“They are that deceitful?”
“Remember, I was still in Tripoli when Hamet was exiled. Do you know how it happened? After Yusuf deposed Hamet he said he was content to be in power; he offered to patch things up between them, and offered Hamet a provincial governorship, which he accepted. Hamet loaded up a caravan with his wives and children and all his household and led them out of Tripoli. As soon as he passed through the city gate, it was slammed shut behind him, wives and children and possessions still inside. That was his weakness, he trusted his own brother. That was when he came to Egypt, alone.”
“Good God.” Bliven looked back at the camp where they had met and realized he had understood nothing.
“And that business with the camels?” Eaton went on. “Do you think it was an accident that he appointed that particular man to help us acquire camels? I can assure you, that man has at least six relatives and dependents who are camel drivers. Each one will make his hardest bargain, and whoever negotiates the highest payment, they will all demand that rate or simply not go.”
“Good God,” Bliven repeated.
Eaton lowered his head and laughed quietly. “And that’s before they get us stuck out in the desert and more in their power. It is a good thing that we will have most of that twenty thousand dollars safe on the ship, or it would not last a week. And we must always keep something in reserve, to make it worth their while not to leave us to die of thirst in the desert.”
At length they reached their own tents. “Sir, I am sorry to be so thick about things. It is all very strange to me.”
“Lieutenant, I pray you do not misunderstand me about the Arabs. They come from a great civilization. My God, they made mighty advances in science, and medicine, and mathematics, and art, and poetry—when Europe was in the deepest part of the Dark Ages. I don’t know when they became such a thieving and conniving people. Perhaps it was the desert did it to them. It would be hard to make a living out there. I don’t know, but understand that I have a deep respect for Arab people, but would I trust my life to one? Never!”
“And yet,” said Bliven, “we are, aren’t we? Ten of us, hundreds of them.”
Eaton smiled sardonically. “I do believe that God’s principal amusement is irony.”
“Ha!”
“We’ll get Argus to unload your field guns tomorrow. That will have a good effect; they will see a gun battery and know we’re serious, you can start putting together crews to work them. Best of all, I can show their leaders the money and make a down payment to the camel drivers and the mercenaries. They will know that there’s gold and I’m not just lying to them, but they will know they won’t get paid in full until Tripoli is taken.”
Bliven selected sixteen of the Greeks for his gunners, based on the advice of one to whom they deferred as a leader and who spoke English with passable fluency. After pantomiming the basics numerous times, he ran them through the gunnery drill three times with live powder so they got accustomed to the sound.
To Eaton he pronounced them as ready as he thought they could be, and they set off westward into the desert on March 6. Bliven had noticed that in the Arab world, their religion forbade them portraits or artistic representations of the natural world, for some reason he could not fathom, but in compensation they had raised calligraphy, with quotations from their Holy Book, to a level of art he could not have imagined. Their banners of green, yellow, red, and dark bright blue were held out straight by yards; the personal finery of Hamet Pasha and his retainers, the very trappings of their horses, the peculiar ululant whooping of their women camp followers, and the discharge of musket, he realized, would take him an entire evening by a fire with Clarity to even describe.
Yet once they were in the desert, it was astonishing how fast it fell away into drudgery and bickering. In ten days the camel drivers revolted at Massouah Castle, which was the first Eaton learned that, while he had hired them at eleven dollars per animal for the duration, the drivers had gone to Hamet Pasha and got him to agree that the eleven dollars would pay them only to this point.
Three weeks into the journey, they found themselves riding along the top of a ridge, with the Mediterranean visible far to their right, and a rocky, beige-brown depression on their left, studded with reddish-black boulders. The waste extended as far as their vision into the interior, the horizon indistinct in the shimmer of heat both beating down and rising up.
Bliven pulled off to his left and reined in his horse; Hamet Pasha joined him. Bliven pointed into the distant haze. “Highness, how far does this extend? Is there anything out there at all?”
