A Call to Arms (39 page)

“Thirty-four pounders,” Eaton mused after sizing them up. “Ugly buggers, aren't they? We'd do well to steer clear of their sights.”

O'Bannon indicated a building perhaps fifty feet in front of the palace by the harbor. “There lies the fort, sir,” he said.

He was pointing at a fair-sized structure with a single rounded turret on its western side, above which fluttered the green-and-white flag of Tripoli. Jutting out in front of it and into the harbor waters lapping at its base was a platform housing a battery of eight medium-sized howitzers set within stone embrasures.

“That's the Navy's problem,” Eaton said. He focused his attention on what lay directly below them: an open space fifty feet or so wide between the northern end of the long stone buildings and the eastern side of the harbor fortress. That gap was closing fast. Arab soldiers and citizenry were hard at work digging a ravine and erecting earthworks along the ravine's eastern edge. “We'll have a time breaching that,” Eaton muttered to himself. “But breach it we must.” He lifted his gaze beyond the ravine to the town of Derne, visible at that angle as a jumble of narrow streets meandering between limestone residences. Most of these were stylish, three-story affairs with grapevine-draped iron stairways leading from the street up to the front door.

“It's exactly as you described it, Hamet,” Eaton said, peering through the glass. “I must say, this town has much to commend it. Pity we may have to demolish it.” He shifted his glass to the southwest corner of the town, on the opposite side from where the long stone buildings began. “What is that structure over there? It looks like another fort.”

“It's a castle,” Hamet replied. “A very old castle. It's used mostly for storage. It's not heavily defended because it's not safe to walk on the upper floors. If we could take it, we could use the first floor as our base.”

“I agree,” Eaton said. He searched further. “Those earthworks to the south and west don't look as formidable as those below us. So the enemy must believe that if an attack comes, it will come from where we are now. That's where they're concentrating their forces and artillery.”

“Consider, General,” O'Bannon observed, a glass at his eye, “
why
they believe that. If we strike from the south or west, we'd have to charge from those hills”—he indicated the hills fringing the southern and western horizons—“across a mile of open ground. That would give the enemy,
what, three or four rounds at us before we could answer with one. We'd suffer heavy losses, losses we cannot afford.”

Eaton nodded slowly. “I daresay you're right, Lieutenant. So we attack from here. That will mean charging down a steep slope into the teeth of enemy fire. But I grant you, it's a far shorter distance to the town than from across those fields.”

O'Bannon had another thought to contribute. “When we force our way into the town, we'll have to guard against ambush from every house on every street. Our spies report that many homes have had holes knocked through their walls. That makes every citizen of Derne a potential sniper. That could in fact be the enemy's fallback strategy: lure us in and then pick us off one by one.”

Eaton grimaced. “You're full of good cheer this morning, aren't you, Lieutenant. But again I must agree with you. So we'll need to place our chances in the hands of God and in the heat of the moment. If the Navy can neutralize the shore batteries and if we can take the palace, perhaps that will convince the good people of Derne to switch loyalties and declare for Hamet. We may even persuade them to employ those sniper tactics against the governor's soldiers.”

As Eaton and O'Bannon continued to contemplate the pros and cons, Hamet Karamanli spoke up. “General,” he said in a decisive tone, “I have a different proposition.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“I suggest we split our forces. You and your Europeans attack from here. My cavalry will attack from there.” He pointed toward the southern hills. “On horseback, we will reach those defenses before the enemy can fire a second round. If at the same time you can blast your way through those earthworks below us, together we will cause enough confusion and fear to our enemy to give us victory.”

Before answering Hamet's proposal, Eaton cast his gaze out to the distant horizon where he could just barely make out the royals of a naval squadron standing off and on the pirate coast, its presence invisible to anyone in the town below him. After too many moments of dead silence, Hamet asked sourly, “What is it, General? You do not trust me?”

