The Shores of Tripoli

by James L. Haley

  “The navy is relieving Morris of command; Rodgers will be in charge until Preble can take the new squadron over.”

  Bliven wiped the sleep from his eyes. “What happened?”

  Sam fell back heavily on the mattress and Bliven sat by him. “Apparently, everything that Todd told us about,” said Sam. “Get dressed. We are to go into town and hammer these broadsides wherever we think useful.”

  “How is that our job? Can’t they find two seamen to do this?”

  “Do you imagine we would ever see them again?”

  “Oh. Yes. Let me see one.”

  Sam handed him the top sheet of a stack an inch high. “The Frigate Constitution,” Bliven read sleepily. “To all able-bodied and patriotic seamen who are willing to serve their country and support its cause”—his voice trailed off into a mumble—“The President of the United States, having ordered the captain and commander of the good Frigate Constitution, of forty-four guns, now riding in the harbor of Boston, to employ the most vigorous exertions to put said ship in a position to sail at the shortest command”—until he said loudly and clearly, “Two months wages in advance!”

  Sam smiled sardonically. “You think that will find us a crew?”

  9.

  FIFTY-SIX GUNS

  August 1803

  Bliven leaned easily on the spar deck’s rail, looking down with satisfaction at the Constitution’s ample tumble home. This added beam made her a stable shooting platform and allowed for the enormously thick hull—dense and perhaps impenetrable live oak between layers of white oak, an outer shell to absorb shot and an inner one to cushion from splinters—without sacrificing interior space. She had the breadth and gravity of a ship of the line, in fact. Preble meant to carry fifty-six guns instead of the forty-four for which she was rated. The challenge was her buoyancy, however. With such a broad beam and lacking the weight of a third gun deck, she needed to carry at least ten or twelve tons of kentledge, and beyond that they depended on her massive diagonal timber riders, which the designer counted on to prevent her hogging. Bliven smiled at Cutbush’s remark that she was known as a wet ship forward in a seaway, with crewmen doused while relieving themselves at the head—an unpleasant circumstance, as the officers conceded, but a powerful disincentive for them to loiter there. Sam drew up beside him.

  Bliven’s attention was drawn up into the harbor as the Nautilus glided by, putting out to sea with her twelve guns. “Dale may be gone,” he said, “but at least they’re following his advice.” Indeed, where the Enterprise had been the only small ship acting in concert with Dale’s squadron, now there were four more schooners and brigs.

  “Who is in command of her?” asked Sam.

  “Somers.”

  “Oh, God.” Sam shook his head.

  “Well spoken,” said Bliven. “Oh, God, indeed.” He pressed his palms together and looked skyward soulfully, in the best manner of an El Greco painting. “If God favor the devout, Somers should have a brilliant cruise.”

  Sam laughed. “Well, thank God I don’t have to serve with him. I can’t bear that much piety in one human being.”

  Proud Philadelphia with her thirty-eight guns was next to depart; Barron had taken ill and Bainbridge replaced him—an excellent choice, Bliven thought. Bainbridge knew the ship, knew the waters, and knew his enemy all too well. Having once been humiliated by the dey of Algiers, he was sure not to compromise his country’s honor again.

  Then Siren and Argus sailed, each with sixteen guns, and Vixen with her fourteen, and Enterprise, her dozen six-pounders augmented by two more, with Isaac Hull commanding in replacement of the insulted Sterett. Word spread that the frigates New York, now repaired, and John Adams would be retained in the Mediterranean. When the Constitution finally sailed on August 14, 1803, less than two days after a full crew was aboard, it was rightly said that the United States had never deployed such a fleet.

  Hardly was she clear of Boston Harbor when the lieutenants assembled all hands and began sorting out which men had experience with guns, and of what weight. The main battery, the twenty-fours on the gun deck, got first choice of men for gun captains, the eighteens second. Bliven’s tertiary battery of a dozen twelve-pounders was allotted forty-eight men, half of whom had handled guns before, and he assigned them two experienced and two inexperienced men per gun, selected crew captains, and bade them gather around him for further instructions when their other business was concluded.

