The Shores of Tripoli

by James L. Haley

  The master at arms looked up to the commodore for the order. Preble snugged his hat down on his head. “Commence punishment.”

  The sting of the hemp knots cutting into his flesh took the complacent sailor by surprise. He let out a sharp scream, very brief, before he controlled himself, clenched his teeth, and took the remaining five with grunts that issued from his throat, his entire body quivering by the time he was untied. Each tail had either raised a welt or cut the skin, the blood visible but not openly running. As he was still on the grate, Cutbush soaked a cloth in seawater and washed the wounds, a necessary first step in preventing infection, but the salt caused the sailor to gasp in a further and different pain. Cutbush then helped him up and led him below, where he daubed the open cuts with honey and applied bandages.

  Preble strode sternly to the after ladder, telling the officer of the deck, “You may dismiss the company.”

  “So,” said Sam as they went below, “Preble is not one to resort to the lash, is he?”

  “Well, either Mr. Todd was sparing us too great alarm, or the commodore meant this only to get a grip on the crew.”

  “Yes, it was only six, after all,” said Sam. “That can’t have done any real harm.”

  They served themselves coffee in the wardroom. “Do you ever whip your slaves?”

  Sam spun around on him, a dark chemistry of emotion in his face—surprise, anger, injury. “No, never!”

  Bliven was surprised by the damage that the question had wrought. “I am sorry, Sam, if I were more awake I should not have asked.”

  “But you would have thought it, all the same.”

  The officers’ steward set eggs and toasted bread before them, which Bliven acknowledged with a nod. “No, I should have wondered it, but I would not think that of you without asking you about it. There are so many stories that one hears of the South.”

  “Yes, stories. Putnam, suppose you yourself laid out the better part of a year’s income on something, or somebody, to make your farm more profitable. Would you turn around and abuse him, risk his injury or death and lose that investment? I doubt it. Neither would I.”

  “No, of course you would not. I am sorry I raised the question, and more sorry to have upset you, truly.”

  Only twice more in the crossing were lashes resorted to, relating to the same incident, twelve lashes for a sailor who broke into the grog tub and within a few moments ingested so much that he got both drunk and sick together, and a dozen for the marine who abandoned his guard of the grog tub to run on deck and vomit over the side from seasickness. After only one heave a lieutenant angrily ordered him forward to the head, for retching over the side would never hit the water but spatter down the tumble home. It caused his absence of several minutes, during which the tempted sailor broke into the grog.

  They were not yet within sight of land, but knew they were passing south of Cape St. Vincent, when a cry came down from the maintop: “Sail ho! Sail! Ho!”

  Preble was on the deck within seconds with his glass. “Where away?”

  “Off the port bow, heading south!”

  “Can you make her out?”

  “Not yet, sir!” the call came down. “Large sail, possibly a frigate!” They had been hauling close in a northerly wind; she would be upon them quickly.

  Preble patted the large end of the glass into this left hand, thinking. Tripolitans don’t have frigates; she might belong to any of the European powers. Still. He strode over to the officer of the deck, a freckled lieutenant named Edwards. “Beat to quarters, but do not roll out the guns, and keep the ports closed. Let us seem friendly unless we must act otherwise.”

  “Very good, sir.” Edwards relayed the order to the marines and the stark tattoo of the drum began; once the men were on deck, the gunnery officers were summoned to the quarterdeck to learn the particulars. Preble was satisfied that all was ready; the guns needed only to be rolled out.

  By the time this was done another call floated down from the maintop. “Sir! Her flag is green! She is Moroccan! A large sloop or light frigate!”

  “Mm,” grunted Preble. “Mr. Israel!”

  “Sir?”

  “Go below, give my compliments to Mr. Lear and ask him to join us, if you please, and bring up my speaking trumpet.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  On their present course she must pass ahead of them. “Mr. Edwards, steer southeast, if you please, to intercept her, and shorten sail. We will go with the wind and let her catch up, and see if she has anything to say.”

