The Shores of Tripoli

by James L. Haley

  Bandy returned from the chart room with maps of the central Mediterranean, of Sicily and the west coast of Italy, with an inset for the Bay of Naples. They picked up their glasses and he spread them out. After several seconds Preble said, “Well, Bandy, what do you make of it?”

  “With a decent wind, four days to Palermo, if we stop there, and from there”—he looked at the chart again—“a day and a half north to Naples.”

  “Well, either or both,” said Preble. “Better than going via Messina, eh, Putnam? Hard straits to pass.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was no need to add that they were the origin of the myth of Scylla and Charybdis, the crashing rocks and the whirlpool of The Odyssey, almost as treacherous to navigate in modern times as ancient.

  “Well, Lear, I suppose you and your lady had best pack. We’ll put you ashore in the morning, and we’ll leave with the first usable wind.”

  They raised Capo Boeo on the evening of the third day, and anchored the night at Marsala so as not to run afoul of the Egadi Islands that pepper the west coast of Sicily by running them at night. It should have been an easy day on to Palermo fifty miles to the east, but fighting stiff north winds, it was a hard haul instead of two and a half days. They learned in Marsala that the royal court had indeed settled itself in Naples, but put into Palermo anyway for shelter, for there was no fighting this wind, which in the north-northeast heading required for Naples would have been a half-gale dead in their faces. Like the ports of North Africa, Palermo was on its north coast but its sheltered bay faced the east, a perfect location to lay to and await a favorable wind.

  In their two days there, Preble was able to learn no details of the aid that was to be forthcoming from the Sicilian government—number and types of boats and ordnance. He obtained a translator and was able to find the district naval office, but he had no hard facts, only that he had heard the flotilla being lent the Americans was to assemble not in Palermo but in Syracuse. This was a minor problem, for the navy office agreed to send American vessels on to join him if they showed up there. He also learned which were the finest merchants for wines and cheeses, and he learned that the Italians have a weakness for preserved meats and sausages. He expended thirty-five dollars of his own money on a selection.

  He held the basket of delicacies firmly in his lap as he was being rowed back to the ship, and it was a hard job, for though sheltered, the bay was choppy. He would have his chef dress it all up nicely as a present for their consul and his wife.

  But damn, he thought, he would have to traverse the Strait of Messina after all. In a moment he consoled himself: Syracuse was closer to striking at Tripoli, and that was the most important thing.

  It took two more days for a southerly morning wind to push briskly off the island and into the Tyrrhenian Sea. Naples lay two hundred miles north-northeast. This wind might push them at seven knots; if they weighed anchor without delay, they would be in Naples by noon the next day.

  Bliven had seen drawings of the Bay of Naples in geography books, so he had a previous idea how things must generally look. As they approached he saw a capacious, trapezoidal basin fifteen miles along the coast, with the great Mount Vesuvius in the center of it. In the northern, obtuse angle lay Naples, and in the southern, acute angle lay the ancient city of Pompeii. People had been digging there for forty years, writing about it incessantly, how it was preserved in a moment of time. Bliven was ravenous with curiosity about it; surely God could not be so cruel as to let him come this close and not feast his eyes on the place. The actual sight of the bay exceeded his expectations beyond measure; he thought it the most beautiful prospect of a coast he had ever seen. And this, he thought, this is where Pliny anchored when he described the destruction of Vesuvius in the first century.

  “What do you think, Putnam?” Preble’s voice surprised him from behind and he realized his reverie must have been obvious.

  “I am amazed.”

  “I see you are. But pray come back to the present long enough to lower a ladder for that boat you have not seen approaching.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry.” He saluted and tended to it before he could be reproached further.

  “I will be in my cabin.”

  Twenty minutes later Bliven knocked on his door and presented the Bartons’ steward with an invitation to dinner. If they could be on the wharf by six, he said, there would be a carriage for them. Preble accepted with gusto and sent the steward away with the basket he prepared at Palermo.

