The remainder of our time in Gibraltar was consumed with preparations for our imminent departure for Tripoli (would I see my brother there?) and transferring ourselves and our furnishings to the smaller schooner Enterprise while Captain Hull and his officers took over the brig. Several days passed before I recalled Edward’s letter and had the opportunity to study it carefully.
CHAPTER TEN
We will be escorting Traveler to Syracuse, and then likely will sail to Tripoli, there to join with Philadelphia and Vixen, currently maintaining the blockade of that harbor.” Decatur addressed the entire complement of his new command, USS Enterprise. Next to him stood Lieutenant James Lawrence, our new first lieutenant since Mister Cutler had been struck, shortly after the lavish entertainment in the home of Admiral Barrett, with some unknown malady that had put him in hospital in Gibraltar. Also on the quarterdeck were Lieutenants Hobbs and Morris, Mister Wakefield, our surgeon, and the four of us midshipmen. Standing slightly apart were the warrants: Anderson and Tarbox from Argus, and Seth Cartee, sailing master, Patrick Keogh, sailmaker, and John Williams, our carpenter.
“Once off Tripoli, I fully expect that we will be given the opportunity to see action and, while this expedition may terminate in our sudden deaths or capture and slavery, I expect that it is more likely to result in our immortal glory. Every man aboard, officer and seaman, must possess the qualities of courage, obedience to orders, and love of country. It is those qualities that will see us through, and bring us to glory.” Decatur stopped and, while the silence left in the wake of his stirring words rang, looked at every man he could see right squarely in the eyes.
Suddenly, a voice rang out from the men. “Three cheers for Cap’n Decatur!” The air was filled with lusty huzzahs as each soul aboard Enterprise was moved with the inspiration of the captain’s words. Midshipmen included. I actually believe that James, for the first time, was pleased with his station and seemed eager for our commission.
For my own part, I, too, was caught up in the excitement and blood-racing anticipation of what was to come. Lurking in the back of my mind, and only occasionally making itself known, was my concern (fear?) at being on the receiving end of another’s broadside. I knew our men could exchange shot for shot with any, but how would I react when the iron flew at us in smashing broadsides, any shot of which could clearly divide a man in two, or a long-leaf pine splinter, should the shot hit wood, spit him like a pig? I prayed, more frequently as the time for my baptism by fire drew closer, that I would acquit myself honorably.
Though we had only been aboard the schooner for something over a day, I had looked her over stem to stern, masthead to bilge and, with my limited knowledge, been unable to find her wanting. She was rigged with a big, gafftopped mains’l on her after mast, to which, at the top, could be rigged a topmast stays’l. Between the two masts, Enterprise carried a lower main stays’l, quite as large as might have been a normal fores’l, had she owned one. On the foremast, a square fores’l was topped with both a tops’l and t’gallant. Forward of that, attached to her rakish bowsprit and jibboom, stretched a pair of stays’ls and a jib.
She was armed with a dozen twelve-pounder long guns, more accurate and longer-legged than the carronades we had used on Argus, though her broadside carried not as heavy a weight of metal. She brought with her into the Mediterranean a fine record from the recent hostilities with France, where she successfully engaged a Spanish brig and, later, a French Letter of Marque. More recently, as Decatur had mentioned at table (it seemed so long ago), under Captain Sterrett she had captured a Tripolitan polacre, suffering no losses in the engagement. I was sure she would continue to live up to her sobriquet of “lucky” Enterprise.
Most of the seventy seamen aboard had been in her for well beyond a year. While only about half were Americans, all seemed comfortable and capable. Bosun Anderson and Gunner Tarbox had replaced their opposite numbers, who had transferred with Captain Hull to Argus, and my gun captain, Bradford, and the captain’s cox’n, Lockhart, were signed as additionals. While we boasted more officers and midshipmen than might have been normal on such a vessel, everyone seemed to “fit” together and enjoyed the common goal of bringing glory to ourselves, our captain, and our smart little ship. Mister Anderson had commented to me shortly after we reported aboard that he had known the other warrant officers, Cartee, Keogh, and Williams (though the last, the carpenter, he knew less well) for some years, and they were all well qualified and fine seamen. Even Thomas Wheatley had moderated his antagonism toward Judd and James—he had earlier declared a truce with me—and, while still displaying many of the traits we loathed, seemed willing to at least make the effort to curtail them based on his desire to share the camaraderie the rest of us enjoyed. A good thing, as the cockpit was stiflingly small, forcing the four of us to occupy about half the area we enjoyed in Argus. The gunroom and wardroom were equally tight, but it seemed to matter not a whit to any.