Eaton looked squarely at him. “I trust you, Hamet,” he replied. “If I didn't, I wouldn't be here. But I have a harder time trusting the officers who lead your cavalry. Sheik Mahomet has certain qualities I admire. Sheik el Tahib, however, has none. On this march he has treated me more as an enemy than an ally.”

Hamet blinked. “You speak the truth, General,” he said. “At least what your heart tells you is the truth. I realize that the ways of my people and my religion seem odd to you, perhaps even heretical. But understand: your Christian ways seem the same to us Muslims. Let us put all that aside, shall we? Let us not dwell on our differences. Let us dwell instead on what has kept us together across hundreds of miles of desert. As you say, we are here now. We have achieved what many believed impossible. Derne is our destiny, General, yours and mine. My soldiers understand this, and they are not cowards. They will fight—for me, for glory, for money—it does not matter what, they will fight. They will follow me—because I will be leading them into battle, not Sheik el Tahib. If Allah wills it, I will be first to die for my cause. At stake, for me, is not just my throne. I fight for that, of course, but I fight also for my people. And I fight for my family. Do not forget that my brother still holds my wife and children hostage in Tripoli.”

As Hamet spoke, Eaton stole a glance at O'Bannon, who was staring wide-eyed at Hamet.

“You speak like a prince, Hamet,” Eaton declared with admiration. “I am as impressed by your words as I am with your proposed battle plan.” He did not mention that Hamet's plan was identical to the one he had discussed three days earlier on
Portsmouth's
quarterdeck. “Before we proceed, however, I suggest we offer our enemy the opportunity to surrender. We shall send an offer to the governor and see how he responds.”

Within the hour an unarmed Bedouin tribesman rode through the enemy defenses toward the governor's palace under a white flag. The message he carried was written by the hand of Gen. William Eaton and bore his signature and that of Hamet Karamanli. The message informed the royal governor that an allied army was assembled outside the town and was prepared to attack. Eaton urged the governor to surrender Derne to Hamet and accept him as the rightful bashaw of Tripoli.

Twenty minutes later, the Bedouin reached down from his horse and handed Eaton a sealed envelope. Eaton broke the seal and read:

Your bead or mine.

—
Mustafa Bey, Governor

Eaton tore the letter in two. “Gentlemen,” he informed his officers, “we attack at dawn tomorrow.”

• • •

A
T
7:15 the next morning Eaton ordered a stack of red cedar logs set ablaze atop the highest peak on the bluffs east of Derne. It was the signal to the American squadron to launch their bombardment.

“Signal ashore, Richard,” Agreen Crabtree told Richard as
Portsmouth's
captain stepped up onto the quarterdeck from his cabin. As the ship's bell at the break of the forecastle chimed seven times and a quartermaster's mate called out the hour, Agreen handed Richard a glass and pointed at a distant puff of black smoke.

“I see it, Agee.” Richard lowered the glass and glanced at the other vessels in the squadron.
Hornet
and
Nautilus
had seen the signal and were crowding on canvas.
Argus,
too, was adding sail.

Richard studied the shore battery. “Have the men eaten breakfast?” he inquired. He noted that the conspicuous toil going on to the left of the fortress for the past two days had ceased, and that soldiers there were armed and taking position within the ravine they had fashioned abaft the earthworks.

“They have.”

“The guns are run out?”

“Both sides, as ordered.”

“Very well. Inform Mr. Smythe that I want her brought in, but no closer than a half-mile off the beach. That will bring our guns well within range.”

“A half mile, aye, Captain.” Agreen strode the short distance to the helm to inform the ship's master, and then passed word for Peter Weeks, the boatswain.

As the squeal of boatswains' pipes drove sailors to their stations, Richard called out for the senior midshipman standing nearby at the ready.

Timothy Osborne snapped a smart salute. “Aye, Captain.”

“Please pass word for Lieutenant Corbett.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Carl Corbett, captain of Marines, strode across the quarterdeck from where he had been inspecting the three 6-pounder guns on the leeward side. “You sent for me, Captain?”

