The Shores of Tripoli

by James L. Haley

“I agree, but I beg you, leave the diplomatic business to me.”

  • • •

  MORNING FOUND PREBLE breakfasting alone in his cabin, on fresh eggs and ham, and milk, that his cook had found in the town, followed by a rich and satisfying custard; it all made Bainbridge’s report of his activities even more enjoyable than it otherwise would have been. Bainbridge and Rodgers, operating free of Morris, who was always in port and at parties, had exceeded expectations at making the Moors pay a price for their piracy. The morning improved still more as Preble observed the Vixen glide up and anchor behind him.

  He was further glad to see the tall New York, showing no evidence of her previous fire, join them in the afternoon, but she bore a problem as well, for she carried Richard Morris and his family. As far as Morris knew, he was to hand the New York over to Rodgers and come home as a passenger on the next likely vessel, probably the Adams at the end of her rotation. Preble’s presence surprised him, as he knew it would Rodgers, and he quickly surmised that there would be friction between them—even as he realized what a mean consideration that was, for he himself was out of the game and would never be allowed back in it. Exulting in the discord between others was pointless if there was nothing in it for him.

  Preble hosted them at dinner that evening, and even the cook’s roast duck and savory rice did not make the evening less painful. It was obvious that Morris felt his shame very deeply, and his wife even more so, reproaching herself that his downfall must in part have been her fault. Preble found it awkward to condole in good manners with a man whom he considered deserving in every particular to be broken from the service, or even with his wife, who in her remorse still evinced too clear a pride in carrying herself at the side of a commodore. They did not stay late, for which Preble was grateful, and he watched them being rowed back to the New York. They could stay there until Rodgers claimed her, then they could stay at the consulate, or they would have no difficulty renting rooms, for Morris was known to be wealthy.

  The next day his squadron grew even as his thicket of etiquette closed about him, for the Adams and John Adams came in together under John Rodgers. What genius in the Navy Department, Preble wondered, ever conceived of having two frigates of nearly identical design named Adams and John Adams? It must necessarily be a source of confusion, both then and in the future, for everyone not intimately concerned with naval affairs.

  Of greater concern was Rodgers’s pennant. Rodgers had learned from Bainbridge that the Mediterranean was shortly to host two American commodores, and he was vociferous in his displeasure. He was younger than Preble, but had been in the service longer, and he made it clear that by navy seniority he ought to be retained in command.

  Preparing his ground, Preble had his clerk draw up a copy of his orders giving him command of all the ships, orders that neither Rodgers nor anyone could question, and then laid over it a delicate letter to Rodgers, expressing the highest admiration for his abilities and conduct of the blockade and protesting his determination not to deprive Rodgers of any consideration due him. “The Moors,” he wrote, “are a deep designing, artfull, treacherous sett of Villains, and nothing will keep them so quiet as a respectable naval force near them.”

  As soon as Rodgers dropped anchor, Preble sent his jolly boat over with this packet, and it returned a half-hour later with a respectful note from Rodgers asking a quick meeting. This he granted, and they readily agreed that the Moroccan issue took precedence over all others. As though he were sailing into an action, Preble was organized and addressed the factors in turn. They agreed that they should await the Siren and the Argus before returning to Tangier. All their ships would go: Constitution, Philadelphia, New York, Adams, and John Adams, plus the brigs and schooners. They would not send word beforehand, they would simply materialize on the emperor’s doorstep, which must cause something between consternation and panic, after which Lear’s peace proposals should get an attentive hearing. Once a peace was signed, Adams would return to Gibraltar and take the disgraced Morris home. Rodgers would take the John Adams and New York for independent cruising and convoying, still in his rank of commodore; Bainbridge would take the Philadelphia and one of the schooners to begin the blockade of Tripoli; Preble would take the Constitution to Algiers to deposit Lear and see what could be done about Barnes and his daughter, and then to Naples to finalize the agreement with the Sicilies to supply gunboats and bomb scows to begin reducing the city of Tripoli itself.