  The interjection of a carriage into the invitation complicated things. Edwards was his first lieutenant, but since making Bliven his aide that line had blurred, not in duties but in preference. A carriage meant four spaces, and he wished to give the surgeon and the chaplain a time ashore. He could not take Edwards and Bliven both, but as his aide he chose the latter and determined to make it up to Edwards in some other way.

  The consulate proved to be a solid large house in a fashionable district, something on the order of a small villa. The palaces of Tangier and Algiers were grander, but this was the finest residence built in the Western mode of architecture that Bliven had ever found himself in. The casement windows had marble sills and surrounds, the staircase was of marble, the floors, where not carpeted, were delicately inlaid.

  Consul Barton, rather than waiting for them to be announced, greeted them at the door in the heartiest manner. He was wearing white knee breeches of the old fashion, a red-violet waistcoat, and a dress coat of straw yellow, which caused Bliven to wonder if his intention was to draw people’s attention away from his girth by his colorful attire. “Hello, sir! You are the commodore? Delighted. You sent that basket of comestibles with your compliments, for which we are highly, highly grateful. So grateful, in fact, that you shall sample them straightaway!”

  “I thank you, sir,” protested Preble, “but I brought those for your use and enjoyment!”

  Barton laid a hand on his back and conducted him into the drawing room. “Yes, I know, but listen, you have caught me in a little subterfuge. We are going to serve you a real Italian dinner, and that begins with what they call antipasto—cold meats, olives, and the like—and your arrival caught us with the pantry embarrassed. So you see, your arrival was perfectly timed!”

  All this he said in such a disarming manner that Preble laughed—it occurred to Bliven that although the commodore could smile, and joke, and tell a funny story, he had never seen him laugh—and held his hands up helplessly. “You have me, sir. We shall eat of them with mighty curiosity, for much is new to me.”

  “That I do not believe.” Barton smiled roundly. “Every officer who visits has remarked on the fine table you set, and the magic which you sometimes employ to do it.”

  Preble looked aside. “Yes. Well, then, much will be new to them, eh?” Never had Bliven seen him so disarmed and put at ease.

  Mrs. Barton entered wearing a gown of deep blue silk, trimmed with white lace, and a parure of small sapphires to match, sparkling at a distance, but the stones small enough that Bliven felt assured they must be genuine. Of Mrs. Barton, Bliven judged that her figure, ample as described, was one that benefitted from the fashion, for skirt hoops were so broad that ladies had to turn to the side to pass through doorways; Susan, he discovered, simply wore a smaller hoop and blended right in. Only by examining her waist closely could it be detected that she was gaming the eye.

  The introductions made, Barton had begun steering them all into the dining room when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Bliven turned and saw a maid answer, and beyond the door he saw a footman in the most astonishingly formal livery. The maid curtsied as she took a letter, which Susan opened, and caught her breath twice quickly. “Well, gentlemen, it seems that your ship’s arrival was noticed from the royal palace. Get hold of yourselves, the king and queen will be joining us. Please continue your conversation in the drawing room while we reset the table.”

 
“Are they staying for dinner?” asked Barton.

  “You know them, they come and go at a whim. Best to be prepared to serve them.”

  “Quite right, quite right.”

  To Bliven the visit was a blur. The footman must have stepped straight off the carriage, for the Bartons greeted the couple in the hall not two minutes later. Susan had mastered a full court curtsy, and both king and queen kissed her on both cheeks; Barton, in his turn, bowed deeply, after which the king shook his hand as vigorously as a commoner.

  They sat to dinner, the king eating heartily of the antipasto, the quality of which he enthusiastically endorsed.

  “It is from the commodore, Your Majesty. He brought it to us from Palermo.”

  “So”—the king nodded and determined to try his limited English on them—“you, waste no time, to find what is good, no?”

  “I try, sir, I try. Life is too short not to enjoy a good table.”