  The lieutenants then apportioned general berth areas to the men, based on proximity to their guns. One day it might prove essential, in a sudden beat to quarters, to have them in the location, and using the hatches nearest their action stations. The hammocks of Bliven’s crews would all swing in the after portion of the berth deck, for all the twelves were on the quarterdeck. This space they would share with the after crews of the larger guns.

  The enlisted men noisily engaged in the ritual of dividing into three messes. In one of the rare democratic processes in the navy, the men were allowed to determine among themselves whom they wished to share their meals with, share their labors, and fight with.

  Once this was accomplished, Bliven cupped his hands to his mouth. “Twelve-pounder gun captains to the after hatch!” he shouted and repeated. Once he counted his dozen, he said, “Let us go up out of the confusion. Mind, you will be on the quarterdeck, so watch your manners, please.”

  They ascended the after ladder. Bliven saluted the watch officer and explained their business, drawing a nod in assent. He led them silently to the last gun aft on the starboard side. “Boys, I don’t know all your names yet, but I shall endeavor to do so as quickly as I can. You are the most experienced men allowed to me, and we will have our first gun drill in the morning. Therefore at various times during the day, I want you each to bring your crew up, show them their gun, and explain its parts and the essentials of firing. Is there any man here who does not feel he can do this?”

  They looked around among one another and shook their heads. Most had fought through the Quasi-War with the French and could handle guns competently.

  “Very well. I shall number you one to six port and one to six starboard and write down your names. Each of you report to me during the day the names of the other three men in your crew. Is that understood?”

  They all nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. Now each of you call below at the filling room. You will be given a horn of priming powder. This is an essential part of your uniform when we beat to quarters; do not on any account come to your action station without it.”

  Below in the wardroom he transferred their names to a master crew list, with three empty lines between the gun captains’ names.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Bliven looked up and saw one of their thirteen midshipmen.

  “May I speak with you, sir?”

  Bliven leaned back in his Windsor chair and looked up expectantly. “What is it?”

  “With a dozen twelve-pounders you will need someone to assist you in their operation. I would like to be considered for this.” He was tall to the point of ungainly, his eyes large and liquid brown, carrying a permanent expression of inquisitiveness, his hair dark brown and very curly.

  “What is your name?”

  “Israel, sir.”

  “Israel?”

  “Joseph Israel, sir.”

  “How long have you been in the service, Mr. Israel?”

  “Five years, sir. I fought through the Quasi-War with the French.”

  “Five years and still a midshipman? That is a long time to serve with no advancement.”

  The midshipman looked down at his feet. “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Can you tell me how this has come to be?”

  The young man shifted uncomfortably. “May I speak freely, sir?”

  “Please do.”

  “I believe I have performed my d
uties adequately. But, in all truth, sir, men of my faith are allowed to serve in the navy, yet we are never preferred for advancement. I am sorry if that sounds as though I am making an excuse, but that is the truth as I see it.”

  Bliven considered his name. “You are a Jew?”

  “Yes, sir.” When Bliven was quiet for several seconds, Israel continued, “My position with the other lieutenants has become fixed. When I saw you forming up your gun crews I resolved to come to you and hope for a chance to prove myself.”

  “Have you ever discussed these matters with the commodore?”

  “No, sir. He is new to the command. If I were perceived to be trying to seek an advantage through him by circumventing the junior officers, my position with them must become untenable.”

  “Quite right.” Bliven folded his hands in his lap. “Where are you from?”

  “New York, sir.”

  “Why came you to sea?”

  “Well. I suppose I should say ‘for adventure.’ But in truth, I am from a large family and I have few prospects. The navy seemed a field where I may distinguish myself, but then I learned too late that I would be specially marked for chastisement, whether earned or otherwise.”