  By nightfall Preble was feeling much more confident of his position, but it was a busy schedule of activity, and all must begin with Tangier. If only it had proven so simple. Word came in that the emperor was not in Tangier but in Mogador, hundreds of miles to the south. As delays went this was not a bad one, for by it they could ascribe knowledge to Slimane of the presence there of the Hannah, another American merchantman lately taken by his corsairs. Preble set out once, but was waylaid to tow a distressed and dismasted British frigate into Ceuta. To seamen a distress signal plays trump over any other duty, and while Preble disliked the English intensely, the benefit to relations between the two countries was clear from the notes of thanks and compliments that made their way higher in the departments.

  It required a few more weeks of loitering in Gibraltar, waiting for other vessels to arrive, seeking clearer instructions, for the stars to align in such a way that Preble and the Constitution could lead his large squadron—augmented now by the Nautilus and the Enterprise—boldly into Tangier Bay in early October. They were too many to jam within the breakwaters, and therefore they lay out of range, but that also arranged itself well. Nearly two miles out, the emperor would not feel such an immediate threat, which would make Lear’s peace proposals sound more sincere, but they also had space to anchor all of them showing their broadsides to the fort and the city, leaving no doubt about what they could do.

  Through his glass Preble assayed the layout of the fort—in truth, the decaying remains of an ancient castle that had guns placed between the crenellations, but could not stand an hour’s punishment—and the directions of the guns, and he selected places in the harbor where his ships could anchor and not all be fired on at once. Then he went below to wait for Lear to finish preparing.

  There came two raps at the door of the great cabin. “Enter,” said Preble. “Ah, Mr. Putnam, your arrival is timely. Mr. Lear and I are shortly to be granted an audience with the emperor of Morocco. I desire you to come with us.”

  “Me?” Bliven was genuinely perplexed.

  “I am making you my adjutant. In our weeks at sea you have been diligent in your duties, as have the other junior officers. But it has also become apparent to me that the crew respect you, the midshipmen look up to you, perhaps because you don’t abuse them. But beyond that you have evinced a curiosity about the world, and an ability to deal outside your sphere, in a way that I think makes you a candidate for greater responsibilities. All of my lieutenants can fight, I expect them to. But not all of them care for learning, or can hold an intelligent conversation. So I am going to start exposing you to a broader world.” All this he said very rapidly, as though he had rehearsed it, and Bliven knew well enough that Preble was not comfortable bestowing compliments.

  Bliven blushed. “Commodore, I thank you for—”

  “Stow it, you can be grateful later. For now, we’re off to see the emperor. Pssh!” he huffed suddenly. “Emperor! Of this place! Emperor of scorpions, maybe.”

  “Underestimate him at your peril,” warned Lear as he emerged from his compartment. “When his father died, four brothers fought for the throne, each one as cunning and cruel as the next. It was Slimane who emerged victorious.”

  “So he is a fratricide as well as a pirate.”

  “Thrice a fratricide. That is the world from which he comes,” answered Lear. “And besides that, he is the sovereign over multiple nationalities—Arabs, Tuaregs, Berbers—so to be perfectly correct, he is in fact an emperor. Well, we mustn�
�t be late.”

  Preble nodded. “Putnam, round up the bosun, have him lower the longboat, and have him find some clean clothes for the rowers.”

  The palace lay on the south side of the harbor and very near the waterfront, a section from which the common people were cordoned off. Halfway there they spied an honor guard of spotlessly uniformed janissaries forming between the wharf and the palace entry. “Well,” said Preble, “come here with one ship and they turn their backs on you. Come with a fleet and it’s quite different, eh?”

  A chamberlain met them at the door and conducted them through a courtyard and a reception hall and into a throne room that was well populated with courtiers. Emperor Slimane was a hard-looking man, small eyes, high cheekbones, medium dark skin. He sat upon a dais, on a settee piled with brightly colored silken cushions. Extending to his left was a padded bench on which sat his divan, his cabinet of advisers, all looking at the Americans expectantly as soon as they entered. Also eyeing them was a leopard weighing perhaps eighty pounds, who lay at the foot of the dais in a jeweled collar on a leash held by an attendant.

