Bliven nodded. “The Bible carries a high admiration of the Israelites at war. Perhaps his example will inspire more of his race to join the service.”
Preble looked up, his eyes wide. “I had not thought of that.”
“Yes, sir. You look uncomfortable. Is there anything I can get you?”
“Yes, as you mention it, go below and find my cook, have him send up an egg and milk to take the edge off, if you can spare a moment.”
“Of course, right away. GOD!”
A flash of light, brighter than the sun, suddenly lit up the harbor, rising, spreading, diffusing, and eventually burning itself out as it rose hundreds of feet in the air. The next they knew, three of the Constitution’s stern windows blew in from the concussion of the explosion, showering them with glass.
Preble could barely breathe. “Too soon! That was too soon! Do you think they made it all the way in?”
Bliven shook his head. “I don’t see how. I don’t.”
• • •
WITH MORNING CAME CONFIRMATION from the neutral consulates that the Intrepid had blown up some half a mile from the Tripolitan gunboats. Unidentifiable body parts rained down on the waterfront; there were not, nor could there be, any survivors. Somers was gone, and Israel, and eleven brave sailors.
Sam found Bliven alone in his cabin, lying in his berth, his eyes staring ahead without expression. “May I come in?”
Bliven nodded and pointed toward the chair. Sam seated himself. “You’ve heard?”
“Yes.” Neither knew what to say, and finally Bliven shook his head. “It was very wrong of me to make fun of Somers and his religion. If he had known, he should have forced me to fight him with the others.”
“You meant nothing by it,” said Sam. “Neither of us did.”
“If Somers had not been goaded into it, he would not have undertaken such a hopeless and chimerical venture, trying to show that he was the bravest of all.”
“Well, he must have succeeded, because now that is how he will be remembered. But I know you took a particular watch over Midshipman Israel. Oh, Bliven, you must feel worst of all about him.”
Indeed, Sam had struck the wound for which there was no balm. Bliven squinted and grimaced, and choked when he tried to speak. It took several seconds to govern himself again. “He could not help it that he was born Jewish. He was a good fellow, honest and sincere. There was nothing about him of what they say Jews are. But you could tell, in his bearing, in his speech and his expectations, he always knew he was being looked down upon.”
“And you were the only one who tried to help him. God saw that.”
“Gentlemen.”
Bliven and Sam leapt to their feet at Preble’s voice outside, and joined him in the wardroom. “Gentlemen,” said the commodore, “as you saw, our gambit with the Intrepid was not a success. Our gunboats can hold off their gunboats, but we are the most powerful vessel in the harbor, and I am compelled now to do something to make the bashaw feel the weight of American power. I will take us in as close as is prudent, and Mr. Putnam, you will undertake to bombard the city.”
Bliven swallowed. “Yes, sir. That will likely cause civilian casualties.”
“I know that,” said Preble solemnly. “But this bastard has been taking and enslaving Western civilians for decades.”
“Might he not harm or kill Bainbridge and his crew?” asked Sam.
“It is possible, but I doubt it. He knows that there is a ransom for them sometime, somewhere. Come.”
They ascended to the quarterdeck, where they saw their fleet of Sicilian gunboats forming up between them and the Tripolitans. “We will come in as far to the north as we can. Mr. Bandy, you will make a slow pass southward, we will be about a mile from their waterfront. Mr. Putnam, you will quoin up your starboard twenty-fours to maximum range and fire on the city as rapidly as you can. Your port guns will stay ready to engage in case any of their gunboats break through. Target first the buildings that are flying flags; we may assume them to have some official function.”
They saluted together. “Aye, sir.” Before descending to take command of the gun deck, Bliven raised his glass to his eye and observed the waterfront, of shops and warehouses, of merchants whipping along small donkeys laden with fruit, of idlers taking in the sun. He tucked the glass under his arm and scampered down the ladder, having determined not to use the glass once he began firing. After marking his first target, he did not care to see where the balls struck.
