"But pirates, Alex!"
"Not as bad as facing an entire army of Redcoats. And it'll give me lots of good stories for George."
"You're hopeless!” she decided, and perhaps she was right.
A week later Swift was at sea, aboard the U.S. Navy's three-masted frigate Saratoga, bound for the Mediterranean. He found it somewhat ironic that the ship bore the name of General Benedict Arnold's greatest victory over the British, before he changed sides in the war. The Atlantic waters were relatively calm in May, and the six frigates rarely lost sight of each other through the voyage. They were under the command of Commodores Richard Dale and Edward Preble, but neither was aboard Swift's ship. His captain was Jonathan Flace, an ugly man whose scarred face reflected war at close quarters. His first mate, named Collins, wasn't much better, with a bald head and a twisted lip that gave him a perpetual sneer.
"I'm in this because I like it,” Flace told Alexander on their first day out of port. “Our United States Navy is new and untried in many ways. Coming here against the Barbary pirates is our opportunity to prove how good we are. I respect President Jefferson and the mission he has sent us on. Under Dale and Preble we will crush these pirates and send them running."
"I'm sure the President will be pleased to hear that, sir."
"Good. Are your quarters satisfactory?"
"Perfectly so.” He was sharing crowded quarters with a Marine Corps second lieutenant named Sam Vantage, but he knew better than to complain. A man like Captain Flace might easily have tossed him overboard.
In truth, Vantage was a pleasant enough berth-mate. A handsome and knowledgeable young man still in his twenties, he'd won his commission only months before. On their second day at sea he'd taken Swift on a tour of the ship, showing him the impressive sails in their full rigging. “You'll note that all our main cannons are on the upper deck. Older frigates had guns on two decks, but the lower deck now carries no armament and functions as berth space for the crew. Our berths are actually below the waterline."
"I would have thought that two decks of cannons would offer greater firepower."
"True, but in rough seas, the two-deckers had to close their gun-ports on the lower deck to avoid being swamped. This way our guns are always ready for use, even in rough weather. Our long hulls and low upper works make for a sleeker, faster vessel."
"What size are these cannons?” Swift asked, patting a rough metal barrel. “They seem quite large."
"They're twenty-four-pounders, as large as those the Royal Navy carries. This ship is one of our newest and largest, carrying thirty-eight guns, nineteen on each side. The main batteries are twenty-four-pounders, the rest are eighteen-pounders. We can blast any pirate ship out of the water.” He spoke with the confidence of youth.
"Do you think we'll encounter any of them?"
"We'll be ready if we do."
Swift bent down to lift one of the cannonballs from its stacked pyramid. “These could make a few nice holes in any pirate ship."
"They are solid, but they're working on some that break apart after they're fired and do even more damage."
He took Swift on a tour of the galley and even climbed with him up the rope ladder to the crow's nest. Molly would have been horrified, Swift thought as he clung to the swaying ladder. They went on to meet the helmsman who steered the vessel. “The captain rarely does it himself,” Vantage explained.
They were met by a naval lieutenant, Quincy Pitt, to whom Swift had been introduced the previous day. “Enjoying the view, Mr. Swift?"
"Very much so. Lieutenant Vantage has just been giving me the ship's tour. You have a fine vessel here."
"We'll know soon enough,” Pitt said. He was the gunnery officer, in charge of those thirty-eight cannons.
By early June they had passed the Rock of Gibraltar and sailed into the Mediterranean. Within days the squadron reached Malta and turned due south toward Tripoli. The ships took up their stations as the harbor came into view. At first there seemed little reaction on shore, but at dawn the following day Swift was awakened by the sound of cannons. The city's shore batteries had opened fire. Spouts of water showed that the balls were landing short of their targets, but there was still reason for concern.
"Action stations!” Captain Flace commanded, rousing the men with a trumpet call to arms. Within moments the crew had manned their guns, ready to return fire. Swift stayed under cover as the water spouts seemed to move a bit closer. He was beginning to regret taking on this assignment for Jefferson.