“If you live to ride for a week,” answered Hamet Pasha, “Siwa. It is an oasis, with water and date trees.”
“Siwa!” exclaimed Bliven. “Where Alexander the Great was proclaimed a god.”
Hamet Pasha’s eyes widened. “You know of al Iskandar?”
Bliven leaned onto his pommel. “Yes, a bit.”
“Why are you sad, young effendi?”
“Because I won’t see it. We have come all this way, and I won’t get to see anything of interest. Have you heard of Pompeii?”
“Yes, of course.”
“We were so close I could have ridden out and seen it in an afternoon, but we went back to the ship.” Bliven heard a camel bawl as their supply train passed behind them. What a thought that he, a lieutenant in the United States Navy, was riding in the footsteps of Alexander. “Alexander,” he whispered, almost to himself. What an ancient country this was.
“And others came later,” said Hamet Pasha. “And more will come after us.”
After a month of what seemed almost imperceptible progress westward across the desert, their rations were reduced to rice and perhaps chickpeas that they were able to buy in mud-walled villages. The camel drivers began demanding more, and more immediately, on pain of stranding the infidel commanders where they stood. No degree of Eaton’s insistence could induce them to admit that they had ever agreed on a price, and the majestic certitude of their lying left Bliven shaking his head.
By the time they reached Bomba things had become mutinous. At least Eaton had arranged to rendezvous with his small support squadron there, and Bliven and an Arab rider were dispatched north to the coast. Topping a crest, they looked across the beach and Bliven heaved a sigh of relief to spy the Nautilus lying to, with Argus and Hornet not far off, and a boat quickly in the water and rowing toward shore. Aboard the Nautilus he found Oliver Hazard Perry in command, Barron’s man, he knew, and himself a reckless glory seeker, another Bainbridge waiting to happen.
Bliven was alert for any hint of criticism of Eaton or his mission, and even wondered how he might get a letter to Consul Barton in Naples if he detected a scheme afoot. Perry, though, expressed his admiration at Eaton’s accomplishment in crossing the Libyan Desert, and readily gave Bliven access to the chest of coin to buy off the camel drivers. He selected only three gold coins, for Eaton to flash about, and then counted out five hundred dollars in silver. That would quiet the camel drivers and also give Eaton the chance to tell them they had not proven themselves trustworthy to have gold in the camp.
“Rendezvous with us again at Derna,” Bliven told Perry. “We will light a signal fire on the morning we mean to attack. When you enter the harbor, you may open up on the fortress and reduce it if you can, but certainly keep them occupied. We will attack once we see that your fire has had an effect.”
“We will be there,” said Perry. “Count on us.”
As the launch approached the beach, Bliven leapt out a moment early, into the surf, where a four-foot breaker soaked him up to his chest. He buried his face in the next one and shook the salt water out of his hair. The refreshment of it was wonderful. With his heavy purse of silver securely around his neck he found his Arab companion sitting on the sand, holding their horses’ reins—when suddenly his blood ran cold with the realization that he was carrying five hundred dollars in silve
r and was alone with an Arab who fought for the highest bidder. As they mounted, Bliven gestured ahead. “I do not remember the trail well. Will you lead?” From what he had seen, he was not about to ride with his back to this armed brigand.
Eaton welcomed Bliven and the silver back into camp, for Eaton was even then at the beginning of another terse confrontation with the camel drivers. By then his patience with them was ended, and had they made another row he was prepared to shoot some of them.
They resumed their march, and three days past Bomba their flankers came back and halted the line. Eaton, with Hamet Pasha, O’Bannon, and Bliven, advanced on foot up a rise, crouching lower as they neared the summit, finally lying flat on a ledge of limestone to peer over the edge. Below them spread a small city as white as Algiers, girdled with fields and orchards. Beyond lay the blue crescent of a bay, with a single spidery limb of a mole, and three small vessels with Arab rigging in the harbor. “Derna, at last,” said Hamet Pasha.