Preble stood aside, hands clasped behind him, as the Constitution beat to quarters; Sam shortened sail to topgallants only, just leaving them steerage, and below, Bliven commanded the gun crews in crowing up the twenty-fours, removing the quoins, and nesting the breeches down into their carriages. He surveyed the gun deck; it was mopped and wet, match tubs in place, extra cartridges and balls in their boxes. If it was an impression they wished to make, he decided to fire a full broadside at first, and then allow each crew to fire at will.
At Preble’s nod Sam made a slow turn to port. Preble strode to the after ladder and saw Bliven at the foot of it. “You may commence firing as you bear, Mr. Putnam.”
“Aye, sir.” He saluted back up. Bliven spared a pitying thought for the unsuspecting merchants and their donkeys. “Starboard broadside at the ready!” he shouted as he strode quickly down the gun deck, and the crew captains blew their matches. Down the first gun he sighted what he took to be a customshouse and then a warehouse, waiting until he judged that the ship’s length had passed so that every ball would strike something. “Fire!”
Jets of fire and powder smoke roared beneath Preble’s feet, followed by an audible cheer from the crews. “Independent,” roared Bliven, “fire at will! Now is your chance, boys! Remember the Philadelphia, and the Intrepid! Come on, now, give ’em their own back!”
From the gun deck the twenty-fours boomed fast and regular, and Preble saw columns of dust rise where waterfront buildings were holed and then stove in and collapsed. It took ten minutes for the Constitution to pass the length of Tripoli’s quay, when Bliven ordered a cease of fire and ran up to the quarterdeck, saluting Preble. “Have you further orders, Commodore?”
He returned the salute lazily. “Yes, that was very well, we will come around for a second pass before we retire.”
“Aye, sir.” Bliven returned below, and as they continued the bombardment the irony struck him that he of all people should be laying waste an ancient and historic city before ever even visiting it—but ultimately it mattered little, for whatever damage they caused, the bashaw’s white Christian slaves would only be set to work the next day to repair.
On the quarterdeck Preble was compelled to the same conclusion, that it was having little effect on either the city or the attitude of the bashaw. It was necessary, of course, to be able to report that he had bombarded and reduced the city, but that afternoon Preble stood out of Tripoli harbor and anchored in the bay, alert lest any of their gunboats venture some suicidal attack on his squadron. This was not beyond possibility, for surely the Tripolitans could see as well as he could his ships starting to ride high and top-heavy from the sheer expenditure of so much shot into the city.
No sooner had he anchored than the Argus entered the bay, sidling up to the Constitution and lowering a boat, sending over dispatches in the care of a distinguished-looking middle-aged man in the uniform of an American army general officer. For his age he came nimbly up their sea ladder; Johnson the purser conducted him into Preble’s sea cabin and closed the door after him, and they remained there undisturbed for nearly an hour before Preble ordered signal flags run up. Soon all the vessels had boats in the water to attend a captain’s conference in the Constitution’s wardroom. The compartment was crowded; Preble sat centrally at his table and motioned Bliven to a chair at the side.
“Gentlemen,” began the commodore, “it is time for our campaign against the Trip
olitans to enter a new phase. We have cleared the sea lanes of their corsairs, and that is very well, but our indefinite continued presence will be required to maintain that security. Our bombardment has hurt the town considerably, but we cannot say that Tripoli is defeated. They are punished, but not defeated, and as soon as we withdraw, we must expect that the old situation will establish itself again. And of course, Bainbridge and his crew are still held as slaves. I fear that all we have done is prove the truth of an ancient maxim, that a land power, or a primarily land power, cannot be completely beaten by naval power alone. The United States, I hardly need tell you, does not have the capacity to place a large army on the shores of Africa to compel Tripoli to our will.