Two days later, Traveler, the supply vessel we were to escort, showed her signal that she was ready to depart, and depart we did, leaving Gibraltar on November 13, 1803, for Syracuse, a splendid harbor on the southeast coast of Sicily and only a few da’s sail from Tripoli. Argus, we had been informed by the captain, was to remain near Gibraltar to attend to American interests in the Straits, while Syren, carrying former American Consul James Cathcart, had weighed for Leghorn, another British base well up the peninsula of Italy. We Enterprises were delighted, indeed, to be headed toward the action even if it meant heading first to Syracuse in the company of a dull sailer like Traveler. Some went so far as to gloat that our late vessel was reduced to a boring routine patrol far from the action. Not one of us midshipmen mentioned aloud Thomas Wheatley’s earlier prediction, though I was quite certain the others, like me, had thought of it. In part, he had been right; even though Argus would not be sailing off to do battle with the pirates, we would be.
Our journey was uneventful. Had it not been for the opportunity to exercise the great guns on a daily basis, practice handing and reefing the sails, and setting the rig to suit both Bosun Anderson and Captain Decatur, it would have been dull to the extreme. James, his self-confidence growing with his ability to decipher his letters, seemed a new person and had neither complained nor shed a single tear throughout the ten-day voyage. He spent most all of his spare time pouring over the book I had secured for him in Gibraltar.
For my own part, I spent off-watch and off-duty time reading and rereading Edward’s letter, which I had discovered shortly before we sailed. I had found it crumpled into a pocket, the ink somewhat smeared and blurred. In anticipation of what would be coming, I studied my books on seamanship, gunnery, and navigation. That is, when I wasn’t secretly helping Stevens with his letters, a job of work that, while satisfying, had attached to it the onus of finding a place to work where we would be undiscovered by our messmates, especially Thomas Wheatley.
Edward, according to his letter, had enjoyed a quiet passage, unlike ours, from Boston to Gibraltar arriving at The Rock on 24 August. They had, he said, been sent out within a day in search of two vessels—Tripolitan cruisers, they were—which had been sighted off Cape de Gat. I checked our chart and found the place he mentioned somewhat east of Malaga on the south coast of Spain. They came across the vessels, which appeared to be a brig and a ship-rigged warship, during their second night out. The larger of the two had turned out to be Moroccan with an order from the governor of Tangier to capture American vessels. The brig was its prize, a Boston ship named Celia, with Captain Bowen and seven of his crew confined below. Both the Moroccan and Celia were escorted back to Gibraltar, Edward went on, where the former became a prize of war. The Boston brig was restored to her rightful crew to continued their voyage, only slightly the worse for the wear.
My brother’s letter had also detailed another less successful cruise into the Atlantic in search of yet another enemy warship, reported to be lurking near Cape St. Vincent. Unsatisfied, they returned to Gibraltar on 11 Septembe
r. Since Philadelphia had no orders then except to wait on the arrival of the other ships in Preble’s squadron, Edward had managed to find some time to explore the streets and alleys of Gibraltar, offering me some brotherly suggestions as to where I might find suitably safe entertainments. Some I had blundered across on my own, while others I made a mental note to discover on our return. Most of his offerings and wisdom for “getting along’” in my employment, including dealing with “difficult” messmates, officers and seamen, I had already discovered. His heartfelt concern for me caused me to smile, and I longed for his presence.
Philadelphia’s respite lasted only a week and it was apparent that Edward fully expected to be away from The Rock for some time, or perhaps he expected the arrival of Argus was imminent, as he signed, dated, and sealed his letter mentioning only that Philadelphia would sail on 19 September in company of Vixen for Malaga, Malta, and thence to Tripoli to establish the blockade. He did add that Commodore Preble and most of the others in the squadron were heading off to “settle our affairs” with the emperor of Morocco, in the light of finding the Moroccan warship preying on the vessels of a country with whom they were supposedly at peace.