  Consul Simpson joined them as they entered the chamber, and Lear shook hands with him. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I have not been jailed, only held in house arrest.”

  The chamberlain led them to the foot of the dais and announced them, then peered at them expectantly for the better part of a minute before he said with evident annoyance, “You are to kneel in the presence of the emperor, until he bids you to rise.”

  “American officers do not kneel, sir,” said Preble curtly.

  “It is but a courtesy. He will quickly bid you to rise.”

  Preble widened his stance. “Nevertheless.”

  “It is custom!” spat the chamberlain.

  “Not for American officers, sir!”

  From his silken dais Slimane observed the exchange without expression, except it was impossible for Bliven not to notice that the emperor’s mustache and beard were trimmed well clear of his mouth and seemed to exaggerate a peculiarly cruel turning down at the corners. Slimane posed a single question in Arabic to the chamberlain and resumed his repose of apparent disinterest.

  “Do you not fear to be detained for such an insult?” he asked Preble.

  “No, sir, we do not.”

  “How not?”

  “Because, sir”—Preble folded his arms on his chest—“in the event that we are detained, I have left positive orders that no attempt is to be made to negotiate our release, ransom us, or in any other way attempt to recover us. If I, my aide, Mr. Lear, or Mr. Simpson are harmed or in any way impeded, or the honor of our country compromised, my frigates will before your plain view open fire on your fort and continue firing until it lies in ruins. While they are thus engaged, my brigs and schooners will fire on your palace until it is also in ruins. After this, all the ships will open fire upon the city, starting with the Medina, until there is nothing left, save piles of stones.”

  As the chamberlain translated, Bliven saw the fires kindle in Slimane’s eyes and grow brighter until the exposition was concluded.

  “That is true, sire,” volunteered Lear. “I have copies of his orders to forward to my government—”

  Slimane interrupted him with a sharp question to his chamberlain, and then turned to two uniformed officers of his divan. Each spoke in turn as the emperor’s expression turned increasingly sour. It became apparent that they were explaining to him the number and disposition of Preble’s ships, their positions relative to the harbor’s defenses, and the likelihood that he could indeed reduce the city to rubble.

  “Mr. Lear,” said the chamberlain, “it is you who represent your government. How can we demonstrate our continued friendly regard for the United States?”

  “Commodore,” said Lear quietly to Preble, “I urge you, let me guide the discussion henceforward.”

  Preble nodded.

  “Sire, our great desire is to renew the bonds of friendship which have until recently prevailed between our two countries.”

  As suddenly as shutters being thrown open, Slimane’s countenance lightened, but he lost none of his imperial hauteur. “We wish this also,” he declared through the chamberlain. “We are glad that you bear in mind that after your revolution, Morocco was the first country to recognize your independence.”

  “No great idealism there,” snapped Preble. “That only meant you were the first to recognize that British tribute no longer covered our ships, and you were the first to capture our vessels on the high seas and demand ransom.”

  “Commodore, please,” purred Lear, “these are diplomatic issues.

  “Sire,” Lear continued, “it pains us to have to point out that you have captured and now hold for ransom an American merchant ship and crew, in clear violation of the convention between our two countries. Your Majesty was lately in Mogador and would have seen her, the Hannah.”

  “That ship,” said the chamberlain flatly, “was taken in retaliation for your capture of two of His Majesty’s warships, which first violated our treaty.”

  Lear nodded. “The first ship was taken without orders—albeit she had just captured another American merchantman, which was recovered—and will be returned in exchange for the American merchantman. The second ship was the Meshuda, lately under Tripolitan flag.”

  “But now under our flag,” said the chamberlain angrily. “We are neutral in your war with Tripoli; you have seen her papers.”