  That was a little beyond him, but Barton translated. “Ah, molto bene!” said the king. “Molto bene!” He also downed a large portion of the beef main course, while the queen, although she evinced an eager appetite, ate with a practiced daintiness.

  After the beef the king’s hands flew up. “Ah! Ci scusiamo! I fear, we must leave you now.” All rose with him, although he waited no ceremony and allowed the queen only time to again accept Susan’s curtsy and kiss her before they vanished as suddenly as they had come.

  It was Barton who broke the silence: “So you will understand why some people refer to him as Il Signor Mistral. He blows in and out like a storm,” and they resumed their dinner with a laugh.

  The subject of pirates did not broach itself until then. “Well, Commodore,” said Barton, “I understand you are finally going to rid us all of this pirate menace.”

  “I am going to try my level best, sir. Our country has finally given us the means to do it, and the sooner done, the less expense.”

  “Quite right,” said Barton. “And it is about time.”

  “Yes,” said Preble. “A worthy point, because what I have trouble understanding is why this situation has been tolerated for two hundred years or more. These are pirates! Hang ’em, don’t buy them off!”

  “You know,” said Barton, “I’m not sure you appreciate that piracy here is an ancient thing. And piracy here has a different, well, meaning here, much different. Now, we’re Americans, when we think of pirates, we think of Blackbeard, and skull and crossbones, and all that, outlaws on the run. It’s nothing like that here. Here, it goes back at least as far as ancient Rome. Julius Caesar was captured by Cilician pirates and had to be ransomed.”

  Bliven suddenly held up a finger. “And Caesar told them he was insulted that they didn’t demand a bigger ransom, did he not?”

  “He did,” Barton said approvingly. “I am glad you know that story. Piracy here is ancient, and then when Mohammedanism came along, the Moslems consider it their right to enslave anyone who doesn’t belong to their religion. Do you know how many hundreds of thousands of white European Christians have been abducted, either at sea or in coastal raids? They had to be ransomed, or else they were sold into slavery, or worked to death. Good heavens, the Catholic Church even started a holy order—the Mathurins, they’re called—whose only job was to raise money for their release. And the women—well, sailing on the Mediterranean has always been a risk. That Mozart fellow even wrote an opera about that, The Abduction from the Seraglio—that’s a fancy name for a harem.”

  Bliven’s mind went back to the palace in Algiers and the wooden shutters.

  Barton continued, “Now, the main reason it goes on is the European countries discovered it was cheaper to pay the Moors to leave their ships alone than to fight them. So piracy has become an accepted state policy for generations. I think people in the future will look back on this and wonder how they had so little character.”

  “Well, I’m a simple sailor,” said Preble, “but when I look at a map, I see one color from the Bosporus through the Levant down into Arabia and across North Africa.” His hand made the sweep of the map in the air. “The map says Ottoman Empire, and if that’s the case, why not carry the issue straight to the source? Why not send a fleet to Constantinople and deal with the sultan as we dealt with that so-called emperor in Tangier?”

  Barton waved his glass expansively. “That would do you no good. The Ottoman Empire is but loosely put together. It has many component parts, and each one has a good deal of autonomy. Those four states of the Barbary Coast pretty well do as they please. As long as they send their taxes and tributes to the sultan in Constantinople, he lets them run their own shows, and everyone remains too polite to mention that the central government is too weak to enforce its will on them in any case.”

  “So the empire is crumbling?” asked Preble.

  “Well, no, or if it is, it has been crumbling for centuries. I think it would be more accurate to say that everyone accepts a certain amount of chaos in the provinces as the price they pay to be able to continue calling it an empire.”

  “Who is the head man?”

  “Now the sultan himself, Selim the Third. He is not a bad man, truth be told. He is a poet and a musician, he reads philosophy. And he is a reformer. He has opened Western-style training schools for army and navy officers, and modernized the civil administration. He wants to bring his country into the nineteenth century, but he’s got powerful opposition, and he has to keep them placated.”

  “Who?” asked Bliven.

