The Shores of Tripoli

by James L. Haley

  “Why, at peace, Captain.”

  “And our consul in Tripoli, Mr. Eaton, he is well and on his station?”

  “At last report, he is well and had gone to Tunis at his own desire.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” ventured Sterett. “That is a lie. Tripoli declared war on the United States while we were at sea, according to the consul.”

  “Indeed?” Dale seemed only mildly surprised; they had suspected this was where events were headed, and needed only the confirmation. “Well, let’s see if we can draw him out a little.” Again he raised the trumpet. “Will you accept our hospitality and dine with us this evening?”

  There was a pause, a little too long. “Thank you. Regrettably, I cannot.” There was another pause. “Welcome to Gibraltar.” They saw the admiral hand his trumpet to a boy and retire.

  Every American on the President’s quarterdeck perceived the danger in the first instant, and their stroke of good fortune in the next. Of the four Barbary states, Morocco on the Atlantic had made peace some time back, if it still held, and in former years, theirs were the majority of pirates in the open ocean. Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli usually sought prey only in the Mediterranean. Tripolitan ships even being in Gibraltar might well signal their design to spread their aggression into the Atlantic. There this Scot of a grand admiral could fly English colors, hail American merchant ships in his jovial Highland accent, and pounce on crews before they knew what hit them. But there was another side to it.

  “We’ve got him, by God,” said James Barron with satisfaction fairly dripping from his voice. “We’ve got him.”

  Dale nodded. “It is obvious that we were not expected, and now two of their principal ships are trapped here. I will need to leave one of you here to bottle him up, and sink him if he tries to break out.”

  “Oh, he won’t try.” The unfamiliar voice caused all five officers to turn. “Permit me, I am John Gavino, United States consul in Gibraltar. You are Commodore Dale, I presume?”

  They bowed and shook hands. “Captain Samuel Barron of the Philadelphia,” Dale introduced him, “the other Captain James Barron of the President. Captain Bainbridge of the Essex I believe you should already know, and Lieutenant Commandant Sterett of the Enterprise.”

  “I do indeed know Captain Bainbridge, and Lieutenant Sterett and I are also acquainted now.”

  “You think he will not attempt an escape?” asked Samuel Barron.

  “All our information suggests he has no stomach for a fight—he is grand admiral largely because he is the son-in-law of the bashaw. But we can discuss all if you will come to my house for dinner. If you are free, we can go in my boat now.”

  “Well, apparently”—Dale rolled his eyes at the Tripolitan—“we have no other engagements.” The other captains laughed.

  As the oarsmen pulled away, Dale directed them first around the Meshuda’s bow and down her starboard side before pulling to the quay. He estimated twenty-six to thirty guns, the main battery of nine-pounders by the look of them, plus carronades and bow and stern chasers. The vessel was large enough to carry them—barely—but having been built as a merchantman, she could never take punishment. She was no doubt a deadly commerce raider, but someone was thinking grandly to regard her as the flagship of a navy.

  Dale conveyed these sentiments to Consul Gavino, even as they saw a couple of Berber officers staring down at them from the Meshuda’s quarterdeck, and the others followed Dale’s example in lifting their bicornes in acknowledgment.

  “So in essence,” said Dale as he settled himself for the pull to the wharf, “she is a large pirate ship. She is not a warship.”

  “Yes.” Gavino held tightly to the gunwale; he was a thoroughgoing landlubber and did not like being on the water, even in the harbor. “You might well say the same of their crews. Like all navies, the Berbers take their rank and file from the worst of society—beggars, drifters, criminals—and to be at the bottom of society in North Africa is a different and worse condition than in Europe or America. Most of their men were cutthroats by nature before being put aboard ships to become pirates in fact.”

  Dale glanced over his shoulder to judge the distance to the wharf. “Mr. Gavino, I was given to expect that we would meet our supply ship here, but save our squadron and the Grand Turk, I see no other American ships in the harbor. We want water and provisions. Have they not arrived?”

  “Water, we can give you some,” Gavino answered, “probably not as much as you need. Spain is near desert in summer. We will do what we can. Your supply vessel has been detained by the Spanish at Algeciras.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why? Our business with the Berbers does not involve them.”