“Now, gentlemen, you see sitting at my side General Eaton, who is an experienced consul to the North African states. There is probably no one who has a more intimate knowledge of their character and their way of life than he. After his term as United States consul to Tripoli, and after the outbreak of hostilities, he went home to lobby for the hypothesis I just presented. After much”—Preble hesitated—“consideration”—Bliven saw the corners of Eaton’s mouth twitch up into a little smile, and he understood that terrible battles must have been waged over the course of action about to be presented—“the government has returned him to the theater of action, empowered to raise a native army to engage in the land campaign that can bring this war to a successful conclusion. So I will let him explain to you the particulars of how he intends to proceed. General Eaton?”
William Eaton stood, his uniform almost blinding in its newness, its crispness. Some of the officers knew his name from his four years in North Africa, that he had served in the Revolution but in no rank so grand as a general. He must have gained such a commission especially for the venture he would explain.
“Gentlemen,” said Eaton, “the Arabs have a famous expression, that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” He let that register for a moment. “Our enemy in Tripoli is the bashaw, Yusuf Karamanlis. I am going to tell you about another enemy of his, whom most of you do not know about.” He continued, explaining that Yusuf was not the rightful bashaw; that title, in fact, had belonged to his elder brother, Hamet Karamanlis, whom Yusuf had overthrown and exiled, and whose wife and children Yusuf still held in captivity in his fortress in Tripoli. “Now,” said Eaton, “the remarkable fact about the overthrow of Hamet Pasha is that Yusuf let him live—this was an unusual mercy in a culture known for fratricide as a means to power. But”—Eaton raised a finger—“this was a mercy that we mean for Yusuf to regret.”
Eaton went on to explain that Hamet Pasha had established a new life for himself in Egypt, gained a general’s billet in the Mameluke army, and was at that moment suppressing a rebellion near the upper Nile. American spies had contacted him, and he had agreed to lead a native force under American officers to engage his brother’s forces in Libya. Moreover, Eaton explained, he would hold the element of surprise, for he intended to attack Tripoli from the east, striking from out of the Libyan Desert, which many believed could not be crossed. And again, moreover, he related to the officers that there were minorities within the Ottoman Empire, peoples of whom perhaps they had not even heard, who had long chafed under Moslem domination and who would supply soldiers. Many of them, he said, were Christians, not just Coptic Christians from Egypt, but Maronites from the Levant and Orthodox from Greece and Cyprus. Best of all, said Eaton, he had brought money to pay them—not promissory notes, or bonds, or other printed paper, but a chest with twenty thousand dollars in gold and silver, a universal currency understood by all soldiers of fortune. He would raise his army in Alexandria, drawing supplies and money from the ships that would shadow his movements as he marched west. When he reached Tripoli, a flotilla of American frigates would give the fortress and city such a pounding as they had never endured, even as his native army poured through its streets. With Hamet Pasha restored to this throne, America would have won not just the war but the peace.
“I know that many officers have their doubts whether this plan will succeed,” Eaton concluded. “But I am happy to say that many men in the government have given their support, beginning with President Jefferson. Here in the area, I am happy to say that our consuls, Mr. Gavino in Gibraltar and Mr. Tobias Lear in Algiers, have forwarded the plan as a speedier way to bring the war to a conclusion.”
Bliven had sat at the side of the gathering, and felt his hackles rise at the mention of Lear’s name, recalling all his discomfort and mistrust of his oily nature. If Lear supported this plan, it was likely for reasons of his own, which he would reveal only in his own time.
The gathered officers exchanged a whole language of looks around the crowded wardroom, a few impressed with the probity of the plan they had heard, most disbelieving that Eaton or anyone else could bring such a scheme to fruition, and a couple, Preble was convinced, perceiving a menace to their own ambitions if a land attack should cut short the naval campaign.
Preble rose. “That is all, gentlemen, thank you. I will keep you abreast of plans as they develop.” The officers in the cabin began to disperse. “Mr. Putnam, will you stay?” When they were alone he added, “Please close the door.” He sat again, heavily, looking older than his years, and Bliven realized how much he had aged during their long months at sea.
“Can I get you something, sir?”