  It was inherent in Bliven’s openhearted nature to want to befriend this youth, but he quickly realized that their difference in rank made that inadvisable, even impossible. Israel might even be older than he by perhaps two years. Had they met on Litchfield Green, he would have gladly hailed him as well met. In fact, he was curious, for he knew almost nothing of Jews, and Israel did not look anything like the caricatures he had seen in books. Indeed, Israel was a startlingly attractive boy. It would have been interesting to witness how he would have navigated the Episcopalians and the Congregationalists competing for his soul, to say nothing of the extremes to which the young ladies of Miss Pierce’s School would go to overlook his religion and encourage his attentions.

  But out here he must show no partiality beyond what initiative and success merited; there was no need for the youth to know how fresh his own memories were of being savaged for the pleasure of the junior officers. “Mr. Israel, I am disposed to believe you. Always deal with me frankly and we shall do well together. I will speak to the commodore and see if I can grant your request. No one else has shown that initiative. You will face no hostility from me on account of your religion.”

  Israel took a noticeably deep breath. “Thank you, sir. I had determined, if I found you of the same mind as the others, to resign my commission at the next opportunity and make my way home. You have given me a reason to keep trying.”

  “Hm. Well, one moment.” Bliven rose and reached into his tiny cabin and plucked a book from his mattress. He had already committed the necessary parts to memory. “Here.” He handed him his Exercise of the Great Guns. “Guard this book with your life. The pages are marked. Learn them as well as you can; we have our first gun drill in the morning. You need not memorize it, you need only be familiar. The other midshipmen will be turned out to observe. Whatever I command the port crew, I will look at you, and you will repeat the command to the starboard crew. Some of them have fired guns before, and the most experienced I have made captains of their gun crews.”

  • • •

  SIX BELLS OF the morning watch found Preble surveying the quarterdeck, satisfied that all was ready. “Reef your courses, Mr. Dawson. Helm, mind the pennants and keep us straight before the wind.”

  The officer of the watch relayed the order with a bellow to the bosun: “Reef your courses!” At the bosun’s bark crewmen began scaling the ratlines, the experienced ones nimble as spiders, the unsure ones each careful to catch each line at the heel of his shoe, a few plainly terrified of their mortality fifty feet above the hard deck of Georgia pine. The ship slowed perceptibly as the mainsail sheets were loosed and the sails then furled and made fast to the yards. With the operation finished the officers had a clear view of the eighteen-pounders ranged down the spar deck as well as the twelve-pounders on the quarterdeck.

  Preble turned to the marine lieutenant. “Beat to quarters.”

  “Aye, sir. Beat to quarters!” As the tattoo began, crewmen boiled up from below, carrying their hammocks, which they jammed into the netting along the rails.

  Bliven watched as the new men among his twelve-pounder crews imitated the actions of the more experienced as best they could. “No!” he called out. He strode quickly to the port side. “Stow your hammocks with the coiled side down, like this.” He set one into the netting on its end, like a picquet. “This way they will afford you some cover from enemy snipers, when we are in action. Do you understand?” Over his shoulder he called, “Starboard guns, do you hear? Hammocks to stow on their rolled ends!”

  He looked forward to see lieutenants batten down the fore and waist hatches; his own after hatch must remain open for passing cartridges. Near midships the carpenter had rigged pumps, readied shot plugs, and otherwise prepared to contain any damage as though they were about to engage an enemy. The bosun had stoppered the topsail sheets and had marlinespikes ready to repair rigging. Three match tubs of water half full were set at intervals on the quarterdeck, each one sprouting four smoldering linstock matches tucked into notches around the tub, one match for each gun. The box behind each gun was quickly and in turn supplied with a cartridge and ball.

  The wind whipped lively over the taffrail, singing in the lines and creaking the masts, which still bore the pull of topsails and topgallants. All else was quiet.