  “Well, they are caught between the British and the French; I imagine they just need to feel they can still bully somebody, even if it is just an American merchantman.”

  “Yes,” Dale said, nodding. “We saw a French squadron of three sail just off Cádiz, headed in to try to break through the blockade. We heard battle but don’t know the outcome—”

  “Look here, Mr. Gavino,” Samuel Barron interrupted. “You seem to know these Berbers, all these different Berbers, better than we do. What are they like? Can they fight?”

  Gavino shrugged. “If you corner them I suppose they could, but they are not known for it. Simple thievery is much more their business.” The oars dipped in time to the small chop in the harbor, setting the boat into easy rocking. “I do know from several sources, when they attack a merchantman, they will fire one broadside, usually high, to get their attention. Then they will all line the rail, brandishing dirks and cutlasses, and shout and threaten in the loudest and vilest way they can. That usually suffices for an unarmed merchant ship to surrender, and accept that they will be captives and slaves until they are ransomed. I have a letter with more detail of their fighting tactics, I will read it to you when we arrive at my house.”

  “It’s outrageous,” growled Bainbridge. At twenty-six he was the youngest of the captains, ten years younger than Samuel Barron and seven years younger than the latter’s brother James. Bainbridge had curly brown hair around a lumpy sort of face, and an underbite that made him look always like he was about to spit. “The whole system is outrageous.”

  “Well,” said Commodore Dale with an exaggerated idleness, “you certainly have more cause to feel that than the rest of us, God knows.”

  The other captains laughed quietly as Bainbridge scowled. All knew that the previous year, when Bainbridge was in command of the George Washington, twenty-four guns, he had been entrusted with delivering the United States’ annual tribute to the dey of Algiers. That man, a perfumed old silk-swathed potentate, Mustapha VI, compelled Bainbridge after he had once lain to outside the mole of Algiers, to anchor his light frigate within the harbor under the guns of his fort. He not only commandeered the American ship to transport his ambassador to the Sultan’s court in Constantinople—along with his wives, concubines, servants, male companions, and a menagerie that included a dozen lions—he forced Bainbridge to do so while flying the Algerine flag above the American.

  Bainbridge would have happily died that day, could he have done so vindicating his country’s honor. He protested with the greatest vehemence that he had no authority to lower his country’s flag to any nation, but Mustapha Dey assured him that the choice was either that or war, and Bainbridge and his crew should be the first prisoners. With the consul advising cooperation and no other American firepower within five hundred miles, he did as he was bidden, though striking his colors meant court-martial. But he was hardly finished.

  He held his gorge through the whole voyage—nearly six hundred miles from Algiers to the Sicilian straits, then eight hundred miles on to Crete and the turn into the Aegean, and three hundred miles of meticulous navigation through the Greek islands to the Dardanelles—a long time to seethe while being faultlessly correct to the ambassador and his retinue. As
he approached the castle on the European side of the narrows a lighter came alongside and demanded that he anchor and submit to inspection. God only knew, thought Bainbridge, what kind of game might be afoot there to make things even worse. He knew that the fortress was armed with gigantic antique cannons that fired eight-hundred-pound round stones, but they could barely be aimed and had a fixed elevation. He eased the George Washington within range of the castle, moving only under topgallants as though he were making to anchor. He fired a full salute of twenty-one guns to the fort, which they were compelled to answer. Unlike the Western navies, the Turks still fired shotted salutes, a holdover from the days when salutes were meant to demonstrate that one’s guns were empty. Bainbridge and his officers watched the white geysers erupt from the bay where the gargantuan stone balls landed, and while his ship was shrouded in smoke, Bainbridge suddenly made all sail and scooted into the Sea of Marmara before the Turks could do anything about it.

  He safely delivered his passengers and cargo to Constantinople, where he was granted an audience with the sultan himself—to whom Bainbridge gave such an earful about his treatment that this ruler of the Mohammedan world expressed his respect of the captain’s manliness and sense of duty. He voiced as well his annoyance with the dey of Algiers, who Bainbridge learned had a history of flouting the imperial authority. The sultan sent the George Washington back to Algiers, where Bainbridge incurred the wrath of the dey when he declined to undertake another errand. Mustapha Dey threatened to place Bainbridge’s head on a pole at the harbor entrance—until he handed over the sultan’s letter, after which the old dandy could not do enough for him. And to top all, the dey had declared war on France, and Bainbridge was able to bargain the freedom of all the French citizens in Algiers and took them with him to safety—despite the undeclared war between their two countries.