His letter gave me no end of joy, and I was bereft at having missed him in Gibraltar. I wanted to tell him of my own adventures, my progress in our employment, and enjoy his quiet camaraderie and friendship. I poured all my feelings, even those I could not share with Judd or James, and a description of Barrett’s reception into a lengthy letter written over the ten days we spent at sea. Following his earlier lead, I deposited it on our arrival with the captain of the port of Syracuse, a charming and most accommodating Sicilian, who assured me he would personally deliver it to Philadelphia the very moment she set her anchor in his harbor.
Before even I had returned to Enterprise from my visit with the port captain, Constitution and the schooners Nautilus and Vixen, sailing in company from Malta, arrived in Syracuse, fired their obligatory salutes, and set their anchors. Almost at once, Constitution hoisted flags signaling, “All officers repair on board.” I wondered idly why Vixen was here instead of on the blockade with Philadelphia, as Edward’s letter had mentioned they were in company.
When we, along with officers from Nautilus, Traveler, and Vixen clambered up the boarding steps on Constitution’s side, we found Commodore Preble in a high state of consternation and anxiety, pacing his quarterdeck like a caged lion.
“Gentlemen,” he began even as the last of us stepped onto the quarterdeck, “I am afraid I have dreadful news for you; Philadelphia has been taken!” An audible intake of breath followed this statement, mine, perhaps, the loudest.
I felt as if I had been struck a mortal blow, and my knees began to buckle. I caught myself, grabbing onto Lieutenant Hobbs’ arm. Philadelphia taken! Edward was on that ship. My mind reeled. I had only just posted a letter to him. Were there casualties? Was my brother hurt, or heaven perish the thought, killed in the action? What to do now? What was I to do?
“. . . allowed to keep her.” The commodore was speaking again, after waiting a heartbeat or two for the news to register in each of us. I dragged my mind back to his quarterdeck and listened intently, desperate now for more details. “Those pirates must be deprived of their prize, regardless of the cost to us. Since retaking the frigate, or in some other way denying her use to the pasha, will be a perilous undertaking, I will ask only volunteers to undertake the comiss . . .”
Before even he had finished speaking, Captain Decatur stepped forward and, in a clearly audible voice, volunteered.
“I will attempt to get in to the harbor and cut out Philadelphia, sir.”
“Your willingness to take this on, Captain Decatur, is most welcome. I accept your offer. You will pick your own crew to accompany you. Before anything further is decided however, let me tell you of the events surrounding her capture and where she currently lays, or at least where she was as of several days ago.” Preble paused and looked off toward the mouth of the harbor for a moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Decatur. He seemed to stand taller, and the hard look on his face had turned his normally pleasant mouth into a thin line. His brow was furrowed, and the muscles of his jaw worked, almost as though he were chewing. But his eyes were what demanded my attention; they seemed actually to glow with a fire I had not before seen, save briefly when he had mentioned at dinner some weeks past that his friend Captain Sterrett had been victorious in an action with a polacca.
“According to His Britannic Majesty’s ship Amazon,” Preble continued, “whose captain provided this distressing news, and corroborated by a letter from Captain Bainbridge himself, which Vixen brought from Malta and which I have only just completed reading, Bainbridge had sent Captain Smith on Vixen off in chase of two Tripolitan cruisers heard to be off Cape Bon.” I saw Captain Smith, standing near the commodore, nod in agreement. “Some two days later, our frigate was driven to the eastward some distance by an unnaturally strong blow from the west. Within a day, the gale moderated and backed to the east again, allowing Captain Bainbridge to run back to his station on the last day of the month.
“When about five leagues east of Tripoli, the lookouts spied a pair of vessels, inshore of Philadelphia, making for the harbor there. Bainbridge immediately ordered his ship to give chase and, in seven fathoms of water, commenced firing on the hostiles. He found his fire ineffectual and was withdrawing to recommence his patrol blockade when the frigate took the bottom. He mentioned in his letter that she did, in fact, run onto rocks in twelve feet of water forward, seventeen feet aft.
