded. Half a dozen oars went limp in their holes, like the legs of a wounded beast, while the rest clawed frantically at the water, trying to pull the gunboat out of the path of the attacking American.
Then Decatur turned toward the gunboats anchored under the molehead battery, which looked like some kind of Romanist censer spouting smoke, and the Neapolitan oarsmen began to pray. So did Gideon.
THE BASHAW was still smiling, but it was the frozen smile of a host whose lamb had burned, whose dancing girls had fled. Several guests had already slipped from his presence, as shells from the bomb ketches came whistling down near the castle. And across the city, rooftops and balconies had emptied, too. But the bashaw was still offering a commentary.
“His Highness the bashaw, he says the Americans prove very good at chasing our gunboats, but what will they do if they catch them?”
“Sink them, Your Highness,” said Jason Stafford.
“Watch yourself,” whispered Dr. Cowdery.
“Watch closely,” whispered Sidi Mohammed, refusing to translate.
And Dr. Cowdery looked out at the squadron. “Watch old Preble, too.”
At first, the Constitution had remained beyond the rocks, cruising above the sulfurous clouds like some great bird of prey. Now she was closing. And the bashaw was watching, transfixed, through his telescope.
Jason imagined her gunports opening, her long twenty-fours running out, Preble calling for the gunners to blow up their matches. And then… He saw the broadside before he heard it. A great cloud burst from the black-and-gold starboard side of the Constitution. Then came a flash of fire from the muzzles, then a rolling rumble that Jason felt as much as heard. And for a moment, he swore, absolutely swore, that he could see the blurred black line created by fifteen cannonballs screaming toward the walls of Tripoli. An instant later, a tremendous cloud of masonry burst into the air along the north wall and the work of some ancient Roman architect came crumbling down.
The bashaw slammed his glass shut, and as he turned to the loyalists still left on his balcony, his breath was sucked out of him by a shell exploding at the base of his wall. Before the debris stopped falling, he was scurrying inside, his guards and his guests at his royal heels.
Only Jason and Dr. Cowdery were left watching from the balcony. But as there was little now to see through the smoke, Jason asked if they should go.
“Where to?”
“With your permission, sir, there’s a little felucca tied up right at the base of the castle wall. In all the confusion, we could make it out to the fleet.”
“I’m here on parole. My word of honor.”
Then Jason saw Sidi Mohammed and the guards coming back to collect them. In an instant he made his decision. None would call it insubordination if he ran. So he saluted the doctor and slipped down a staircase just inside the balcony door.
GUNBOAT NUMBER FOUR was grappled to a boatload of screaming Tripolitans, and Decatur called, “Boarders away!”
And Gideon Browne lost his nerve. He pretended to fumble with his dirk, while two dozen men went screaming over the side and waded into the pirates, leaving him alone with the prayer-spewing Neapolitan oarsmen and his own shame.
Then he saw Gunboat Number Two, commanded by Decatur’s brother James. It was bearing down on them with a midshipman at the helm.
“Bloody pirates!” shouted the midshipman. “They surrendered, and when we boarded, the pirate captain pulled a pistol and shot… shot Lieutenant Decatur.”
Stephen Decatur cried, “My brother?”
“Aye, sir. I’m taking him back to the Constitution.”
“How bad?”
The midshipman looked at the body. “In the head, sir. Mortal, I’m afraid.”
“What boat?” screamed Decatur from the deck of his captured Tripolitan.
“Sir?”
“What boat did this? What bloody boat?”
The midshipman pointed to a Tripolitan sweeping back through the rocks.
“She’s damned!” cried Decatur.
IN THE DARKNESS of the castle, Jason Stafford ran. And wherever he could, he ran down—down a long deserted corridor, down a stairwell, past a guard post at a narrow window, past a guard who did not see him because he was watching the battle and did not hear him because of the battle’s roar, down and around a corner—at every turn expecting guards to grab him.
