A Call to Arms (17 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Bosworth. You have been most helpful.”

With a screech of boatswain's whistles
Portsmouth
brought her sails to the breeze and made ready to drop anchor for the first time since leaving Boston almost seven weeks earlier.

A
T TWO BELLS
in the forenoon watch the following morning, the Marine sentry on duty outside the captain's after cabin knocked on the door. Bidden in, he walked aft to the dining alcove where Richard Cutler was having coffee with his commissioned officers and snapped a crisp salute. He handed Richard Cutler a square white letter that bore his name in elaborate black script on the front. On the back, at the juncture of the folds in the middle, was an official seal embossed within a circle of red wax. Richard broke the wax, unfolded the letter, and read:

To the Hon. Capt. Richard Cutler
of the United States Ship Portsmouth
Valletta Harbor

Dear Captain Cutler:

You and whichever of your officers you choose are most cordially invited to Fort Saint Elmo at four o'clock this afternoon to confer with me and the royal governor's private secretary in the Blue Room located on the main floor. We have some knowledge of your business in Malta and we are keen to understand how we might assist you further. I regret to inform you that Sir Alexander is unable to join us this afternoon, but he extends his best regards and full cooperation to you and your ship. He is most hopeful that in two weeks' time he shall have the honor of your company at a social occasion, the details of which I shall provide this afternoon.

Kindly acknowledge receipt of this communication.

I am

Your Most Obedient Servant,

Thomas Quentin Morath

Personal Representative of His Honor

Sir Alexander Ball

28 October 1803

“Is the governor's boat standing by?” Richard asked the Marine.

“It is, sir.”

“Please acknowledge receipt of this invitation and accept on behalf of Lieutenant Crabtree and myself.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” The Marine saluted and departed the cabin.

“Invitation?” Agreen inquired after the sentry had closed the cabin door.

“Just so. The letter is from the governor's personal representative. You and I have an appointment with him in Fort Saint Elmo at the start of the first dogwatch. I would invite you all,” he said, glancing at his other two commissioned officers, “but that might be overdoing it. And it appears we have another invitation to consider, this one from Sir Alexander himself, in two weeks.”

“You mean we have to endure this island for two whole
weeks
?” Eric Meyers said with a heavy sigh that did not entirely mask his delight. “That's a mighty stiff sentence, Captain.”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Meyers. And I should think you will need every bit of it to recuperate from your ordeal in the water. But don't go getting your hopes up just yet. Our orders are to return to base as soon as conditions permit. In the meantime, you may inform Mr. Weeks that the men are granted shore leave in rotation. And please repeat to Mr. Weeks what I have already said: the women on this island are devout Catholics, they take their religion seriously, and the order is ‘hands off.' I am most adamant about this. More to the point, Mr. Meyers,” he added tongue-in-cheek, “the ship's officers must also understand this,
you
in particular. Your reputation with the ladies is quite well established.”

Meyers gave him a solemn look. “I promise you, sir, that I will do nothing for which I have not prayed devoutly.”

“That is precisely what troubles me, Mr. Meyers.”

T
HE
K
NIGHTS OF
S
AINT
J
OHN
built Fort Saint Elmo to be the centerpiece of Malta's coastal fortifications. Controlling the entrance to both
Grand Harbor and the neighboring Marsamxett Harbor, its massive walls and gun batteries reinforced the older fortifications of Fort Tigné and the Roman-built Fort Angelo on the opposite side of Grand Harbor. During the Great Siege of 1565 the fort withstood an Ottoman naval bombardment. Under British rule, Fort Tigné had been converted into an army barracks and Fort Saint Angelo clearly held less strategic significance. But star-shaped Fort Saint Elmo retained an imperial presence, and woe to any enemy, thought Richard Cutler as he and Agreen Crabtree approached the heavy wooden doors at its entrance, who dared challenge its authority.