But the shore batteries were no match for the navy's twenty-four-pounders. As Quincy Pitt and Captain Flace rushed back and forth, urging the gunners on, cannonballs and gunpowder were being reloaded for the next round. There was a moment's silence and then when the silence stretched out, the captain ordered, “Hold your fire!"
Sam Vantage explained to Swift, “The enemy's taken a break to elevate their cannons, so the balls will travel further. They'll probably use more gunpowder to increase the velocity, too. It's not over yet."
However, the day passed uneventfully. Peering through his telescope, Flace reported that all seemed quiet on the shore batteries. “I believe we have delivered President Jefferson's reply to their demand for tribute,” he concluded.
Night settled slowly over the anchored squadron of frigates. A cool breeze had blown in, creating a light mist that turned the moon into a fuzzy ball far above their heads. Swift retired to his bunk with a certain uneasiness, but the gently lapping water lulled him to sleep almost at once.
* * * *
He was awakened suddenly by the sound of cannon fire from the shore batteries. Sam Vantage was already out of his bunk and nearly dressed. “What time is it?” Swift muttered.
"Daybreak. But there is a heavy mist over the water."
Swift followed him topside where the gun crews were already at their stations, loading gunpowder and cannonballs while Pitt shouted sharp commands. It was Captain Flace who issued the order, “Fire at will!"
All up and down the line fuses were lit and within seconds the cannons began to thunder their message, each one recoiling on its wheels as it let loose its fiery blast. The return fire from shore was still falling far short of its mark, and Swift wondered what they expected to accomplish.
Then suddenly he knew. A cannonball flew overhead, crashing into one of their masts. Another followed, not from the direction of shore but from the open sea. The deck was alive with shouts and confusion until Swift and the others turned away from shore and saw a small frigate materialize from the mist not a hundred yards away. It was flying a red banner with a crescent moon, one of the flags of the Barbary pirates.
"To starboard!” Pitt shouted. “They're trying to ram us!"
Loading and firing the starboard cannons took valuable minutes. The pirate vessel headed directly toward them but then turned at the last moment, as if preparing to fire another volley. Swift seemed to realize the true danger before the others. “They're going to board us!” he told Vantage, catching a glimpse of their foes holding scimitars for close combat.
The two ships came together before the Saratoga could return fire. Instantly the pirates were upon them, swinging over on ropes to hit the deck with weapons ready. Swift was relieved to see that the detachment of marines was prepared for them. Within minutes the frigate's deck was awash with blood. Judging by their weapons and garb, Swift guessed the attackers to be Turks, as many of the Barbary pirates were. One of them fell before him, hit by a bullet from a Marine musket, and Swift grabbed up his scimitar to defend himself.
He brought down one of the attackers and saw that some marines were swinging over to the pirate ship, taking the fight to the enemy. Cannons were useless at such close range, and might do as much damage to the Saratoga as to the enemy. Another round of fire from Marine muskets drove back some of the pirates, but the fighting was soon at such close quarters that no clear shots were possible. It was cutlass against scimitar and dagger.
The battle lasted more than thirty minut
es, and in the end the entire pirate crew had been killed or captured. The Americans suffered six dead and eleven seriously wounded. A search of the pirate frigate revealed a young female captive half crazy with fear. Quincy Pitt brought her onto the Saratoga, his comforting arms holding tight around her as he guided her along the plank bridge between the vessels. Swift stood to one side watching the crew clean up after the dead and wounded. The slain pirates were unceremoniously dumped overboard, while the wounded were given minimal medical attention by the ship's surgeon on board.
"What happens to them now?” Swift asked Captain Flace.
"We've signaled our flagship to come alongside and remove the wounded. I'll keep a few prisoners here in the event we need them for bargaining. Their captain is dead, but the first mate was uninjured and I will question him personally. Their ship is badly damaged and we'll scuttle her."
"What about our own damage?"
"The mast needs repairing, but I think we can handle it. I don't want to limp back to port with it like this."