“Yes, Mr. Corbett,” Richard said. “I need to ensure that my orders of yesterday are fully understood. I want half our contingent of Marines standing by. You may select those to go in on the first wave. I will send in a second wave when and if I deem it necessary.”

Corbett saluted. “I have made my selections, Captain, and my men are ready. If I may say so, sir, we are all itching to get into the fight.”

Richard answered the salute. “Very well. Please carry on.”

“Richard,” Agreen cautioned sotto voce when the captain returned to the larboard railing, “I hope t' God you know what you're doin'. Commodore Barron made it crystal clear that no further ground forces are t' be committed here. Eaton has t' make do with what he has, and he knows it. If the battle goes foul for him, we're authorized to get him and the Marines out. That's it. No one else. All we can offer Eaton is naval support.”

“That's precisely what I intend to offer him, Agee,” Richard replied as
Portsmouth
swerved off the wind and picked up speed. “Naval support.”

At 8:00, the start of the forenoon watch, the American squadron commenced fire on Derne.
Portsmouth's
12-pounder long guns erupted in a broadside, sending 144 pounds of hot metal screeching into the fort and palace.
Hornet,
with
Nautilus
close on her heels, tacked in closer to shore and concentrated her fire on the fort's seaward battery. After they had delivered their initial payload and were wearing ship to deliver a second,
Argus
pounded the northern reaches of the town with her own version of hell.

On the north-facing tier near the top of the governor's palace, the ominous black maw of a massive cannon flashed orange. A 34-pound ball shrieked over
Portsmouth's
mizzen and plunged into the sea beyond. Through a glass, Richard noted its gun crew adjusting the quoin to aim lower.

“Mr. Osborne!”

“Sir!”

“Advise Mr. Meyers to take out that gun!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Moments later, Richard heard Meyers's directives belowdecks: “Fire as your guns bear! Make sure of it, captains!”

On a starboard tack,
Portsmouth's
larboard battery opened fire on the palace. Gun after gun exploded, each gun captain patiently waiting until the top tier of the palace had been drawn into his sights. Every shot chomped a hungry bite. The third shot ripped through the round turret of a minaret, collapsing it like a child's toy hit by a rock. The eighth shot struck home, hammering into the base of the 34-pounder with an almighty clang heard far out to sea.

“Nice shot, Eric,” Richard said softly.

Sailing on a close haul to southeastward, Captain Evans suddenly defied both the odds and his orders and slewed off the wind, sailing
Hornet
bow-on to within a hundred yards of the shore battery. To Richard, watching through a glass, it seemed a suicidal maneuver.
Hornet
was taking a horrific toll from enemy cannon and musket fire. Her forward sails were holed; lethal slivers of wood from her butchered railing and top-hamper flew up and out in all directions. One shot tore through her ensign halyard, severing it and sending the Stars and Stripes zigzagging down from on high. An officer Richard could not identify grabbed the bulky fifteen-foot-long flag before it hit the water and hauled it, foot by foot, up the mainmast ratlines as enemy musketry whipped and zinged around him. Seemingly oblivious to it all, he reached the masthead truck and, with a last mighty heave, tied the ensign securely to it. On his descent, a shot caught him in the thigh. Instinctively he reached out to the wound, a reflex that caused him to lose his grip on the shrouds and tumble headlong into the sea.

As
Hornet
presented her starboard broadside of four brass 6-pounders, a sailor on the larboard side tied a rope around his waist, knotted the other end around the mizzenmast bitts, and dove into the water. Swimming furiously to where the stricken officer was feebly thrashing about, he reached the spot just as the officer disappeared beneath the waves. The sailor jackknifed his body and splashed downward with a violent kick. Moments later he reemerged above the surface, his right arm wrapped across the officer's chest. The sailor managed to coax the officer onto his back just as eager hands aboard the sloop pulled hard in unison and hauled both men back aboard.