The Shores of Tripoli

by Fisher Samuels

  Outside one building, little more than a mud hut with an attached tent awning, a man sat in the evening twilight repairing a fishing net. “Assalamu alaykum, Nasser.”

  “Wa alaykum assalaam.” Nasser continued walking.

  “Did you earn the Pasha’s approval?”

  Nasser stopped and looked at the man. “Of course I did. Why do you ask?”

  The man looked embarrassed. He stood and proudly stuck out his chest. “I only wanted to know if I should put more gunpowder on my boat.” They were the same age, but he treated Nasser like a respected elder.

  Nasser barely nodded, but the ostrich feather in his turban bounced like it was alive. “We sail after the evening prayer.”

  “I will be ready, Nasser,” he called out proudly. He dropped his net and yelled in to his tent-hut. “Tariq, prepare our boat!”

  As he neared his building, Nasser decided that he needed two things to be effective in his attack on the American frigate: intimidating cover fire from the shore, and enough boats to transport perhaps two hundred captives.

  Nasser swiped at the part in his doorway curtain and ducked through. The earth and stone structure had served as the headquarters for his guild of gunboat captains for decades, and it was decorated with trophies collected from the merchant ships he’d captured over the years.

  On his dusty black lacquer table was a hand-drawn map of Tripoli’s harbor. At the center of the map was the Pasha’s red castle that stood on the harbor’s southern shore. To the east, the map depicted the collection of stone and earthen docks that spidered into the water from a maze of buildings on the shore. Nasser’s building had been outlined with cinnamon-brown ink and looked to be the largest in the area. The others structures were labeled with symbols and writing designating them as members of the various corsair families or fishing fleets. To the west of the Pasha’s castle, the map showed a collection of more labeled buildings criss-crossed by cart paths. At the north-western tip of Tripoli’s shore, a seawall was drawn arcing away from the city like a great scimitar. On it a series of fortress-like constructions protected the city from both the seaside and harbor-side of the massive jetty.

  Nasser’s eyes widened with rage when he heard laughter from the inner room. Inside, he found his son Mudawar and one of his sailors laughing over a copper sphere that was hissing and spinning above the fire pit.

  “There is a great treasure sitting in the harbor, and you are in here playing with fire!”

  Mudawar spun around and his smile faded. “Father. This is called a steam engine.” He straightened proudly, either to remind his father that he was taller or because he knew he was more studied, and pointed at the device. “It is the source of great power that—”

  “Assemble the qubtaans, you fool. And you,” Nasser said to the teenage sailor, “run to the battlements. Tell them to fire only on my signal, and never to hit the target. Only inflict fear!”

  The sailor ran out of the room and disappeared through the front curtain.

  “Have you not seen the frigate that sits helpless on the reef?”

  Mudawar held his head high. “No. I have been learning—”

  “Musad, may Allah bless him and bring him peace, would have already captured that ship by now. He wouldn’t be playing with toys like a fat, lazy child.” Nasser looked at the spinning metal ball in disgust and returned to his map table.

  Mudawar started to follow, but stopped. He pulled his dagger from the scabbard tucked into his waist sash and stabbed at the frame to push it against the edge of the pit. The steam ball ground to a halt against the bricks and the whistling faded.

  He didn’t say anything as he passed his father, who was leaning over a list of ships laid on top of his map.

  “Stop!”

  From the doorway, Mudawar turned to look back at his father.

  “Tell them we sail one glass after the last call to prayer.”

  Mudawar rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “Yes, father.”

  ———————

  “Ah, Mudawar. I have something for you.” The old man got up from his chair upholstered in dusty red silk.

  “I am not here for studies, Hassad.” Mudawar stopped halfway through the door.

  “You can take it with you. I don’t know how to use it.” Hassad slowly bent in to a large wooden box and retrieved a mechanical device made of bright brass and dark metal.

  “Please, Hassad. Father sends me. We have a great fish to haul in.”

  “I wouldn’t be much of a captain if I didn’t already know that.” Hassad ambled over to Mudawar and handed the device to him. “It’s called a sextant. It tells you exactly where you are.” Hassad chuckled. “If you ever strayed far from home, I suppose.”