“I did not realize we were so close,” said Bliven quietly. “They must know they are at war. Why have they no lookouts posted?”
Hamet Pasha continued to peer through his glass. “And why should they think that an army would cross the desert? They have sentries, but they are looking out to sea.”
Each of the four surveyed the city through his glass, O’Bannon looking down frequently to sketch out a rough map of the city, the harbor, and the fortress. Each one came to rest his gaze on the white, castellated fortress, with its file of eight black guns, seemingly twelve-pounders—French, by the look of the carriages. Probably accepted as tribute at some time, they were pointing into the bay, with no apparent provision to be able to turn around upon the countryside.
Eaton tapped Bliven on the shoulder. “Look down there to your right. You see that break in the hillside, that patch of forest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Before we attack, you set up your battery in the cover of those trees. See if you can breach the walls near the fortress. They don’t look all that substantial.”
“Neither do the guns, sir.”
Eaton chuckled. “Well, true enough, but you will be within range to keep them occupied. If they think we’re going to attack the fort, that will tie men down there while Hamet’s mounted force storms the city through the residential streets. The squadron will arrive tomorrow; they will support us from the sea as well.”
“So we just need to lie low until then,” said O’Bannon.
“Right. Send men back up the road a few miles. Seize anyone on it. No one enters, no one leaves. We should be able to conceal our presence just long enough. And have a couple of your men pile up a great stack of brush right here for a fire to signal the squadron when we are ready to open the fight.”
“Yes, sir.” O’Bannon crouched away and then trotted down the hill.
“You seem troubled, young effendi,” Hamet Pasha said to Bliven. “I think you are not afraid of the battle tomorrow, for we know you have the heart of a young lion. What troubles you?”
“Thank you, Highness. I am not afraid of the battle. But what I do mind,” said Bliven, “is that if I fall, my fiancée at home will not know how, or where. She may not know for months even that I am dead.”
“Ah. You have, what is it you call, a sweetheart.”
“Yes.”
“Ah, young effendi, do not be downcast,” said Hamet Pasha. “If you die, I will hire many women to weep for you.”
Somehow that did not strike Bliven as an equivalent substitute. “Thank you, but I would not want to be any trouble.”
Hamet Pasha shrugged. “It is our custom.”
They made their way back down to Eaton’s tent, where O’Bannon and the general stood at a small table, pointing at his map. “Your Highness,” Eaton said as they approached, “I recommend that before dawn you take your Arab force to the west side of the city. You can follow the cover of this wadi that goes around it to the south. When you hear our ships open fire, wait a few minutes and lead your men in, clear the streets. When the defenders’ attention is divided between the ships and you, I will lead my marines and the Greeks against this side of the city. Mr. Putnam will open fire on the wall just as soon as the ships begin firing, and see if he can make an opening for us.”
“That is good.”
“In honor, I must first give the governor of the city the chance to surrender and save blood being spilled.”
Hamet Pasha looked impatient. “Do you suppose that he does not know by now who it is he faces?”
“Perhaps he does,” said Eaton calmly, “but the usage of war is to avoid the battle if possible. If I send in a message, do you think he will respect a flag of truce?”
“Yes, but send it with one of my men.”
Eaton pulled paper from his writing box and seated himself, penning the next day’s date: April 27, 1805.
HIS EXCELLENCY MUSTIFA BEY
GOVERNOR OF DERNA
Sir,
I want no territory. Advancing with me is the legitimate sovereign of your country. Give us a passage through your city, and for the supplies of which we shall have need, you shall have fair compensation. Let no difference of religion induce us to shed the blood of harmless men who think little and know nothing. If you are a man of liberal mind you will not balance on the propositions I offer. Hamet Pasha pledges himself to me that you shall remain established in your government.