“No, I thank you. Please sit down. For once we will dispense with ceremony. Besides, I don’t feel like looking up at you.”
Bliven seated himself across the table where he would be in easiest vision.
“I have one thing to tell you, Putnam, and one thing to ask you.”
“Yes, sir?”
“What I have to tell you is General Eaton brought me the news that I am being relieved of my command.”
If there was one sound foreign to Bliven’s lungs it was a wheeze, but he wheezed. “What? Why?”
“Officially, for my health. The Navy Department is suddenly so solicitous of my suffering from the ulcers that I must go home and recuperate.”
“Well, pending a less kindly reason, that does not sound unreasonable.”
“The unofficial reason is my conduct of the war is found wanting. Specifically, I am blamed for losing the Philadelphia.”
Bliven shot to his feet, his fists clenched. “That is outrageous. That was Bainbridge’s mistakes, from first to last. You have even spoken of court-martialing him, if we ever get him back.”
“I know. I even drew up charges. But it has become apparent that Bainbridge is intended to be a hero. The country’s mind is made up, and I would only make myself ridiculous by protesting.” Preble pointed Bliven back to his chair. “Take your seat. A captain is responsible for everything on his ship, even so a commodore is responsible for everything in his squadron.”
“Surely you can fight it, sir.”
Preble shook his head. “No, I would not care to do that. Lieutenant, you and I serve our country at our country’s pleasure, and our country’s gratitude, when it is bestowed, is not always, let us say, equitably distributed. I am not the first officer to be turned out to pasture, nor will I be the last.”
“Still, it is an outrage.”
“Nor do I forget that I was given this command over the claims of senior captains. At some point they must be satisfied.”
“So they have been ever busy managing your recall?”
Preble shook his head. “I did not say that, and even if I believed it, I also consider that I have a wife at home, and a little boy who hardly knows what I look like.” He saw Bliven look glumly down at the table. “That is something you will have to think about one day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And it is true that I am not well. I do not know how long the Almighty will vouchsafe me continued breath, but I do not believe I shall make old bones.” He sighed. “In fact, if it were not for the mischief that I believe underlies this, I would jud
ge that they have done me a favor.”
“Is there anything I can do, sir?”
“You will satisfy me best by continuing to develop as the kind of officer you have launched yourself to be. But, I adjure you, take up no weapons for my sake, if that is what you have in mind.”
Bliven nodded, not in agreement but in understanding. “Who is replacing you, sir?”
“Sam Barron. Good man, had nothing to do with my dismissal, as near as I can tell.”
Barron, thought Bliven. That was a good kernel in a very sour pudding.
“Now, Barron is coming in the President and will arrive any day, which leads me to what I wish to ask you.”
“Anything that is in my power, sir.”
“I would not feel right ordering you to do this, but I want to assign you to Eaton, as his naval attaché. That means, more particularly, as my spy. From everything that has reached me, his proposal to hire Arab and Levantine mercenaries caused almost as much a war in Washington as we have out here. The army was all for it—they would be, because the navy costs far more money to maintain than the army and they are tired of seeing all that money sucked away from them. The navy, for the opposite reason, is adamantly opposed to it. Barron is known to be particularly hostile to Eaton’s mission.
“Would not Commodore Barron prefer to name his own attaché once he arrives?”
“No doubt he would, but if I can spring you out of here quick enough, you and Eaton will be in the Libyan Desert and pretty well beyond recall. And Jefferson’s and Eaton’s plan will be in effect, and neither Barron nor anyone else can do anything to subvert it, and will have to support you. It will be difficult and dangerous. You will likely have only a platoon of marines to protect you until Eaton raises his army. If you detect anything afoot to cut the ground out from under Eaton, you get word to me, and I will set it straight.”
“Where will you be?”
“I?” Preble smiled wanly. “I am going to make my way back to Naples. There I shall enjoy some very good food, some very good wine, and my intention is to be, let us say, too ill to manage the trip home for a few months.”
The Shores of Tripoli Page 28
