A Call to Arms (21 page)

Now the officers
did
exchange glances. What Captain Preble had not said, had only implied, was that
Philadelphia
and her massive armament now lay in the hands of the enemy.

Stephen Decatur asked the necessary question. “Did Captain Bainbridge scuttle her, Captain?”

“He may have tried to, Mr. Decatur. We must assume that he did. But she must have gone hard aground. To our knowledge, she remains on the reef.”

“What of Captain Bainbridge and the crew, sir?” Richard Somers inquired. As to be expected, the sandy-haired twenty-five-year-old lieutenant was seated between Stephen Decatur and Charles Stewart. The three officers were fast friends, and had been since growing up together in Philadelphia and studying together at the Episcopal Academy in Merion, Pennsylvania.

“All hands,” Preble answered him solemnly, “more than three hundred men, are prisoners of our enemy. Beyond that, I know nothing. I have given you all the details I have at the moment. Needless to say, I require
time to determine our response. Expect me to seek your advice on the matter, both individually and as a group.”

“
Constitution's
GIG
is coming alongside, Captain.”

Richard Cutler returned the salute of the young midshipman on watch duty and glanced at his waistcoat watch. “Thank you, Mr. Osborn. Please inform Captain Eaton that we shove off in five minutes.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Four weeks had passed since HMS
Amazon
had delivered her dispatch. It was now December 19, well past the date Edward Preble had requested
Portsmouth
to join the squadron. But the delay was unavoidable. Preble had ordered Richard to await Capt. William Eaton in Malta and convey him to Syracuse aboard
Portsmouth.
Eaton, as it turned out, had been delayed both in reaching Malta and in departing—for the best of reasons, which Eaton promised to explain to Captain Preble at the earliest opportunity. Within half an hour of dropping anchor in Syracuse Harbor, Richard had informed Commodore Preble of his arrival in a note hand-delivered by Lieutenant Meyers. Preble responded with an invitation for an audience the next morning at two bells in the forenoon watch, informing Meyers that he would send
Constitution's
gig to convey Captain Cutler and Captain Eaton to the flagship.

At a little after one bell the next morning, Richard settled onto the stern sheets of the gig near the coxswain. Shifting his position to make room for Eaton beside him, he glanced up and touched his hat to Agreen Crabtree and Carl Corbett, captain of Marines, their heads and upper torsos visible above the quarterdeck's larboard hammock netting. As the larboard oars of the gig came horizontal and oarsmen on the starboard side pushed off, Richard swung his gaze to
Constitution,
lying at anchor several hundred yards away. As he had when he first saw her lying at anchor in Carlisle Bay in Barbados back in '99, Richard felt his senses thrill. The flagship lay still on the calm harbor waters, a beauty for the ages from her rounded bow and immense bowsprit and jib-boom to her jaunty stern. Her sails were furled in Bristol fashion, and the rich black paint on her 175-foot hull glistened in the warm morning sun.

A wave of anticipation crested over him as he climbed the built-in steps and passed through the larboard entry port, Eaton following close behind. Richard saluted the quarterdeck and then returned the salutes of the side party gathered amidships to honor him. Last in the line of crisp white and blue uniforms, at stiff attention, stood Midn. James Cutler.
Richard managed a brief nod, father to son, before Charles Gordon stepped forward and touched his hat.

“Captain Cutler, welcome aboard, sir,” he said. “Captain Eaton, I am First Lieutenant Gordon. Please, if you will follow me. Captain Preble is expecting you.”

Captain Preble wasted little time on small talk. Because it was just the three of them in company with Phillip Darby, the captain's clerk, they gathered in the more intimate confines of the commodore's dining alcove. Formalities dispensed with, Preble invited Richard Cutler to speak first.

“I received word of
Philadelphia's
misfortune in Malta, sir,” Richard said. “Rear Admiral Bickerton, the British naval commander in Valetta, offered me what intelligence he had gathered from Mr. McDonough, the British consul in Tripoli, and from a Mr. Nissen, the Danish consul.”

“I see. And where did
their
information originate?”

