For Love of Country

by William C. Hammond

  “But plans have changed.”

  “I daresay they have.”

  “Orders from Whitehall?”

  “Quite so. His Majesty’s government now deems it inadvisable for a British warship to be seen escorting an American vessel anywhere along the Barbary shore.”

  “I see.” Richard drained his glass and set it carefully on the table, drawing out the process to consider the ramifications and consequences of Falcon going it alone. Nothing that came to mind was in any way encouraging. In fact, he did see. It was, after all, the way of the world when it came to America. But still he was unprepared for it.

  “I had not looked forward to telling you this, Richard,” Jeremy said after another lengthy pause. “Please try to understand my position. I’m at an absolute stand here. My hands are tied.”

  “Apologies are not necessary, Jeremy,” Richard said. “I do understand.”

  Just then the door to the cabin opened and the captain’s steward stepped inside, pushing a wooden cart on wheels before him. He was the one person aboard Invincible free to enter the after cabin at will, and he did so this evening with a considerable flourish.

  “Good evening, Captain,” he said cheerfully as he strode aft from the pantry toward the dining alcove. “Supper will be ready in twenty minutes, at 8:30 as you requested. May I bring you anything at the moment?”

  “Yes, thank you, Bowen. Please bring over a bottle of Bordeaux and two fresh glasses. Leave another bottle open on the dining table.” He glanced at Richard. “I believe we shall have need of both bottles this evening.”

  “Very good, Captain.”

  Twenty minutes later Bowen ushered Richard and Jeremy into the dining alcove. The stylish Chippendale table there could comfortably seat ten people, which Richard assumed it often did when the captain was entertaining other officers or officials from ashore. Tonight the captain’s steward had set places for two, one at the far end of the table, the other at the corner beside it nearest the hull. Toward the middle, the flames of three candles in a silver candelabra flickered in the gentle sea air wafting through a stern window hooked slightly ajar.

  Once seated, and with a generous portion of what appeared to be some sort of fowl placed before him, Richard allowed the steward to ladle fresh peas, roasted potatoes, and cooked carrots onto his plate, leaving room for an assortment of olives and nuts and slices of freshly baked bread laid out on separate plates nearby.

  “Will there be anything else, Captain?” Bowen inquired after halffilling two glasses of red wine and expertly wrapping the base of the bottle in a white napkin.

  “Thank you, no, Bowen.”

  “Very well, sir. I shall return in half an hour.”

  “This is delicious,” Richard remarked after he had consumed a forkful of the meat. “What is it?”

  “A local partridge,” Jeremy replied. “It’s a favorite dish of mine, and one I thought you might enjoy. Gibraltar is full of birds. Most of them are migratory, but these birds prefer to stay.”

  “And be eaten.”

  “Yes. Rather accommodating chaps, aren’t they?”

  They engaged in small talk, with Richard continuing to make a show of enjoying his supper though in truth he no longer had much taste for food. His appetite had been struck down by his brother-in-law’s thunderbolt. Ultimately he asked: “Have you met the dey of Algiers, Jeremy?”

  “Bin Osman? Yes, on several occasions.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  Jeremy took a sip of wine and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “He’s no fool, I can tell you that. And despite his diminutive size, he’s as proud a man as any I’ve met. He might humble himself before Allah, but there the list ends.”

  “An interesting way to put it. What else?”

  “He has taught himself several languages. He speaks English better than most of my countrymen. And he’s quite elderly, near eighty. That’s significant because he has ruled longer than anyone else in North Africa. Regimes in that part of the world tend to be rather temporary, you understand. The dey does not rule as a hereditary right, as does the British king, for example, but entirely at the pleasure of the ozak, his council of janissaries—Turkish soldiers who owe their allegiance not to the dey, but to the grand sultan of the Ottoman Empire in Constantinople. Should the dey displease the ozak, an assassin is likely to put a quick end to his reign. Stop me if I’m telling you what you already know.”