  Mudawar liked how the device felt in his hand. It was sturdy, heavy, and precisely constructed, like a fine dagger. “Thank you, Hassad. But please, we must set sail soon.” Mudawar rotated the arm of the sextant across the curved frame.

  “I wish I could teach you how to use it. You need a book of some kind to go with it.” Hassad rubbed Mudawar’s shoulder. “How is your father?”

  Mudawar didn’t look up from the sextant. “My father is as he’s always been.”

  Hassad studied Mudawar’s troubled expression. “So much thinking going on in there.” Hassad tapped his old calloused finger on Mudawar’s forehead. “You must not judge your father, Mudawar. His pain is deep.”

  “And what of mine?” Mudawar turned away and looked out the door.

  “Mmm. It is said that parents can be the Heaven or the Hell for their children.”

  “My father thinks of me as a child. That is my hell.”

  “The Qur’an teaches us to honor our parents, Mudawar. Even when they cause us pain.”

  Mudawar’s eyes bored into Hassad. “And what does it say about honoring our children?”

  Hassad held up a finger. “Ah! That is the question you must learn from your own children.”

  Mudawar shook his head. “You know I have no children.”

  Hassad smiled. “But you will. In time.” Hassad walked slowly to his chair. “We must be just and fair to our children. To teach them to be good adults.” He carefully lowered himself onto the cushioned seat. “And you, Mudawar, are a good man.”

  Mudawar paused. “We must leave soon. The wind is failing.”

  Hassad nodded. “My boat is ready for your command.”

  “You mean my father’s command.”

  Hassad smiled again. “I will be watching you both.”

  ———————

  Mudawar waved at his father’s gunship, and saw one of its sailors wave back. Mudawar looked in the other direction and saw that some of the other smaller gunships had already drifted away from their stone piers to make up for their distant positions.

  The nearly full moon had replaced the light of the sun, flickering moonlight on the few ripples that undulated across the water. It was bright enough for Mudawar to see the tan and rust-colored sails of all thirty gunboats he’d managed to summon for his father’s navy.

  Mudawar’s boat was nearly ready. He had unwisely neglected to prepare his ship before collecting the rest of the qubtaans. While the other captains were preparing their ships, Nasser had kept Mudawar busy passing instructions.

  Mudawar heard footsteps scurrying across the sand on the pier. Carrying three sacks toward the boat was a boy no older than eleven or twelve.

  “You move slower than an old woman,” Mudawar whispered. He gestured for the nearest crewman to receive the last few sacks of gunpowder from the dawdling boy on the pier.

  The crewman leaned over the ship’s bulwark to grab the bags from the boy, but one slipped out of his grip and fell into the water with a thunking splash.

  Mudawar jerked his head towards his father’s boat. Sound traveled great distances over water, and losing the element of surprise to a stupid mistake could be fatal. No one noticed the noise. The wide-open whites of the clumsy man’s eyes seemed to gl
ow in the moonlight. Mudawar walked up to the man and pointed at the bags in his arms and then down to the deck.

  As soon as the man stood back up, Mudawar struck him on the temple with the knobby hilt of his dagger. The man staggered and Mudawar grabbed him by the arm and pushed him toward the side of the boat. He put his mouth to his ear. “Off,” he whispered with an angry bark. “Boy, come.” The boy scrambled aboard and trembled before Mudawar. “You will pay for your clumsiness. Put away this powder and help load the guns. Do as you are told.”

  Mudawar walked along the deck and looked at his men while they worked. He inspected every line, every cannon, and every pile of gunpowder, wadding and rounds. His men were ready and anxious to fight, and none wanted to let him down.

  As ready as they were though, Mudawar had to hold back.

  Nasser’s ship pushed away from the pier and raised her sails. Nasser wanted the glory for himself, and so the first attack was his alone.

  Chapter 3

  Asleep

  Lt Cmdr Williams felt his arm growing numb and moved it into his lap to restore the blood flow. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep in his chair. He opened his eyes. It was night and the cabin was lit by moonlight. How long had he been out, he wondered. Why was he out? Why didn’t anyone wake him?