Eaton
He had hardly begun writing when the camp was disrupted by a dusty clot of a dozen Berbers who thundered in on magnificent horses. Their leader dismounted and made his obeisance to Hamet Pasha, who embraced him and motioned for them to join his army. A second contingent of a similar size arrived before he had finished.
Well, Eaton thought to himself, so much for surprise, but the added strength was good recompense. “Hamet Pasha, who are these men?”
“Local chiefs. They have come to swear their allegiance to me, and to fight for me. Others are coming. They tell me that the city is divided. Many in the city are for me, but they cannot say so, for fear of their lives. Mustifa Bey is Yusuf’s dog. Once he is brought down, the city will come over to us—except for those who have licked his hand. For them, justice will come.”
Eaton thought it would be indelicate to point out that Hamet Pasha had mangled his metaphor—that if Mustifa Bey was a dog, he would have no hand to lick. His meaning was clear enough, however.
Bliven slept soundly that night, hardly disturbed by the dozen more bands of riders who arrived to join Hamet’s army. Upon being awakened shortly after four, it was the work only of a moment to be done up in his waistcoat and coat, his navy cutlass dangling from his left, and his belt threaded through the jambia’s scabbard. Eaton joined him and the marines as they breakfasted on lamb and rice.
Just before first light, O’Bannon sent one of his marines to the hilltop overlooking the city, and he reported back almost immediately. “Well?” asked Eaton.
The marine saluted. “I only saw one ship, lying to, northeast of the city.”
Eaton scowled. It was too early in the day for things to start going wrong. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, sir.”
“Mr. Putnam, take my glass, get to the top of the hill. See what you make of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take this fellow back up with you. We can attack with the cover of one ship, if needs be. Your brush pile is ready to light?”
“It is, sir,” said the marine.
“Well, do not light it except upon my order. Let us give Mustifa Bey his one chance to stop the battle.” He handed his letter to Hamet Pasha, who handed it to a rider, wonderfully mounted and bearing a large white flag instead of one of their brilliant silk banners inscribed with verses from the Koran. He spurred away at a gallop and they waited.
Bliven trotted back down the hill. “Well?” Eaton
looked up expectantly.
“Sir, it is the Nautilus lying close by. I could see Argus and Hornet, but they are several miles removed. I am certain they will bear in once they see the signal, but they cannot reach the harbor before noon.
In an hour and a half, Hamet’s rider clattered back into camp, and Eaton unfolded the same piece of paper, with one line appended to the bottom, crudely, in English: My head or yours. Mustifa.
“Very well,” he said to himself, and handed the paper to Hamet Pasha. “We shall fight. Your Highness, you should gather your men on the west side of the city, but you may have to wait a while before you hear the cannons. Who knows, the first ship may open up before the others arrive, but be in position to attack when you hear the guns.”
“Insh’ Allah,” said Hamet Pasha. As God wills. In the preceding days, the latecomers drawn by the scent of plunder had swelled his following of horsemen to more than a thousand, leaving Bliven to wonder if that truly was God’s will—especially since it was not infidels, but other Moslems, whom they were about to pillage.
“Well,” said Eaton quietly, “let us begin. Light the signal, right away.”
Hamet and his riders galloped down the slope to the wadi that circled the city around its south wall, using its cover to thread their way to the west side. The sky was cloudless, and Eaton waited with Bliven in the motte of trees as the marines and Greeks rolled their small field guns from the camp to the edge of the forest.
“Mr. O’Bannon,” said Eaton, “have your man stay up on the hill until he can report what action the squadron is taking.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eaton pointed with his saber. “You see the fortress there, Mr. Putnam? Its walls seem quite substantial, but just on the landward side of that, do you see?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bliven.
“The wall looks like it thins to a curtain. Concentrate your fire about a hundred yards south of the fortress. It looks that there is a bit of a square behind it, and some buildings that will give us cover once we’re inside.”
The Shores of Tripoli Page 31