  Richard shook his head. “I don’t know any of this. How has bin Osman managed to survive for so long?”

  “As I said, he’s no fool. He’s a tough old bird who does not abuse his office, as others have before him. In his youth, so the story goes, he was apprenticed to a shoemaker and earned a reputation for hard work and decency. Since he’s of Turkish ancestry, he was able to work his way up through the ranks until he achieved the title of khaznaji, or treasurer, a position regarded as equivalent to an heir apparent—a prince of Wales if you will. His reputation is that of a simple, frugal man who does not shrink from using piracy and terror as instruments of government policy, and who does not tolerate loose morals or spirits or tobacco. He is widely respected for those beliefs, since they sit at the heart of Islam, in theory if not always in practice. When the former ruler copped it forty years ago, bin Osman was voted in.”

  “You make him sound almost admirable.”

  “That’s exactly the point, Richard. He is admirable to those he serves. If you’re going to judge a man, do so using his standards, not your own. It’s a mistake we English often make.”

  Richard pressed on, his voice laced with derision. “So Mohammed bin Osman dispatches pirate corsairs to prey on unarmed merchant vessels and enslave and torture their crews. Yes, I can understand why people find him so admirable.”

  Jeremy’s face tightened. “I certainly do not wish to imply that I admire the dey,” he huffed, “or that I approve of his ways. However reprehensible I find him and his ilk, though, I advise you to first size up your enemy before you endeavor to bring him down.”

  Richard’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Jeremy. I meant no offense.”

  “No offense taken. The dey of Algiers has thrown your brother into the brig. You have every reason to hate him.”

  “Please, carry on.”

  “I will, but first, may I offer you more partridge? Anything else? No? Right, then, at least allow me to pour you some more wine. Your glass is dreadfully empty.”

  Richard did not protest, though the rich meal reinforced with several glasses of wine was beginning to slow his thinking. He forced himself to sip more slowly, to keep a grip on himself.

  “There are essentially three points you need to understand,” Jeremy said, settling into an explanation that Richard suspected had by now become quite familiar to him. “I’ll try to keep them brief and simple—though admittedly there is precious little about our Muslim friends that fits comfortably under either of those terms.

  “First, you must recognize that Muslims do not believe that what they are doing violates civil or Islamic law. To the contrary, their religion encourages holy war, or jihad, against nonbelievers. That most definitely includes you and me, and everyone else who does not pay homage to the Prophet Muhammad or follow the Koran, the Islamic sacred book that Muslims accept as the word of God dictated to the Prophet. So you see, all this has a religious undertone to it.

  “However—and this is my second point—while religion is important to the Muslim as an individual, its role is secondary in affairs of state. Put another way, what to you and me is piracy on the open seas is, to the dey and his council, simply good business. The tribute he receives from European powers to protect their shipping in these waters and the ransoms he receives for the release of captured sailors are critical to the economy of Algiers and the other Barbary States.”

  “So the dey not only supports acts of piracy, he directs them.”

  “Just so. And I might add that he earns a pretty penny in the process: one-fi
fth of every tribute paid, one-fifth of every ransom paid, one-fifth of the value of every foreign cargo seized. The captain and owners of the corsair receive half, and her crew and soldiers divide up the balance. A rather tidy arrangement, isn’t it? Does it happen to remind you of anything?”

  “Privateering?”

  “Well done. Bravo. As I recall, during the recent war your privateers were quite successful in the Atlantic and Caribbean doing precisely what Barbary corsairs are doing today in the Mediterranean.”

  “That’s hardly a fair comparison, Jeremy,” Richard protested. “America was at war with England at the time. Every nation accepts privateering as a legitimate activity in times of war.”