  He looked around the shadowy cabin and saw that everyone else was sleeping too. It took him a minute to figure out that this wasn’t normal. He looked down at the blank monitor on his chair. Everything was turned off. This definitely wasn’t normal.

  They were still at sea, but it was calm. It was dead calm, until he heard a heavy-gauge weapon fire in the distance. He saw the lights of Tripoli to the south, but not as many as he expected. It must be late.

  “Hey.” His voice was hoarse. “Wake up. Jackie. Grass. Shiv. Get up!”

  “I’m up,” said GM3 Marathyachi.

  EN1 Grassley wiped his eyes. “What the fuck happened?”

  “Were we all out?” asked Ensign MacFarland.

  “Yeah, but I don’t know how long. Grass, start the engines.” Williams grabbed the microphone, but there was no power. “Ensign, go muster the crew. All hands.”

  MacFarland’s binoculars were heavy around her neck. She stowed them, unbuckled and reached for a flashlight. The battery was dead, so she cranked the manual charger until it illuminated, then walked unsteadily through the hatch.

  Williams looked outside again. He didn’t remember a full moon last night. He always liked boating in the moonlight, so he would have remembered that.

  A series of five more weapon reports reverberated through the harbor. Williams knew there shouldn’t be any live firing this close to the city. Somebody’s ass was going to get chewed, he thought.

  Lieutenant Gil Smith, the night crew skipper, and night gunner GM3 Hal Brewster came up from below. Smith stood next to the captain’s chair. “Sorry, cap. Didn’t know what time it was.”

  Williams shook his head. “None of us did. Get on deck and keep watch. Nav lights are out. We drifted into the harbor.”

  “Aye, aye, boss.”

  Smith went out the port door, Brewster the starboard. They both noticed it was cooler than last night, and nothing about what they saw seemed right. All of the city lights were darker and everything about the harbor was quieter.

  As soon as Smith turned to walk the foredeck, three more rounds sounded in the distance. He spun around aft and was struck dumb by what he saw. He’d seen tall ships before. He’d been in plenty of fleet weeks and naval demonstrations that featured old wooden sailing ships still crewed by other nations. But this one was close. And much too close to a drifting US Navy warship.

  Just over 200 meters behind the Dauntless stood a three-masted sailing frigate. In the moonlight, the sight was impressive. All of the sails were flying and a crew was scurrying about the deck. From high on the masts, three lines hung loosely over the side of the frigate and into the water.

  Smith walked quickly aft and tried to make sense of what he saw.

  He saw that the lines from the mast weren’t dropped into the water after all. They led to row boats, filled with crews quietly preparing to shove off. For where, he had no idea. From his vantage point, Smith could tell that the frigate was listing slightly to one side, maybe even taking on water.

  “Brew. Brewster,” Smith whispered. “Get over here. Aft, port.”

  “Yessir?” Brewster stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the white sails flapping in the moonlight. “What the hell?”

  Three more rounds sounded in the distance, and a moment later three deep splashes hit about 50 meters to the south.

  Smith looked at Brewster with shocked surprise. “That looks real!” Smith ran to the cabin door and smacked on the window. “Skipper, come check this out!” he yelled through the glass.

  Williams unbuckled and followed Smith to the stern.

  Smith stopped him. “Sir! Wait! They’re shooting at us!”

  Williams was still staring at the frigate. “Who, that ship?”

  “No.” Smith pointed west toward the jetty. “Sounded like artillery. From over there.”

  Williams returned to the cabin and strapped himself into his chair. “Helm, get those twins online.”

  Grassley was working on an electrical panel by the faint moonlight spilling in through the cabin windows. “It ain’t starting. What the hell did you get us into?” Grassley slammed the panel shut and turned toward the engine room hatch. “I gotta go below and crank ’em up. Shiv, take my chair.”

  Marathyachi nodded and moved to the helmsman’s chair.

  MacFarland returned with Boatswain’s Mate Petty Officer 2nd Class (BM2) Eric Chavez. “All the lights are out, even the e-lights. Fire team’s getting ready, but something’s wrong with one of the privates. Doc’s with him now,” she said.

  “How bad?” asked Williams.