  Israel returned to his station at the starboard twelve-pounders, where Bliven joined him. Constitution began a gentle starboard turn, and Bliven understood that if there was action, his port guns would engage first. He made certain that the matches were lit, and the lanyards threaded through the eyebolts, ready to run out on an instant’s command. “How are you faring, Mr. Israel? Are you keen for your first action—I suppose since the French?”

  “I am ready for what comes, Mr. Putnam, but in truth, no one has ever told me how one is supposed to feel before an action.”

  Bliven laughed quietly. “Quite right. They leave that out of the manual, don’t they?”

  It took an hour for the Moroccan to come up on their port side; she could easily have kept her distance but seemed quite ready to speak. She appeared to mount about thirty guns, about the same size as the Essex but of lighter build.

  Bliven joined Commodore Preble, who continued to eye her suspiciously. “She seems friendly enough, but I don’t know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bliven answered. “I am just remembering the deceptions of the Tripoli a couple of years ago. Anything is possible.”

  The Moroccan shortened sail just as she came abeam, duplicating Constitution’s course. On her quarterdeck an officer in a black tunic with gold cording waved a speaking trumpet in the air. Preble raised his own trumpet to his lips. “I am Commodore Edward Preble, United States Frigate Constitution. What ship is that?”

  The reply came readily. “Good afternoon, Commodore. I am Sidi Mehmet, captain of His Imperial Majesty’s frigate Maimona.”

  “Well,” Preble said aside to Lear, “at least they speak English.”

  “Yes,” Lear agreed, “the English have dominated these waters for so long, nearly all the ships have at least one officer who is fluent.”

  Preble raised the trumpet again. “You are sailing in a war zone. Where are you bound?”

  “Yes. We are sailing from Lisbon, bound for Salé. We have a passport from your consul, Mr. Simpson.”

  “I am suspicious of the look of it,” said Lear. “He seems cooperative, and we are at peace with Morocco—but Salé and Mogador, those are the two ports that pirates use when they sally into the Atlantic.”

  “Commodore!” the Moroccan captain hailed them. “If you will please to send a boat, you will be welcome to inspect our papers.”

  Preble shifted his weight. “What do you think, Mr. Lear?”

  “I should go. I know Simpson and his handwriting. If they bear a passport we must let them go on, whatever our suspicions.”

  “Very well, I will send some marines with you.” Again Preble raised his trumpet. “Thank you, we will lower a boat. Let us shorten sail.”

  “As you wish, Commodore.” No sooner had he spoken than a boarding ladder rolled down the Moroccan’s side, and men went aloft to furl her mainsails.

  “Mr. Edwards, have the bosun reef the courses, form up a detail of marines, and get the cutter into the water.”

  From the quarterdeck Bliven and the others watched the tall, thin Lear sitting awkwardly in his black formal coat as he was pulled over to the Maimona; luckily, the seas were only running about two feet, so there was little to go wrong in boarding her. He was on board for half an hour before he returned and reported.

  “Well?” asked Preble.

  “She is most c
ertainly on a war footing; she seems ready for anything. I estimate she has thirty guns. But I have to say their passport seems valid in every respect. It was written in Simpson’s hand.”

  Preble pursed his lips, almost physically chewing his thoughts. “My gut tells me she is up to no good, but we are approaching his shores, he is not approaching ours. He has every right to be here, whatever mischief I might suspect in his mission. Our first job is to remedy Commodore Morris’s missteps, not repeat them.”

  “I have to agree on all points,” said Lear, almost sadly. “Maimona is the Emperor’s biggest ship, and it is tempting to take her off the board.”

  “Yes,” Preble grumbled, “but we cannot, and we will not.” He raised the trumpet. “Captain Mehmet, thank you for your cooperation. You are free to go. Fair sailing to you.”

  “Thank you, Commodore, the same to you.” Maimona’s mainsails were quickly set and she diminished toward the south.

  “Mr. Edwards,” said Preble almost tiredly, “set all sail, resume course for Gibraltar, stand down from action stations.” He went below with a scowl.