  “Ah, you’ve put your legal finger right on it. Brilliant.” Jeremy raised his glass in a silent toast. At Richard’s confused expression he explained: “To you and me, Richard, and to everyone else of a Western mind, peace exists until a state of war is declared between two nations. Muslims, however, tend to look at things a bit differently. They believe that a state of war exists ipso facto with an infidel country until a temporary peace has been declared with that country. That notion has its roots in Islam, since Islam is forever fighting what Muslims believe is a holy war against nonbelievers. That’s just my opinion, of course. You’ll not find that in the Koran. And incidentally, the purpose of jihad is not strictly to convert nonbelievers by force. It is, rather, to remove obstacles to their conversion to Islam. To achieve that goal, force often becomes necessary.”

  Richard contemplated that. “And a temporary peace can be declared only if and when another nation pays a financial gift, or tribute, to the ruler?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “We call that blackmail in America, Jeremy.”

  “We call it blackmail in England, too, Richard. But to repeat myself, the Muslims don’t see things our way. Mind you, the dey does not desire peace with every nation, only the most powerful ones, such as England. The others he’d prefer to prey upon and take his profit from their cargoes and sailors. Cheers.” Jeremy drained his glass, gripped the bottle, and after glancing over at Richard’s half-full glass, refilled his own. “And by the by, you may be interested to know that in Arabic, the word ‘corsair’ does not mean ‘pirate’ as many people believe. It means ‘privateer.’”

  Richard settled back in his chair. “What’s your third point?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your third point. You said there were three points I need to understand.”

  “So I did. Let me see . . . I should let up a bit on the wine . . . Ah, yes. My third point is that taking innocent people for slaves has been going on for centuries, by Christians and Muslims alike. Barbary corsairs have raided the coasts of Ireland and England and as far north as Iceland to cart off and sell off whomever and whatever they can. Britain has returned the favor by raiding villages in northern and sub-Saharan Africa and making slaves of Berbers, Moors, and Negroes. France, Spain, Holland, and many others have all followed our example. As have you chaps in the colonies—quite enthusiastically, I might add. So you see, Richard, we are all guilty in the eyes of God—or Allah, if you prefer.”

  The door opened and the steward reappeared carrying a silver tray. The conversation ceased momentarily as Jeremy and Richard watched him set the tray on the dining table. After removing the used dishes and glasses, he served heaping spoonfuls of a steaming pudding into two blue-flowered china bowls. He placed each bowl just so on a plate in front of each diner along with a clean wineglass.

  “Figgy-dowdy,” he announced imperiously to Richard, “prepared to the captain’s specifications. May I suggest a bottle of port to complement the pudding?”

  Richard put a hand over his glass. “I’d best not, else I—”

  “A capital suggestion, Bowen,” Jeremy interjected. “Please make it so. And Richard, I suggest you take my first lieutenant’s cabin tonight. He’s ashore at the citadel. Pedestal or no, my dear sister will see me keelhauled if you should fall overboard on your way back to your schooner.”

  “Thank you, Jeremy,” Richard said, his speech slurring slightly despite his best efforts to control his tongue. “And thank you for the many courtesies you’ve shown me and my crew. You have been most kind.”

  “Nonsense, my dear fellow. We’re family. It’s the least I can do. Now, then, before we both set three sheets to the wind, there is something I need give you. I mentioned it earlier when we were both sober as church mice.” He motioned to his steward, who had uncorked the port and was engaged in pouring out the contents. “Bowen, kindly bring me the packet on the smaller desk by the inkwell.”

  When the steward had brought over the thick canvas package and departed the alcove, Jeremy opened it and removed a folded British flag, on top of which was a sheet of paper with a scalloped edge on one side and odd-looking bold black script cut off at the jagged edge.

  “The flag, you may recall,” he said impishly, “is the Union Jack. I’d advise you to fly it when you leave Gibraltar. Barbary pirates are less likely to interfere with a vessel flying the Jack. In the event they do, show this to their rais, their captain.” He handed over the sheet of paper.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a passport of sorts. Every corsair captain in the Mediterranean has a half-sheet to match this paper. If the two sides fit together, you are free to sail on your way.”

  “Is that what comes from paying tribute?” Despite himself, Richard could not suppress a note of sarcasm.