  “Don’t have a clue, sir. Like he’s still asleep or something.”

  Five more rounds sounded in the distance, but this time the entire cabin crew heard the impact in the water nearby. Williams looked at the night crew and saw that they weren’t wearing armored vests or helmets. “Suit up.”

  MacFarland looked curiously at Williams. “What for?”

  “This ain’t the exercise. Tell Smith and Brewster. On deck.” He looked at Chavez. “Armor, now. And Boats, when you’re dressed, help EN1 get the diesels up.”

  “Aye, sir,” yelled Chavez from the hatch.

  MacFarland peered out the door and found Smith and Brewster looking aft. “Gear up!”

  “Hey, ma’am, check this out.” Brewster waved the ensign to the side.

  “What’s this?” MacFarland looked up at the ship and followed the lines down to the water. The rowboats hauling the mast lines were getting closer to the Dauntless.

  “Do you think they see us?” asked Smith in a whisper.

  MacFarland looked down at the water and the moon shadow of the Dauntless. “Don’t know how they couldn’t. But if they don’t, they will soon.” One of the crew in the first rowboat had a telescope aimed at the shore. MacFarland followed the angle to shore and saw a smaller wooden sailing vessel slowly making its way toward the large frigate in the gentle breeze. “Who the hell are these guys?”

  The approaching ship tacked to a new course, facing its beam toward the rowboats. With nearly simultaneous flashes, four cannons unleashed a thunderous volley from the ship’s deck. The rounds splashed no more than twenty meters from the nearest row boat.

  Screams of fear and excitement came from the rowboats. “Heave, boys! A hundred yards to go!” All three crews started grunting in unison.

  McFarland looked at Smith and Brewster. “Are they Americans?”

  Smith shrugged. “Approaching vessel! Identify yourselves!”

  The crew of the nearest rowboat looked in the direction of the Dauntless. A few pointed, but most kept rowing hard.

  Smith grabbed a spot beam from its cradle, but it was dead. He spun the backup charging
crank rapidly until it illuminated. He pointed it at the first rowboat. “Identify yourselves!” he repeated.

  The rowboat broke into a frenzy of hollering and screaming, but they didn’t stop rowing.

  Smith pointed the spotlight at each boat. All three row boats carried men dressed in lavish period uniform costumes of white and blue, complete with pointed caps and large brass buttons. And none of them liked being illuminated by his beam. They screamed and yelled whenever he shined the light on them.

  “Is this some kind of a show or something?” asked Brewster.

  Four more cannon rounds fired from the approaching sailing vessel, but this time, one of the rounds smashed into the first rowboat. It splintered and burst in half and the men screamed. Screams that weren’t acted out, but wrenched from their guts by broken bones and lost limbs. The rowboat was quickly lost and Smith’s beam illuminated four men as they slipped below the surface, leaving two men clinging to the wreckage.

  Brewster pointed instinctively. “Men overboard!”

  “Captain! Hostile vessel approaching, starboard aft!” MacFarland pointed Smith and Brewster to the nearest deck locker. “Get your fucking gear on!”

  The approaching ship made another turn and unleashed a volley from its four cannons toward the two remaining rowboats still pulling away from the frigate.

  The rounds fell short, but closer to the Dauntless. “Evasive maneuvers!” yelled MacFarland.

  Williams looked starboard aft and saw the second ship approaching. “That’s hostile?” He stared for a moment and studied the clouds of white smoke billowing from the gun-ports. “Ensign, get in here. Man fire control!”

  Followed by Smith and Brewster, MacFarland ran into the cabin. “They just blew away a rowboat full of people!” She jumped into the gunner’s chair, but the console was dark. “It’s off!” she yelled.

  “Man the guns! Ensign aft, Brew starboard! Fire at will!”

  MacFarland and Brewster clamored out the cabin door, and Brewster took the ladder to the top of the cabin.

  A rumble grew in the Dauntless’s hull, then a gurgle of water and the smell of sulfur burped from the stern. One of the massive turbo-diesels churned to life. Lights in the cabin flickered on, and then the nav lights illuminated. In seconds, someone inside doused all of them to blackness.