  “His clergy, for one. For the Mohammedan mullahs, the clock stopped a thousand years ago. They feel threatened by anything modern. But it’s his own elite troops, the janissaries, who are much more dangerous. They have their own sources of taxes and influence; they hate the new military organization and refuse to give in to it, and above all else, they form the palace guard, so the Sultan has to keep them satisfied or he can lose his own head. Janissaries killed his grandfather, as they have killed a number of sultans over the years.”

  Preble nodded. “There would seem to be precedents for that in this part of the world. Look how many caesars were killed by their own Praetorian Guard.” The commodore’s sideways glance at Bliven sufficed as thanks for the loan of Suetonius, and Bliven had the good sense to keep quiet.

  “Very similar,” Barton said. “A very similar circumstance, indeed. You are a student of history, Commodore Preble?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Perhaps you will have time to visit the excavation at Pompeii. Something new comes out of the ground every day, seems like. Some of it quite shocking.” Bliven noticed Susan smile and turn away with a blush. Barton wiggled his fingers. “Fertility gods,” he said quietly, “that kind of thing.”

  “Regrettably, I think not,” said Preble as he began to tire. “Perhaps one day when we don’t have a war to fight.” Bliven’s heart sank.

  BAY OF NAPLES

  OCTOBER 23RD, 1804

  My dear Miss Marsh,

  With matters between us having advanced so far by the time I last departed Litchfield, I daily feel myself blessed so far above other young men, perhaps equally deserving, that I sometimes worry whether my good fortune and happiness have come at the expense of some other. Is there but some finite amount of happiness in the world, I wonder, and does one man’s excess of joy decree a greater sadness for another?

  Such a subject is perhaps fitted to explore in your novel. I have not forgotten your novel, nor your original commission to relate to you such adventures as I have had that may bear upon it. I feel that I may properly address myself to you under this proviso tonight, for I have dined with a king!

  Our passage from Boston to Europe was uneventful, in that we suffered no calamities, but I should rather say that our crossing itself was an event. O, that you could see our frigate when she is under full sail, crushing the swells beneath us, the topgallants and royals so high above us the
y should as well be clouds that had caught on the spars. The commodore has made himself a hero to the men, for in a night fog off Cádiz he was challenged by a British vessel and ordered to heave to and send a boat. Instead, he swore them out in the most seamanlike fashion and made ready to fire, causing them to relent and send a boat instead. The gun crews gave him three cheers and now I am certain would follow him anywhere. They call themselves “Preble’s boys” and glory in it—a very large lesson, if my opinion is consulted, in how to command men.

  Our first business was in Tangier, with the object of pacifying that state to simplify dealing with the others. There the emperor of Morocco (he calls himself emperor although it appears a preciously poor country to boast an emperor) dealt very highly with the commodore and the consul, but the presence of our whole squadron in force in his harbor caused him to tune his fiddle to a friendlier key. In negotiating the treaty, their prime minister began by wanting money, ships, even jewels and delicacies of food as part of the consideration. I do not know how much of this Mr. Lear conceded, or what inducements he did employ, but the emperor took himself out of the war straightaway and demanded no more tribute. As it is Morocco that commands the Atlantic coast of Africa, our commerce should be safe in that sphere, as long as His Imperial Majesty believes that our ships have the capacity to reduce his ports to rubble—and as long as we take care that in fact we can do so.

  Cannons were fired as we left Tangier—but only as we exchanged salutes in friendship. I think we must all have felt invincible—

  You will be surprised to learn that among the lieutenant officers now aboard the Constitution, I am the oldest but for two. The navy stands in such terrible need of men that they will accept almost anyone. When the commodore saw that some of his officers were ancient fossils of fifteen years, he muttered such oaths and spells that you might doubt his religion. I feel quite certain that the secretary of the navy will hear of his displeasure. Yet do I perceive that here, in the coming months, do I but modestly distinguish myself in the coming operations, I may come home a lieutenant commandant, at eighteen! We shall see!