“No feat of seamanship—and he tried everything imaginable, including, in a last desperate resort, cutting away the foremast—proved able to move his ship. At that time, the enemy gunboats returned to take advantage of the situation, firing on her from fairly close aboard for some four hours. Since Captain Bainbridge had pitched most of his cannon overboard in his effort to lighten and thence re-float the ship, they were powerless to drive them off. None of the remaining guns would bear in spite of his best efforts. When he observed reinforcements heading out from shore to assist the pirates who were, he thought, about to board him, he had little choice but to strike in an effort to save his crew. He mentioned that the gunboats’ shots had mostly been aimed at his rig, though had they tried to hull her, many of the crew, he felt, would have lost their lives.”
That means Edward might still be alive! Pray, unhurt as well. I grasped at this fragile straw of hope.
Preble continued, “His letter indicates that all signal books were destroyed and the carpenter had been sent to flood the magazines in an attempt to scuttle the ship. He was uncertain as to the outcome of that order, though as you shall soon learn, the effort was unsuccessful.”
A murmur went through the assembled officers and midshipmen. Faces had grown dark, and I noticed many hands clenched tightly into fists.
“After the pirates boarded Philadelphia and looted everything they could carry off, the men and officers were taken ashore—the pirates, he mentioned, made the American sailors row the boats—whereupon the men were further humiliated as they were marched through the city to a prison, while the officers were taken directly to the pasha’s palace. There, a Mister Nicholas Nissen, the Danish consul, made every effort to provide for their relief, but was successful only in procuring for them dry clothes, rags, according to Bainbridge’s letter, and for the delivery of this letter.” Preble stopped again and held Bainbridge’s letter aloft. Then he motioned to Captain Smith of Vixen to step forward. “Vixen, upon returning to station and finding Philadelphia absent, sailed close enough to the harbor to see that the frigate was anchored in Tripoli Harbor and flying a flag we have all come to loathe. Needless to say, he was shocked and sailed immediately to Malta and thence to Syracuse with Constitution. Captain Smith, would you be kind enough to tell us how you found her, her condition, and level of readiness?”
All eyes shifted to Smith. The silence was complete; not one of us appeared to b
reathe, and even the perpetually screaming gulls had gone still, as if in recognition of the direness of the situation and the import of what we were about to hear.
“We managed to close with the mouth of the harbor enough to discover Philadelphia riding to a single cable some half a league from shore.” Smith said. “The heavy nor’westerly we had on 2 November must have pushed enough water in to float her, allowing the Tripolitans to drag the hulk off the reef. Her foremast was still down, though it appeared to have been cut away from the ship’s side. A few gunboats sailed off and on nearby and, upon noticing Vixen, made as if to come after us, firing a few shots, none of which told. From our observation, it appeared as if little, save towing the frigate into the harbor, had been accomplished. Captain Bainbridge’s attempt at scuttling his vessel must have been imperfectly done as she seemed to be floating to her lines.” Smith, finishing his report, stepped back into the rank of his officers.
What dreadful news! Where is my brother? How can we manage to free him, and, I added to myself, with a touch of guilt, the other officers and sailors? What am I to do? Will those piratical bastards let their captives write letters? Perhaps, since they let Bainbridge send out his report to the commodore, they will. Maybe I will hear from Edward. Oh, please, let me hear from him that he is alive and unhurt! My head continued to spin, and the rumble of conversation and outrage from the assemblage remained little more than a deep-throated humming around me. How will I ever write this awful turn of events to our parents?
Commodore Preble was speaking again. “We will establish our base here in Syracuse, even though Malta is closer to Tripoli. The English there have little in the way of supplies and stores beyond their own needs, and, I am told, the ruler here might prove to be more amenable to helping us carry out our intentions in the area. In the meanwhile, I will attempt to find a way of contacting Captain Bainbridge. We will maintain a close blockade on the harbor at Tripoli and continue to carry out our mission of escorting American merchants, attacking enemy vessels, and assisting with communications between ourselves and our allies here in the Mediterranean.” So wrapped in my own thoughts, it signified not a whit to me that he had uttered most of the last without benefit of a single breath.
The Greater the Honor Page 17