The Blue Room was in keeping with its name: everything in the snug little room, from its window drapes to the cushions and fabrics of its furniture, was a bright robin's-egg blue. Wingback chairs and settees surrounded a low table; on a mantle a pendulum clock ticked agreeably. A large rectangular window cut into the seaward wall was open to the pleasant scent of sea air and the pleasing sound of waves swirling and sucking against a rocky promontory below.

A short, pudgy, balding man projecting a no-nonsense attitude strode into the room. He was superbly dressed from the white silk of his neck stock to the polished shine of his silver-buckled shoes, although Richard noticed that the three lowest buttons of his gold-tasseled waistcoat were left undone to allow room for the consequences of overindulgence. Following obediently behind him was a man who appeared not yet thirty, of slight build with dark, flowing hair and thick eyebrows that nearly met in the middle. In his right hand he clutched a leather satchel.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cutler,” the older man said with an aristocratic drawl. “I am Thomas Morath. On behalf of the royal governor, I welcome you and your ship to Valletta. This is Mr. Crabtree, I presume? I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant. Please, sit down. Before we begin,” he continued, “please allow me to introduce the governor's personal secretary. A fine young man, if I may say so, who holds the additional title of public secretary of Malta, a most prestigious position. His name is Samuel Coleridge. He is a Cambridge man and a very fine poet in his spare time. Indeed, he has already had a book of romantic poems published in England in collaboration with . . . um . . . um . . .” He gave the young man a questioning look.

“William Wordsworth,” Coleridge replied. The amused glance he gave the Americans suggested that Thomas Morath, for all his accomplishments, had little knowledge of either romance or poetry.

“Yes, quite. Wordsworth. “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” and all that.
Jolly good show. Highly recommended. Ah, here is tea.” After a servant had passed tea and crustless cucumber and parsley sandwiches to the group seated around the table, he continued. “Now then, gentlemen, if we may get down to business. Mr. Coleridge carries a dispatch for you from your squadron commander, Captain Edward Preble. We received it just two days ago. Would you care to read it before we begin? It may have some bearing on our discussions.”

Richard nodded. “I would, thank you.”

Coleridge withdrew the dispatch from the satchel and handed it over. When Richard had finished reading, he folded it and slid it into a coat pocket. “There is nothing in this dispatch that will affect our discussions, Mr. Morath,” he said, “and nothing that is not already known to British intelligence. Commodore Preble informs me that a show of naval power off the coast of Tangiers has convinced the sultan of Morocco to make peace with the United States. He also informs me that the permanent base for our Mediterranean Squadron is Syracuse and I am to report to him there by December first.” He left unspoken a third item—that Capt. William Eaton was unavoidably detained in Tunis and would not arrive in Malta on schedule. Richard Cutler was instructed to proceed according to plan and to gather what intelligence he could without him. Nor did he mention a fourth item, in the form of a personal note from Preble stating that he had appointed Richard's son James to the rank of senior midshipman. That appointment meant that Jamie was now first in line to serve as acting lieutenant should the need arise.

Morath's eyebrows shot up. “
Syracuse
? Why in heaven's name would Captain Preble choose Syracuse? We have offered your navy the full complement of our services here in Valletta and in Gibraltar. But
Sicily
? I daresay it's good for nothing except bloody grapes and olives.”

Richard patted the side pocket into which he had slid the dispatch. “The short answer is what Preble reports here, that when the squadron assembled in Gibraltar, a number of his crew jumped ship. Since they claimed to be British citizens, the Royal Navy would not give them up—a sort of a reverse impressment, if you will. I suspect that Captain Preble fears the same thing would happen here. And
Constitution
is short-handed as it is.”

Morath pursed his lips. “Viewed in that light, I suppose it does make some sort of sense. Might I inquire if you are concerned about your own men?”

“It hadn't crossed my mind,” Richard confessed.

“Our crew is entirely American,” Agreen explained, “and they are loyal to their captain. Many of them were formerly employed in the Cutler family shipping business, me included. These men sail with us because they choose to, not because they are forced to.”