"Is there any possibility of another pirate attack?"
Flace scowled at the thought. “The weather was right for it this morning, with that mist to obscure their approach while we were busy with the shore batteries. That won't happen again. And they've lost a ship and crew. They might think twice before risking another one."
Swift was more interested in the woman who'd been rescued. She was an Egyptian named Abden Said, dressed in torn pants and a bloodstained silk blouse. She was still in her twenties, but with sad brown eyes that seemed to reflect a lifetime of pain. Her English was good enough to be understood and Swift sat in while she was questioned by Captain Flace and Pitt. She told them she'd been sailing on a small boat near Alexandria when they were seized by pirates a month earlier. The man with her had been killed and she'd been taken captive. “They say I will be sold into slavery,” she told Captain Flace. “I cry and beg but it does no good."
"Were you mistreated?” he asked delicately.
"I am mistreated all my life."
"Who is this man we captured?” he asked, indicating a prisoner seated in irons across the cabin.
The man, with a scarred face and a black bandanna around his head, spit on the deck. He answered in a language none of them understood.
"What is your name?” Quincy Pitt asked.
It was the woman who answered. “His name is Dread, but I do not speak his language. He may be from the Greek islands. He is a gunner's mate."
Captain Flace waved the prisoner away. “Lock him up in the brig with the other prisoners,” he told Pitt. “And bring me the key to their leg irons. They are not to be freed except by me."
"What about the woman?” Swift asked Flace after the prisoner had been removed.
He turned to her. “We have no separate quarters for you. I will arrange for you to sleep in the galley and you can help with the meals. If we learn of a ship bound for Alexandria we can transfer you to it."
"Thank you,” she murmured. “I will work for you."
Later, toward evening, when the flagship had come alongside to transfer the wounded and prisoners, they gave a respectful burial at sea to the six dead Americans. Swift had never been present at this ceremony before, and he said a silent prayer as each of the bodies slid off into its watery grave.
It was young Sam Vantage who came to him on deck later that night as he stood gazing at the stars. “A beautiful sight, isn't it, Mr. Swift?"
"It is indeed,” he agreed. “It's difficult remembering that men died here today under that sky."
"Did you fight in the War of Independence, sir?"
"I was not in the army, but I undertook a number of missions for General Washington, and later for President Washington, including some involving Benedict Arnold."
"I read about him. Did they ever catch him?"
"Not yet,” Swift replied.
He didn't think anyone slept well that night. The excitement of the battle, and the fear that it might happen again, had everyone on edge. Shortly before midnight he walked around the upper deck and saw Captain Flace bending over a cannon to examine it. Flace heard his footsteps and whirled around, hand on his sword. “Good evening, Mr. Swift. You startled me."
"Sorry. I couldn't sleep."
"Can't be too careful when there are prisoners aboard,” the captain remarked with his familiar scowl. “I have to check everything myself. It's my ship. I am responsible."
"Your men did well today. I will report as much to President Jefferson."
"Thank you, Mr. Swift. I only hope I am able to return to Washington and report to him personally."
They parted then, and Swift returned to the cabin he shared with Sam Vantage. The young officer was not in his bunk, but Swift heard him come in sometime later, undressing in the dark and sliding beneath his blanket.
It was Quincy Pitt who awakened them before dawn with the shocking news that Captain Flace had been found dead on the upper deck, his skull crushed by one of the ship's cannonballs.
The first mate, Collins, took charge of the Saratoga, ordering the signalman to notify the flagship of the event. Gathering the crew on deck, he spoke briskly. “Aye, there's a killer among us. The captain's death was no accident. I want you first to check and make certain none of our prisoners could have escaped. After that I'll be talking to every member of this crew until I find the guilty person."
When the crew members returned to their stations, Alexander Swift stepped forward and introduced himself to Collins. “Perhaps the captain told you about me. I am aboard this ship at the direct request of President Jefferson, reporting on the success of our mission against the Barbary pirates. I would like to assist in your investigation."