  Unsure of what reception he would receive at home, Bainbridge found himself lionized, praised for his cool head, initiative, and ultimate vindication of American honor. Though young, he was a pride of the navy, and he took Dale’s dry witticism in good part.

  They discovered that the American consul in Gibraltar lived and worked in a very ordinary house, only a short walk from the wharf, but in this small enclave, everywhere was a short walk. After five weeks at sea they almost swooned over the table he set—roast beef, potatoes, English peas, a generous pouring of a very fine Madeira, and quantities of the fresh fruit for which the south of Spain is so famous.

  “You have a gruesome fine cook,” said Dale.

  “English.” Gavino nodded. He confirmed for them that Tripoli had declared war on the United States. “Now,” he said, “I am informed that the dey of Algiers will not join the war, but I don’t trust the old rapscallion. Your real trouble is with the bashaw of Tripoli, he’s a real brute, named Yusuf Karamanlis. Mark me, he is an evil one, he is. He was born a third son, which did not suit his ambition, so he murdered the eldest brother, shot him twice, and when he wasn’t dead stabbed him until he stopped twitching. As you can imagine, that deed attracted some unfavorable notice, so when the old bashaw died, Yusuf had to stand aside and see his second older brother, Hamet, become bashaw. That lasted only a couple years. Then Yusuf seized the throne last year, exiled Hamet, and now he’s in Egypt somewhere; some of our people are trying to find him. Yusuf began demanding the same level of tribute as we pay Algiers, even though he is supposed to be vassal to the dey. Our consul there, Mr. Eaton, stalled for as much time as he could, but eventually Yusuf sent a gang of thugs to the American consulate and chopped down the flagpole. Now you will understand that Mohammedan countries do not issue written declarations of war, like civilized people. In Tripoli they chop down your flagpole!”

  Dale and the captains laughed. “Well, surely that conveys the message; that is all good to know,” said Dale. “At least now we can drop all this damned silly pretense and start shooting.” He swept his glass of Madeira above his plate as he gestured.

  “Well, yes and no,” said Gavino, his tone suddenly turning serious. “They have declared war on us, but unless we declare war on them, and you are officially notified of it, you are limited to your existing orders. You will protect American shipping, you will defend yourselves if attacked, but you will undertake no offensive operations; you will take no prizes. You must understand me rightly here: no offensive operations. Are we clear on this point?”

  Dale stared at him, disbelieving. “Damn me,” he spat. “Damn me if you’re going to put me on a sea with enemies and tell me I can’t attack them. Can Jefferson even be trusted to declare war back home? He wants us all to become farmers and get sunburns and read that damned Rousseau fellow.”

  Gavino reached around the table, filling the glasses with Madeira. “Well, now, do let’s be fair. After all, it was Jefferson who was the first to advocate resisting the Barbary states, fifteen years ago. It was Adams talked him down until we got us a navy. Now we have a navy, and Jefferson takes your part before the Congress, maybe more than you know.”

  Samuel Barron waved off more Madeira. “No more for me, I thank you. If that be true, why are we here with just four ships? How in bloody hell are we supposed to blockade”—he made a fist before him, extending his fingers one at a time—“Tangier, Algiers, Tunis, Tripoli, convoy American shipping—”

  “And tie down these two buggers here in Gibraltar,” added his brother.

  “With four damned ships? Who is that going to impress?”

  Gavino began to feel defensive. “Gentlemen, please. In the first part, a second squadron, a larger one, will be forming up soon to come relieve you next year, let us hope with a declaration of war in hand. The government is aware that our sailors enlist for only a year at a time, so you will not be left in the breach for very long. In the second part, as far as we know, Morocco is satisfied with what we pay them, and they will observe our treaty with them. The bashaw of Tunis is not that interested in war, either. Your main worry is Tripoli, and again, perhaps Algiers, although that is not certain.”

  Dale scowled at the table, thinking. “Tripoli,” he said at last. “How many ships have they got, anyway?”