“In part from Yusuf Karamanli himself, sir. Mr. Nissen is a favorite of his, and the bashaw speaks openly to him. But most of my information comes from Captain Bainbridge, and what he has to say confirms what Mr. Nissen asserts.”

“How very interesting. Pray, continue.”

“You see, sir, the bashaw has given Captain Bainbridge permission to communicate with the two consuls. His letters are censored, of course, so sensitive information such as
Philadelphia's
location is written, as prescribed, between the lines.” He was referring to a procedure developed by American double agents during the war with England and since adopted by British intelligence that involved writing words in lemon juice between the lines of a letter. The words became visible when the recipient held the letter above a candle's flame. “I have these letters with me. Captain Bainbridge intended them ultimately to reach you.”

“I shall review them later. Go on.”

“We now know, sir, that the Tripolitans were able to plug the holes that Captain Bainbridge ordered blown through
Philadelphia's
bottom and managed to work her off the reef. They have also salvaged the guns that Captain Bainbridge jettisoned overboard in his effort to lighten her and pry her off the reef.
Philadelphia
was towed inshore and currently lies at anchor just off Tripoli's main battery on a line halfway between the bashaw's castle on the southeastern wall and a battery on the mole to the northeast. Her current position, which I have been able to approximate on a chart, is well within the string of shoals and reefs that ring the inner harbor and make entry so difficult.”

“So cutting her out could prove challenging,” Preble mused.

“Extremely so, sir, especially under the circumstances. She has no foremast—Captain Bainbridge ordered it cut down to lift her bow when he tried to kedge her off—and her mainmast is damaged. I understand its t'gant mast is gone. We don't know the condition of her mizzen. I assume it remains intact, since Captain Bainbridge mentioned nothing about it in his letters.”

“So to retake her we'll need to tow her out, just as she was towed in.”

“That would appear to be our best choice, sir. Unless . . .”

Preble arched his eyebrows. “
Unless,
Mr. Cutler?”

“Unless,” Richard said evenly, “we destroy her where she lies.”

Preble stared. “To keep her, and her guns, out of the hands of the Tripolitan Navy?”

“Precisely, sir. And I believe we'd have a much better chance of doing that than getting her out of the harbor.”

Preble appeared to contemplate that. “A most intriguing notion, Mr. Cutler. I intend to discuss it further with my squadron commanders. You will be interested to learn that Master Commandant Hull and Lieutenant Decatur have reached the same conclusion, and I find myself drawn to it as well. Is there anything else?”

“Just that according to Admiral Bickerton, Captain Bainbridge's surrender was an honorable one. When he found himself surrounded by enemy gunboats, he destroyed the signal book and other sensitive documents, and fired her two remaining guns before surrendering the ship. Apparently, the reef
Philadelphia
struck is not on any chart. And her crew did everything possible to free her.”

“There will be a court of inquiry, nonetheless.”

“Yes, sir.” Richard paused. “I have one final item, sir:
Philadelphia's
officers and crew have apparently been separated. The officers are being held in the bashaw's castle, I am told in relative comfort. The crew is being held somewhere else within the city, I imagine in somewhat less comfort. Captain Bainbridge does not know where. Nor, so he claims, does Mr. Schembri. He's the—”

“Gaetano Schembri?” Preble snorted. “The Tripolitan consul in Malta?”

“The same. I take it you have made his acquaintance, sir.”

“Unfortunately, I have. What did he have to say about this?”

Richard deferred to William Eaton, who was more qualified to answer Preble's question. Richard had come to respect Eaton during their three weeks' acquaintance. Born in 1764 in Connecticut, Eaton had enlisted in
the Continental army at the age of fifteen and had quickly climbed the ranks to sergeant major. After the war he attended Dartmouth College and displayed a remarkable aptitude for foreign languages. He reenlisted in the army in 1792 as a captain and served under Maj. Gen. Anthony Wayne during the Indian wars in the Ohio Valley and along the border of Spanish Florida and Georgia. Having acquired a keen interest in the Arab world, he convinced his protégé, Secretary of State Timothy Pickering, to appoint him U.S. consul in Tunis. By that time he had mastered two Indian languages, four Arab dialects, French, Latin, and Greek.