  “Yes,” said Lear, “and the Meshuda under your flag was taken while smuggling ammunition into Tripoli, violating the blockade we declared against Tripoli several months ago, a declaration of which you were given full notice. She was seized in the act and there can be no dispute about this.”

  “We deny your right to any such blockade,” declared the chamberlain.

  “Oh, please,” Preble sighed.

  Without warning Slimane stood, casting silence over the room as the counselors of his divan rose as one man and bowed deeply. “Mr. Lear,” he said in heavily accented English, “I have information that our ships acted under orders of our governor of Tangier, without our knowledge. It is easily undone. We desire to continue as the friends of the United States. May I suggest the terms, that all property shall be restored to both sides, and our treaty of 1786 shall be renewed in all its terms. Surely nothing more than this is required.”

  “Your Majesty’s wisdom,” soothed Lear, “calms all discord with a quiet word.”

  “Come back tomorrow and apply to my chamberlain. My prime minister and my admiral will be awaiting you, you may negotiate the details with them, and I will sign it when you are finished.” Slimane descended the dais, looked Preble down and up, and then looked into Lear’s eyes. “In my country, Mr. Lear, when a military inferior speaks rudely and out of turn, we cut . . . out . . . his . . . tongue.”

  “Undoubtedly, Majesty,” Lear said, bowing, “there are many points on which my country could learn from yours.”

  Slimane’s lips screwed up into something like a smirk, and without further regard of the officers he gathered his robes about him and exited, followed by his suite, and the leopard, as he said something almost wistfully to the one nearest him.

  Lear, Preble, and Bliven walked, accompanied by Simpson, back down to the quay between the files of janissaries. “What was that last that he said, as he was leaving?” asked Preble.

  “Ah.” Lear smiled. “He said that a man like you is a worthy enemy, and therefore better kept as a friend.”

  “Did he,” muttered Preble with some satisfaction. “By God.”

  “Better than having your tongue cut out, sir,” ventured Bliven.

  “Hmph!”

  “Well, we got what we came for,” said Lear. “Morocco will be out of the war. It is worth it to give him his ships back; he’ll keep them out of the way. You can be sure, if he thought he
could beat us, we would be on our way to the bagnio at this moment.”

  Preble stooped to step from the quay into the longboat, but stopped with a jerk and grabbed at his stomach. “Shit!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

  Bliven stepped forward to help. “Sir?”

  “You go first, lad, help me down.”

  Bliven stepped off, then took a secure grip on Preble’s hand and arm and eased him to a seat. “Oh.” Preble breathed heavily at last. “Thank’ee.”

  Bliven marveled. He had long since left off counting damns and hells as profanity, and this was the first really abhorrent word he had heard the commodore utter. He marveled further that for all the nerve Preble had shown in the face of this bloody-handed despot, his ulcer told another story. How much his outer resolves must cost him through the hole in his stomach. “Are you all right, sir?”

  Preble nodded. Lear paused to take a farewell of Simpson, as they arranged their next meeting to set down terms for the emperor, then joined them in the longboat, which the bosun’s mate pushed off and ordered oars down.

  “Sir,” said Bliven, “I know I am new to all this, but still it did seem to me that you more than held your own against him.”

  “Heh!” grumped Preble, happy to get the moment behind him. “You know, I remember I was a little shaver, it was before the war so I must have been about eight. I had been behaving badly, until my father said he was disowning me. He said he had sent for a big Turk to come carry me away in a sack. I thought nothing of it and I carried on. I had no idea that he went down to the docks and made some arrangements. That evening before supper, the front door crashed in and there came this huge Mussulman in a turban, just as black as night, and he was carrying a big burlap sack with an open drawstring. ‘Where is he?’ he says. ‘Where is he?’ My parents were sitting in their chairs, never moved a muscle.

  “Right away I grabbed up the tongs and snatched a coal out of the fire and thrust it at him. ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ I says. ‘I am not afraid of you.’ Right there my parents laughed out loud, and the Turk burst out laughing, they all laughed till the tears ran. And I was standing there with a coal in my tongs ready to brand whoever came near.”