  Bliven secured the twelve-pounders until they were wanted again, and found himself wondering exactly how much of warfare was feint and false alarm. On his first cruise he had fought desperately, but by the calendar most of their time had been taken up in the ennui of blockade. But this was different, the prospect of action held out and then withdrawn. He found he did not care for it, and hoped that either Lear would negotiate a quick end without a fight or Preble would lead them into a sharp, decisive action to force a peace on terms favorable to the national honor.

  Before going below Bliven scanned the quarterdeck once more and then down the spar deck. At least, he thought, fighting on a frigate, he could fight with cannons and leave his sword in its sheath. That would be a good thing.

  Bliven’s relief, however, transformed into Preble’s frustration, for nature seemed to set her face against them. What winds there were turned light, and often they were becalmed altogether. If there was one thing that maddened Preble it was inaction, the requirement to wait, and officers and crew learned the truth that he was a man devoid of patience. Their encounter with the Maimona had taken place on September 6 off Cape St. Vincent, and eight days’ sailing had brought them only near Cádiz, a crawl of movement almost too slow to measure that found Preble striding his quarterdeck during his waking hours, huffing and growling.

  Preble’s favor toward Bliven, doubtless fed by the exchange of books, drew the notice of other officers that the commodore accepted bad news from Bliven that others would have feared to tell him. As the hazy light faded on September 14, they found themselves on a glass-calm sea, the sails hanging slack from their yards, with Preble pacing and huffing. Sam and another lieutenant approached Bliven. “We wonder, Mr. Putnam, if you might suggest it to the commodore, that if he directed some of his wind into the sails we might be under way again.”

  Bliven was still trying to think of an appropriate witticism in response when the cry came from the lookout, “Sail ho!”

  “Where away?” shouted Preble.

  “Starboard bow! At least I think it’s a sail. It’s hard to tell in this blasted light.” By the time they beat to quarters the dark had come over them, moonless. Bliven stood by the quarterdeck twelve-pounders port, and Israel the starboard battery; the fog turned so thick they could only with difficulty make out the eighteens down the spar deck. The men stood silently at the ready, wondering if the lookout had truly seen a sail, or merely seen a patch of light reflected in the dimming haze.

  “Shh!” Preble hissed, which was passed down the decks. Moments ticked by, until they heard the faint but familiar groan of rigging off their starboard bow.

  Preble took up his trumpet and assumed the exaggerated clarity of speaking a ship. “Ahoy the ship!” he called. “What ship is that?”

  The night afforded no answer, for so long that they began to feel foolish for speaking into the empty darkness. Preble started to put the trumpet to his lips again when a call came back. “What ship is that?”

  The officers exchanged confounded looks. “This is the United States frigate Constitution,” said Preble loudly. “What ship is that?”

  Again they waited, the silence broken only by a groaning line or creaking beam. At last there was a response. “What ship is that?”

  The others on the quarterdeck had sensed Preble’s temper building. “I am now going to hail you for the last time,” he roared. “If a proper answer is not received, I will fire a shot into you.”

  There was no pause this time. “If you fire a shot, I will return a broadside.”

  The voice was in that accent that Preble loathed. “What ship is that?” he bellowed.

  “This is His Britannic Majesty’s ship Donegal, eighty-four guns, Sir Richard Strachan, an English commodore. Send your boat on board.”

  Steadying himself on a shroud, Preble launched up into the nettings and raised the trumpet to his lips. “This is the United States ship Constitution, forty-four guns, Edward Preble, an American commodore, who will be damned before he sends his boat on board any vessel!” He surveyed his quarterdeck guns, making out the dimly burning fuses lying in their coils. “Blow your matches, boys!”

  The silence was pregnant, and remained so, until faintly they could hear the small splashes of oars, dipping in unison. Slowly they began to make out an approaching longboat, from which a voice issued, “Ahoy the ship!”

  “Who are you?” Preble shot back.