Morath smiled thinly. “How commendable. Perhaps our navy may take a lesson from yours.” He continued with forced good cheer. “Well, no point in flogging a dead horse, what? Or flogging a deserter you can't string up.” He chuckled at his turn of phrase. When neither American seemed to appreciate his humor, he cleared his throat. “Right. Let us return to the business at hand, shall we?”

For the next thirty minutes Richard Cutler explained the plan hatched by Capt. William Eaton, former consul in Tunis, to lead an army in support of Hamet Karamanli against his brother, Yusuf. Although Eaton would lead this overland expedition, the U.S. government had refused to commit substantial ground forces in its support. Assistance was thus required from foreign sources: Arab soldiers loyal to Hamet, certainly, and European mercenaries, if possible, plus sufficient stores of military supplies and a caravan of camels. Britain could help, Richard suggested, through its vast intelligence network in the Mediterranean and especially in Egypt, where Hamet had taken refuge after abandoning his post as royal governor of Derne. Egypt had been under nominal British rule since Admiral Nelson's victory over the French at the Battle of the Nile. Morath could also help by arranging for him to meet Richard Farquhar, an acquaintance of Hamet Karamanli currently residing in Malta, and Salvatore Busatile, a Hamet intimate authorized to speak on his behalf. Both men were under British protection. Richard ended by stressing the plan's advantages for Britain. Although the war with Tripoli was America's affair, an American victory in the Mediterranean would serve the national interests of all Christian maritime nations, Great Britain first among them.

Morath stroked his chin as Richard spoke, and Coleridge took copious notes. “Most interesting,” he said at the conclusion. “Most interesting indeed, Captain Cutler. I daresay you make a strong argument. I must discuss this with Sir Alexander, of course, but I foresee no impediment to arranging the meeting you request. Where would you like it to take place? Here in this room?”

“I would prefer my ship, Mr. Morath. I want my other officers to be present.”

“Your other officers are most welcome here.”

“I thank you for that. But I would prefer my ship.”

“Then your ship it shall be. I shall send word when the meeting is arranged.” Morath motioned to Coleridge to gather up his writing tools. “Just one more item if you please, Captain, before we take our leave. As I indicated in my letter to you this morning, there is another occasion for you to meet Sir Alexander, and we hope you will be in a position to take advantage of it. Two weeks from tomorrow—that would be the tenth of November—Sir Alexander is hosting an affair at San Anton Palace. The guest of honor, I am delighted to inform you, is Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson, who is to arrive in Valencia aboard
Victory.
” He smiled at Richard's reaction. “Accompanying his lordship to Malta, and to the social affair at San Anton Palace, is his friend Captain Jeremy Hardcastle, who, if British intelligence serves, is your brother-in-law. Admiral Nelson and Captain Hardcastle will both be quite distraught if you are unable to attend. Their business in Malta is rather hush-hush, you see, and this will likely be your only opportunity to see them whilst they're here. The invitation includes you as well, Lieutenant Crabtree. You both will receive formal invitations shortly. I bid you two gentlemen a very good day.”

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, Lt Eric Meyers was waiting at the entry port to greet two civilians who arrived aboard a British-manned launch. Richard Cutler received the two men in his after cabin and formally introduced them to his three lieutenants. After seating the visitors on one side of the rectangular table, he asked each to say a few words about his background and his relationship with Hamet Karamanli.

The taller of the two men, dressed in the style of a prosperous European merchant, spoke first in a distinct Highland burr. “This looks to me very much like a court of inquiry,” he commented, his dark eyes flashing at the four naval officers sitting across from him in full undress uniform. Behind the officers, visible through stern windows hinged open, the azure waters of Grand Harbor shimmered in the pleasant warmth of the day. Sunlight danced about the cabin and deckhead, reflecting off the glass panes with the small motions of the ship. “Or perhaps a court-martial,” the man added.