Eaton's pale blue eyes flashed at Preble. “I share your opinion of the man, Commodore,” he said with a wry smile, “but I felt it my duty to confer with him so that I could understand, in Mr. Lear's absence, exactly what Yusuf Karamanli has in mind for our captured sailors. It was no easy task to arrange a meeting with Schembri, but through the good auspices of Mr. Morath we were able to do so. It is one reason for
Portsmouth's
delay in arriving here. It was my doing, not Mr. Cutler's, who was gracious enough to wait for me.”

“I see,” Preble said. Going straight to the heart of the matter, he asked, “What is the bashaw demanding? I assume that the capture of
Philadelphia
has raised the ante?”

The sarcasm underlying that last question was not lost on Eaton. “It has,” he confirmed. “By a rather substantial amount, I'm afraid. The price of peace is now $500 per sailor. Schembri insists, however, that if we show good faith he can persuade the bashaw to decrease his demands, perhaps to a grand total of $100,000.”

“That
is
a rather grand total, isn't it?” Preble shook his head. “I assume that amount represents ransom payments only, and not the tribute as well.”

“That is correct, Commodore. The bashaw continues to insist that ransom payments to free our sailors be tied to annual payments of tribute. Otherwise, Schembri contends, there can be no peace between our country and Tripoli.”

Preble leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He waited a moment to allow his clerk to catch up with his notes. When Darby gave him a small nod, Preble said, “Then there shall be no peace. President Jefferson has made it quite clear that the United States will not pay tribute money to any nation under any circumstances. Ransom yes, tribute no. I happen to agree with his stand on the matter.”

“As do I, Commodore,” Eaton returned. “Be assured of that. Mr. Lear may prefer the president's so-called awe and talk strategy, but I
oppose it most strenuously. I have said before what I say to you today: we cannot achieve a meaningful peace in this region by engaging in peace negotiations on land whilst our Navy does nothing but flex its muscles at sea. Yusuf Karamanli is not impressed with our naval power, and why should he be? The United States lacks the resolve to exert that power. We will not win this war simply by blockading Tripoli. Commodore Dale and Commodore Morris did that to little effect. To bring Yusuf to his knees we must attack his seat of power by sea
and
by land.”

Eaton rushed on with hardly a breath, delivering his next words as a plea wrapped in a cloak of iron. “You have summoned me here to Syracuse to learn of my intentions, and I have come here of my own accord to discuss them with you. Stated bluntly, I have come to enlist your support. I can assure you that Commodore Morris believed in me, as do President Jefferson and Secretary Madison, at least they did when I sat down with them in Washington and explained my intentions. I pray to God that
you
will believe in me as well.

“I am convinced that victory is not possible in this war if we rely on sea power alone. Tripoli has a sizable navy, but Yusuf Karamanli will not risk losing it in a pitched battle with your squadron. He will use his larger warships as he plans to use
Philadelphia,
primarily to reinforce his shore batteries, and will rely on his gunboats to dissuade your ships from venturing in too close. A naval bombardment of Tripoli may have a brief positive effect, but it alone will not induce Yusuf to surrender. He will remain defiant behind his city walls until the American public loses heart in this struggle and demands our withdrawal from the Mediterranean.”

Preble rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and brought his fingers together under his chin to form a steeple as he listened to Eaton's passionate words. His brow furrowed in concentration. He asked, when there came a lull, “What, exactly, do you require of
me,
Captain Eaton?”

“Financial and logistical support,” Eaton replied without pause. “I am not asking for significant ground forces. A few Marines is all. Captain Cutler has been most helpful in initial discussions with Mr. Farquhar in Malta. Mr. Farquhar can provide European mercenaries, military supplies, and provisions. Another agent, Mr. Busatile, will aid Hamet Karamanli in raising a force of Egyptian mercenaries, horses, and camels. We expect to pick up additional support from local tribesmen on the march across Cyrenaica.”