He smirked at Swift through his twisted lip. “You can do the whole thing, for all I care. I came here to kill pirates, not find a murderer."
"Might any of the crew have reason to kill Flace?"
"He was a stern master. No man can be a good captain without bruising some feelings—and some bodies."
"Whose, for instance?"
He shook his head. “That's not for me to say. I don't implicate innocent men."
"Was there anything in Flace's pockets that might be a clue?"
"Come and see for yourself."
Swift followed him to the frigate's makeshift hospital, where the surgeon was tending the wounded from the previous day's battle. In one corner he saw Flace's body, wrapped in a sack that hadn't yet been sewn shut. The back of his head showed evidence of the terrible blow that had taken his life. A cloth bag next to his body held the contents of his pockets. “Is this everything?” Swift asked, glancing through the few coins, a handkerchief, a pocketknife, and a small compass.
"That's all."
"Didn't he have a ship's manifest?"
"That would be on the bridge along with his log book."
"Could I see it?"
Collins hesitated, then said, “Follow me."
The men on the bridge were silent when they arrived, barely nodding to Collins. The ship was still at anchor and there was little activity. They seemed to be awaiting the burial of their captain, which would come later in the day. The ship's log and manifest yielded no new information, only the note on dead and injured, and the transfer to the flagship. Eight prisoners remained on board, along with the rescued woman. “Is Abden Said still in the galley?” he asked Collins.
"The woman? We've put her to work there."
Swift found her working with the cook on the crew's evening meal. Like the Royal Navy, the Americans had mastered the art of brewing beer and baking bread on shipboard, and the days of insect-infested biscuits were behind them. Abden worked in one of the marine uniforms, a small size but it was still too big for her. “What happened to your captain?” she asked at once, removing a loaf of bread from the oven.
"Someone killed him, crushed his skull with a cannonball."
"One of the pirates?"
"That seems likely, but they were supposed to be
locked up. How are you doing here?"
"Very well. It is good to be free again—with the Americans instead of the pirates."
He wasn't sure how safe she'd be as the only woman on a ship full of sailors and marines; he could only do his best to protect her until she could be transferred to another vessel. He left her and headed below deck to the brig. There were two guards now instead of the usual one, and the sullen prisoners were crowded into a single cell. One who spoke English called out to Swift. “Get us out of here!” he demanded. “Some are seriously wounded!"
"Our captain is dead,” Swift told him. “You will probably be transferred to another ship soon.” He turned to one of the guards and asked, “Were any of these men allowed out of the brig during the night?"
A marine guard answered his question. “We took them to the head one at a time around midnight."
"Were they out of your sight?"
"Just for a minute or so, and they still had their leg irons. They weren't going anywhere."
Swift stared at the man named Dread, wondering if he could have pulled it off somehow. But before he could ask another question there was a sound like distant thunder that sent the frigate rocking. The shore batteries had commenced firing again.
Swift ran up on deck and found Quincy Pitt shouting orders to his men. Well-trained teams took up their positions at each of the port cannons, while the officers stayed alert for another attack from the starboard side. But this day was clear and only their flagship was on the horizon. The shore batteries were still firing and Swift counted a half-dozen water spouts from cannonballs landing precariously close to them. Then, as he watched, the ship's cannonballs and powder were loaded, the fuses lit. At Pitt's command, the Saratoga's guns replied to the shore batteries. Swift saw one battlement torn apart by a direct hit from a cannonball.
Suddenly their ship shuddered as one of the enemy cannonballs scored a direct hit. Swift was thrown to the deck, and for a moment he feared the hit had been a fatal one below the waterline. Then Sam Vantage appeared in the hatch and shouted, “It hit near the brig. We've got injured men!"
Swift followed him down the steps while Pitt directed the others to remain at their stations and reload. Another cannonball from the shore batteries hit the water within fifty feet of the ship as the acting captain gave the command to weigh anchor and pull back to a safe distance.
EQMM, May 2007 Page 14