  “England does not pay tribute, as such, to any Barbary state. Arabs have too much respect for our guns to demand it. As a matter of diplomacy, however, we do from time to time present the various deys and beys with gifts—for example after a new ruler has been installed. Which tends to happen quite frequently, as I told you.

  “A further point, whilst we’re on the subject. I have notified Charles Logie, our consul in Algiers, of your pending visit. No doubt he has informed the dey. I have never met Mr. Logie, and I have little information to give you about him. I do advise you to be wary of the French consul, a certain Monsieur de Kercy. Your own envoy—a chap named Lamb—relied too much on his good offices, and came to regret it. Which leads me to my main point, a warning, actually: trust no one in Algiers, Richard. And I mean no one. It’s the proverbial den of thieves. And do not believe for an instant that because you represent the United States in Algiers you have diplomatic immunity there. More than one foreign consul has found himself in an Algerian prison for the crime of upsetting the dey.”

  Richard nodded. He had heard similar words of caution from others.

  “By the by,” Jeremy said with just a trace of slurred speech, “I had another distinguished guest for supper not two weeks ago. He sat in the very chair you’re sitting in now.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Captain Horatio Nelson. He’s a dear friend of mine. I believe you have made his acquaintance?”

  Richard allowed the beginnings of a grin.

  “Yes, well, ahem, I informed Captain Nelson of your pending arrival here and he insisted on sending you his warmest personal regards.”

  “That was very decent of him,” Richard commented.

  “Yes, well, Horatio is a very decent sort of man. But perhaps there’s another reason for his bestowing such benevolence upon you. He’s getting married, did you know?”

  “I did not. To an Englishwoman?”

  “Rather. Her name is Frances Nisbet. Her uncle is the governor of Nevis. She’s a young widow with a young son, Josiah. Her former husband was quite a bit older than she. He was, in fact, the family doctor who tried to save her sick father, whom Fanny adored. He wasn’t able to, alas. In any event, Captain Nelson was on his way home and did me the honor of nipping in.”

  “I’m glad you told me. I wish him the best in his marriage.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do.”

  Despite the late hour, Jeremy showed a seemingly limitless capacity for conversation and alcohol. As his inquiries and obser
vations and opinions rained in, the thought came warmly to Richard’s mind that Jeremy Hardcastle was, after all, Katherine’s brother and a very fine man.

  Jeremy was keen to learn about the goings-on in Philadelphia, where a new Constitution had been completed the previous September and now awaited ratification by two additional states before it could be signed into law. Richard was surprised to learn how much of American politics and policy Jeremy already knew, as he picked Richard’s brain for further details. What was his take on the convention? Who among the delegates did he know personally and what was his opinion of them? How would the proposed two houses of Congress actually function if both were popularly elected? What city would serve as capital? How serious, in fact, was the rift between the Federalist North and the Republican South? Would the infant republic be split asunder as a result of that rift? Most pressing: who among the nation’s elite would be called upon to serve as its first president? General George Washington, one supposed.

  “Only a fool would not think so,” Richard declared, his patriotism roused by Jeremy’s enthusiasm despite a surfeit of wine. “It’s his fate, Jeremy. He didn’t prevail against overwhelming odds during the war in order to step aside now, when his country needs him the most.”

  “Handsomely said, sir. Handsomely indeed, in light of all we’ve managed to knock down.” He drained his glass a final time and placed it emphatically on the table, signaling the end of the evening. “I need not remind you that Europe is watching with keen interest what is happening in America. I do not envy General Washington his fate.”

  “Nor do I, Jeremy. It’s no easy matter making the impossible become the inevitable. But if there’s one man up to the task, it’s General Washington. Stand by the signal halyard to see what happens next.”

  Seven

  Algiers, August 1788

  “ENTER,” RICHARD GREETED A loud rap on the door. A lanky young sailor opened the door of the after cabin and cautiously poked his head inside.