  “British officer of H.M.S. Maidstone, requesting permission to board.” A boarding ladder unfurled noisily down the side and a blue-coated Royal Navy lieutenant swung a black-shoed, daintily stockinged foot over the rail.

  He was no sooner upright than he was hustled to the quarterdeck. “My captain’s compliments”—he saluted Preble—“and he begs pardon for our little game of charades. We are blockading Cádiz, as you may know. You quite surprised us, and we needed time to get to quarters. We did not know but what you were a French man-of-war, ready to open up on us.”

  “Must have been my accent,” said Preble sourly. “What part of France did you think I was from?”

  “Really, sir, we apologize, but false flags and false hailing are quite the going currency in these waters.”

  Preble pursed his lips. “That is true. But with eighty-four guns, I should think you would be rearing for action.”

  “Yes, well.” The British lieutenant cleared his throat. “Actually, Maidstone is a frigate of thirty-four guns. We can’t be too careful, with French ships of the line all about.”

  “Yes,” Preble agreed drolly, “all about, thick as the Spanish Armada.” Before the young Englishman could respond he added, “Well, will you come below and have some refreshment?”

  Bliven stood close enough that he could see the man’s mortification that after engaging in such a ruse, the British captain sent this man and did not come himself. “I thank you, no, we have been too long delayed in joining our squadron.” He stepped back and saluted, which Preble returned. As the longboat pulled away, a tar halfway down the spar deck leaned on his eighteen-pounder. “D’ye see that, boys? The commodore give ’em what for thinkin’ it was an eighty-four! How’s that for sand? We’re Preble’s boys now, ain’t we, men? Three cheers for the commodore! Hip, hip?”

  Bliven joined officers and crew alike in lifting his hat to Preble, whose sourness evaporated. Clearly he enjoyed the cheers, and lifted his bicorne in acknowledgment—but even more clearly enjoyed the fact that after all these weeks, he had won the loyalty of his crew. If he had had any doubt, he knew now they would fight for him.

  With the guns secured the officers filed below; Bliven took a cup of tea into his cabin and closed the door, reflecting. If he aspired to command, he should remember this night. This was how you led men.

  11.

  THE EMPEROR
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br />   October 1803

  Preble may have enjoyed his triumph in winning over the men, but when a wind finally came, the lightest of zephyrs, it blew in their faces from the northwest. “Damn!” spat Preble. “Damn, damn!” Eight days it took them to cover the one hundred fifty miles from Cape St. Vincent to Cádiz; it was ridiculous.

  He stormed below, passing Sam Bandy, who was sitting at table in the wardroom, working over the figures from his last sighting. Throughout the crossing, he had secondary command of the after half of the starboard twenty-fours, but for his main duty he fixed their position, hourly and faithfully. Preble had not asked it of him, but every evening Sam handed him a complete report of their hourly positions for the logbook.

  “Mr. Lear!” Preble called out even as he pushed through the door to his great cabin, and found his diplomat and wife taking their ease. “Mr. Lear, the wind is simply against us and there is no help for it. But if we haul close we can make for Tangier. Tell me, is it absolutely necessary for you to call at Gibraltar before dealing with this emperor of yours?”

  Lear leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “No, I would not call it absolutely necessary. We have our instructions, to pacify him if we can, aided with a show of force as needed. The necessity is, we cannot attack Tripoli after leaving a hostile Morocco in our rear. Of course, if we do not call at Gibraltar we will not have the benefit of the latest intelligence. But in all honesty, the commerce between Tangier and Gibraltar is so constant we may learn of any important developments from other ships in the harbor.”

  Preble had never stopped pacing. “Well, then, Tangier it is. I simply cannot sit out here any longer.” He opened the door to his private cabin and emerged with a chart that he spread out on the table. Lear inspected it and discovered it was of the whole vicinity of the straits, with swatches of the Spanish and Moroccan coasts as they approached the narrows. Again Preble yanked open the door of the great cabin. “Mr. Bandy, will you come in, please?”