  “Mr. Putnam,” said Preble, “this will be a live fire exercise, with shot, firing each gun individually by turn. The navy has bought powder of a new supplier, and I wish to test it before we might depend upon it. We can mark the strength of our powder and judge the range of the guns at their normal elevation.”

  “I understand, sir. Sir, Midshipman Israel has volunteered to assist in my direction of the twelve-pounders. Subject to your permission, I have granted his request. It is the same post as I began my service on the Enterprise.”

  “Very well.” Preble regarded Joseph Israel among the starboard gun crews, inconspicuous for the moment and trying not to show hope. “That is very well; you have the deck.” Preble nodded himself out of the way.

  “Thank you, sir.” He saluted. “Mr. Israel,” he addressed to the line of midshipmen, “take your post at the starboard battery.” Turning to the port crews, he bellowed, “Silence!” To an outsider it would have sounded silly, for no one was speaking, but all knew this was the first order in the drill, and did not just command quiet but initiated the sequence. He surveyed the layout of each crew to ascertain that they had correctly performed the tasks of beating to quarters.

  “Good,” he said to his six gun captains. “Mr. Israel?” He nodded to his midshipman at the starboard guns.

  “Silence!” shouted Israel to his crews. He looked over the starboard guns and crews to see that they were arranged similarly.

  “Mr. Israel, is all in order?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “It is not in order,” said Bliven starkly. “Number Five starboard gun, why have you removed the apron from your touchhole?”

  “To be ready for priming, sir.”

  “We are not ready for priming. Put it back.” Loudly, for all to hear, he continued, “Touchholes are to remain covered until the very moment they are primed, and covered again after they are primed. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well.” Bliven surveyed his port crews. “Port battery, cast loose your guns!” At the order, the crews loosed and coiled the muzzle lashings, threading one end through the eyebolts above the gunports. The crews removed each gun’s ramrod, sponge, swab, crow, quoin, and handspike from their hooks and laid them neatly at the side. A man from each crew dipped his swab into the nearest match tub and wet the deck for several feet on either side and around his gun.

  Blive
n waited until the flurry of activity had ceased. “Number Three port gun,” he shouted, “why have you not swabbed your deck?”

  “I am sorry, sir,” the gun crew’s captain groaned. One of the men yanked up the swab and plunged it into the match tub, then thoroughly spread a thin sheen of water from halfway to Number Two, to halfway to Number Four, and for fifteen feet behind the gun.

  “What is your name?” Bliven required of the crew captain.

  “Garrison, sir.”

  “Well, Garrison, do you feel the wind behind us? When we prime the guns, this wind must blow some of the powder from the pans, which will land upon the deck. Do you want dry powder lying on the dry deck once the firing commences and sparks fly everywhere?”

  “No, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”

  “Very well.” Bliven paused for quiet. “Level your guns!” With a heavy creaking of wheels and grunting of crews the twelve-pounders were rolled in and the barrels unlashed and limbered, the breeches crowed up from their beds and the quoins so placed beneath them that the side sights were level, and then lashed down. Bliven saw the starboard battery taking this in, and nodded to Israel, who repeated the steps. This time, two starboard crew captains caught mistakes and corrected them without any delay.

  “Take out your tompions!” shouted Bliven. One of each crew worked the wooden plug out of his gun’s mouth that kept salt and weather out of the barrel and let it dangle by its lanyard. Again the starboard battery repeated.

  “Load with cartridge!” Each gunner took the three-pound cloth cartridge of powder from the box, placed it in the muzzle, then the wadding, and the rammer pushed it deep into the barrel. The crew captain was waiting at the breech, probing with the priming wire until he felt the cartridge reach the breech, and cried out, “Home!”

  “Shot your guns!” The gunners heaved the twelve-pound iron balls to the muzzles, as the rammers followed with a second wadding and gently but firmly rammed them home.