  “Well, that is the good part,” said Gavino. “You surprised their two best ones here. Meshuda is a large brig, twenty-eight guns, reasonably fast, but not strong. The smaller brig that accompanies her does not have a name; they do not name their small ships. Apart from that, they have another small brig, and about five small polaccas and xebecs. In Tripoli harbor itself they have some gunboats and bomb scows.”

  “No frigates?”

  Gavino shook his head. “No, but the Algerines do have one small frigate; that was the special tribute that they required of us a few years ago.”

  Samuel Barron folded his arms in disgust. “God. I forgot about that.”

  “But by tying down the Meshuda and the small brig here,” continued Gavino, “you’ve cut the heart out of their navy.” Quickly they calculated that of a total strength that they estimated at 106 guns, they had captured perhaps 40 there in Gibraltar, including Meshuda’s nine-pounders, which must have been the largest they had. The remaining small vessels aggregated 66 guns, not larger than six-pounders. The three American frigates alone mounted 118 guns, mostly twenty-fours, plus the dozen six-pounders of the Enterprise. On paper, at least, it should be a fly-swatting contest to destroy the Tripolitan navy.

  “Now, whether we can consider Tripoli defeated without taking the city is another question,” ventured Samuel Barron. “The fort guarding Tripoli harbor has over a hundred big guns, bigger than ours, and they cannot be engaged from open sea, only from the confines of the harbor. That is an entirely different matter.”

  “Well, for better or worse, your orders do not go so far,” said Gavino. “You are to try to maintain the peace and fight only if necessary.”

  “Now, what about that admiral?” asked Dale.

  Gavino laughed suddenly out loud, the first time he had
done so. “Ah, Peter Leslie.” He laughed again. “He was a just deckhand on the Betsy when she was captured. He converted to the Mohammedan religion to escape slavery, and he entered the old bashaw’s service, courted and married his daughter, and next you know, he is the grand admiral. Quick advancement, eh?”

  “It’s disgusting,” said Dale.

  Gavino opened his hands in conciliation. “Well, now, let us be fair. Leslie’s shipmates on the Betsy were imprisoned in the bagnios for five years before they were ransomed; many of them were barely alive after that time. The Berber religion forbids Mohammedans from enslaving each other, so he escaped the fate of his shipmates. I can’t blame him for thinking out a better living. But he’s a lover, not a fighter. If he tries to escape, whichever of you is left here to watch him, just put one broadside into him and he’ll be done.”

  “That will be you, Samuel, and the Philadelphia,” Dale said. “Mr. Gavino, have you a map?”

  “Yes, yes.” As he fetched one from the study the officers cleared dishes to the sideboard, and then they weighted the corners of the map with saucers as Gavino unrolled it.

  “What is your thinking, Commodore?” asked Bainbridge.

  Dale took a deep breath. “Philadelphia, I think, will stay here and pin down our Scottish lover boy. Mr. Bainbridge, you will take the Essex and escort the Grand Turk to Algiers with the tribute.” He traced his finger the five hundred miles east to the Algerine capital, then smiled wryly. “You being such a warm friend of the dey already, he should be glad to see you again.”

  “I hope the old bugger has died of his own meanness,” said Bainbridge.

  “No,” said Gavino, “he is still quite alive, and just as sneaky.”

  Dale moved his finger an equal five hundred miles farther to Tunis and Cap Bon, then a farther three hundred miles southeast. “James and I will take the President to Tripoli, along with Mr. Sterett and the Enterprise. Now, Mr. Gavino says they are at war with us, but we are not at war with them, yet.” He shook his head at the idiocy of it. “I am carrying a letter to the bashaw from President Jefferson. It says that we are not there to open hostilities, but merely to escort our merchant ships and to offer him ten thousand dollars to forbear going to war—but if that does not gain a favorable result, we will brook no nonsense from his ships. Now, you can tell me”—Dale looked at Gavino—“whether under the circumstances this is proper, we will offer him the ten thousand dollars to call off his war. We will tell him that we have been given to understand that he has declared war on us, but we have not reciprocated as of our knowledge. Thus, we will take no offensive action, but if he does, we will defend ourselves to the uttermost.”